The War is over, Voldemort is gone, but Harry feels it's all for nothing. So he copes in the only way he can think of...
Ok, my first attempt at a fanfic ever, so please don't bite :) I know this is quite short, but there's a lot more to come. It's quite angsty but I should warn you, after all the angst and adventure, there's a mushy ending to come.
WARNING: This is probably triggering for cutters, so I don't want you to read if it'll upset you.
I'd LOVE reviews, I need all the help I can get, even if it's negative, as I'm knew at this.
The Wand
He had never done it when things were bad, really bad. Only after the Final Battle, when the had returned to Hogwarts, had it started. There were fireworks filling the sky and music in the air and smiles on the faces of all the people he loved. But as they danced and laughed and screamed with joy in the Great Hall, he had hung back, and slipped out whilst no-one was looking.
The boys dorm in Gryffindor tower had not been his home for over a year, but it was the only place he felt safe. He ran up there now, and the Fat Lady didn't even ask him the password; she just swung forward with a smile and a sigh of Oh Harry!
He threw off some other boys cloak that lay on his bed and pulled off his bloodstained clothes and got under the quilt, and he cried and cried and cried until he felt numb on the inside. He didn't know what he was crying for. He whispered in his mind that he had so much to be thankful for, that Voldemort was dead, finally, irreversibly, dead; that Ron and Hermione were okay, that he was okay, that Ginny, his sweet, ballsy Ginny was okay, and she had waited for him, and that they could be together. He tried to think of how he'd been wrong about Snape, that he had come through at the final moment and made the greatest sacrifice a man could make, a sacrifice Dumbledore would have been proud of. But as he cried he realised it all came to nothing.
He knew that he had clung on to the hope, a hope he had barely been able to admit to himself, that when Voldemort had finally fallen, that they would return. That Dumbledore would come back, and Sirius, and Cedric, and Petunia, and George, and - and Lily and James. And though he could still hear the happy noises coming from below, all he could feel was a numb sadness, a sorrow he felt would never go away.
And as he laid there, curled up, naked and alone, broken, hurting, he had reached down and pulled his wand from his robe, the wand that tied him to Voldemort, the wand he had killed him with. The wand that would remind him ever after of the fact that he was, after all, only a murderer. He had taken the wand, and, not needing an incantation, feeling what he had to do in his mind, he had placed its tip along his wrists, and watched as the dark red blood flowed out, staining the sheets. And his heart eased a little, and he breathed a little lighter, and his tears stopped flowing. And he smiled, knowing that it would all be all right. Knowing that this was what he had to do. Knowing that this pain was nothing, knowing that there was a way, a way to run from the pain in his heart.