He snorted some of the white powder. He felt dizzy from the euphoria. This was better than anything; now he was truly alive. Truly. No one ever thought that one joint would lead to this. But he was sublimely happy and he was in his nirvana. No one dared to stop that. He was the boy that lived. No one cared how he was living now. He had the money, he had the fame, and so they let him have the drugs. That was fair. And perhaps the only 2 people that had ever truly cared for him left. Ron and Hermione. They said they couldn't help him. Like he needed help, they were the ones with the problems, right? Merely jealous of him, he had friends now that didn't mind his problem. Not that it was a problem. He was the boy that lived. He had stopped Voldemort eight times now. He was invincible. He was above them all. He knew that. He placed his hand into his robe pocket, searching for a lighter, desperate for a smoke. All that emerged was a crumpled sheet. He was about to toss it out when he noticed some writing on it, writing he recognized.

Inhale the drug
Addict yourself
Love the way
You kill yourself
Hit by hit
Line by line
Hide the dementia
In your eyes
Excuse after excuse
Lie after lie
Feel the air swirling
You can fly
Take a breath
Indulge yourself
Live in your fantasy
Delusions of
Rose gardens
And rainbow skies
The swaying melody
Hold your scarred arms
Up to the light
Shelter the beauty
Embrace the daylight
Cover your broken face
With your hands-
It's always the same-
They're tainted
You'll never change
Flicker like the flame
How pretty is it to you?

Yes, he was the great Harry Potter. Yes, he was alive, but barely. He put his head down on the table and began to cry. The great Harry Potter, beaten at last.