a/n: thanks CokeFreak; Maxx77; blackenedsoul; Danielle; wowsergirl; Shadowsofpain; Arizosa; whitemudfounder, The World's Only Founder of White Mud; and punkpixie87 for reviewing. You kept me going when I felt too worthless to go on!
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Harry had a week to go yet before he would be going to The Burrow, and in the meantime he had absolutely nothing to do. Nothing, that is, but to be alone with his thoughts.

*Am I really willing to do it? And is it really necessary? Most importantly, is it *right?**.

Harry didn't know. He *couldn't* know.

And so he sat, trying to figure it out.

Maybe he didn't have to... right now. Although it would be ideal... away from the wizarding world.... Maybe he could just find some way to buy some time, to cope, for the time being, until he had the time to think it through, and understand if what he wanted to do was easy, or if it were right.

Harry was on the floor, leaning back against his closet door. He knew it was crazy, but he didn't quite feel happy about returning to the wizarding world. He didn't want to have to think, to face the others, to seem okay. Although he was depressed, he embraced the feeling, and didn't find a need to feel any other way.

Maybe he just needed to forget.

Harry really didn't know what to do. He was overwhelmed with guilt, frustration, and some strange responsibility, to be good, to tolerate, to stay out of trouble, to live, and to save the world if he found himself in that situation, although he could barely escape. It was impossible. He could do nothing, be nothing, only exist, engulfed in this overwhelming pain until finally, one day, Voldemort or one of his followers killed him. He couldn't be protected forever. He was without hope.

Now would truly be the ideal time to kill himself, before going to the Weasleys, and then back to Hogwarts, where there were no wizards to look out for him and he could be sure not to be found for many hours. But Harry wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do, or if he would have the nerve. He needed time to think.

Harry opened the blade of the knife he was holding in his hands. He was intrigued by it. He stroked the smooth, broad edge as he carefully examined it. It... *would* work, right? Certainly it would.... But he had to test it somehow, to make sure.

*How am I going to do this? I can't just...cut myself, someone would see. I'll have to test it on something else.* Harry got up, and looked around the room. What could he test the knife on? He walked across the room and picked up one of Dudley's dusty old unused books and opened it. His eyes wandered over the first page, which wasn't the first page really, but only blue paper. He took the knife, and it easily made a tiny cut into the page.

*There,* thought Harry, closing the book and putting it back in it's place, *it'll work fine. But...* Harry glanced down at the knife. He wanted to try it, he hated to admit to himself. He sat down again, this time leaning against his dresser.

*How can I do this?* He had to plan it carefully. *It should be rather hard for anyone to find out.* Harry fidgeted with the knife. *Well... I'm right-handed, so my left would be easier to hide. And... I don't want to accidentally hit a vein, then I'll bleed everywhere and I certainly will have a hard time of hiding that.* Harry brought his left wrist closer to his face so as to see it better, then brought the knife up to it and gently dragged the knife over the underside of his wrist, carefully avoiding his veins.

Harry gasped slightly with pain. The stinging of the knife tore through his skin and spread through the rest of him. Harry closed his eyes, focusing on the pain, letting it engulf him. It ran through him as though it were his blood, his breath, his life, his very being. For a few precious moments the pain was everything Harry was, was everything he wanted and ever was going to be.

And then it began fading away, leaving him, concentrating only at the wound. Harry slowly reopened his eyes, breathing deeply, and looked at the cut. It was probably longer than it should have been, but it wasn't bleeding much, for it was one of those miraculous types that pain more than bleed, and for this Harry was grateful. He at last brought his wrist to his mouth to suck the wound as one instinctively does, and his mouth filled with the bitter taste of his own blood.

For a few precious moments, he had been nothing but pain.

He had found a way to forget.