Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter series. This is probably a good thing. Mrs. Rowling's stories are wonderful and I do not mean to take away from them in any way shape or form. In other words, please (gets on knees) don't sue.
"This is foolproof", he thought as he swung his other leg over the balcony, "completely foolproof". He plunged off the tower and deftly met the ground. Met the ground and bounced, and bounced, until he came to a halt completely unscathed physically.
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After securing the rope and adding an unbreakable charm to it, he slipped the noose over his head. His air supply was severed when he stepped off the chair. His small form swung causing the chair to topple backwards. Blissfully lightheaded, he contentedly watched the pretty, brightly colored dots forming before his eyes, that was until a shocked voice cut through both his revere and popped eardrums," Harry!"
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The steel kitchen knife he had swiped lay curled between his fingers. He raised it to eye level, it reflected momentarily in his glasses, before he slammed it against his throat in a single fluid movement. It wouldn't cut. He slumped despairingly. The prophecy had won. Quietly, he slipped the knife in his pocket, so that it could await the day that it would work.
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Amongst the charred landscape, and human ashes, he lay in fetal position nearly drained off all strength. He brought out the knife and pressed it to his throat. It cut.