Disclaimer: I own it. I own it all. I rape the characters every night!!! MWAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!!!!
Ok, for all you idiots who believed any of that, get help. Now.
It's very short. Yea. Deal with it. I am.
And if anyone reviews, i will marry you and have your children. Onward!
Harry sat on the bed of his small bedroom, staring at nothing in particular. For some reason, the swirls in the wood paneling of the closet door fascinated him. He snorted to himself. Right. No thoughts could distract him from the pain, guilt, and anger that was permanently burned into him. He hadn't eaten or slept in the two weeks since he's been home from school. Every time he closed his eyes, the face of his godfather came to him. Covering him. Suffocating him.
Sirius.
That name, the name that's been plaguing his mind since that night at the Ministry. It was like a drop of water on the floor, being pulled into the paper towel wiping it up; it was being absorbed into his mind, too stubborn to leave.
It had changed him. Now, instead of being the Great Hero he was supposed to be, he was like a scared little boy, with nothing left. No real family. Not even letters from his best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, could cheer him up. And yes, they've tried ((Are you ok Harry??)). And he had written them back ((I'm fine)), lying through his teeth of course. He wasn't fine. He was anything but fine.
Glancing over at his nightstand, his eyes landed on the butcher's knife he had swiped from Aunt Petunia's kitchen earlier that evening. His feelings perked up a bit. Maybe he could end it all right now, end all the pain and suffering and guilt and responsibility. Because he deserved it. He deserved to bleed. To hurt. To vanish.
Picking up the knife into his hands, he turned it over in his fingers, examining every ridge, every curve, of the sleekness of it. He held it up in front of his face, catching his reflection. His once bright emerald eyes were now dull and empty. Like his soul.
He knew he had to do it. With him dead, Voldemort wouldn't be after him, therefore not going after anyone else he loved. He already killed his entire family, so there was nothing left for him to lose. Maybe his death would be insignificant, like an ant on the sidewalk.
It may mean nothing, except for the fact that the entire wizarding world would suffer greatly under the rule of Voldemort. Surprisingly, that didn't bother Harry. He would rather them suffer then be dead. In fact, he didn't even care about his friends anymore. He didn't care about anything anymore, except for himself and this knife. He could already imagine the shiny red blood dripping off of it. His blood. That thought in itself comforted him.
Leaning over, he glanced out the window. The breezy July night shone under the half-moon, spraying it's light down onto everything and everyone below it. He adjusted the knife so that it caught the moon's reflection. He took one last glance outside, then turned to face Hedwig's empty cage. She was out hunting. He doubted she would miss him much anyways. He was so worthless and unwanted as it was. He hated everyone at the moment. All he wanted was to hurt and be hurt. He wanted to bleed. But most of all, he wanted Sirius back.
Within seconds, he was breaking down in tears. All the built up emotions within him had been too much to bear, and crying was the only way to let them out. The knife seemed to shine more brightly as the tears fell. Automatically, his hand reached out for the black handle of the knife. He moved his arm holding the weapon slowly to himself. His last thought was that neither his parents nor Sirius would be happy with him for avenging their deaths this way, by killing himself. Ignoring that nagging theory, he squeezed his eyes shut and pushed the knife into his chest. He shot his eyes open and took one last glance at the ceiling before blacking out.
From that moment, it was official. The Great Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, was dead.