Harry awoke to the feel of rain on his face. He opened his eyes to the gray- ness of pre-dawn. He was laying under a bush in the Dursley's backyard and it had stated raining.

Trudging back into the silent house, Harry made his way to the downstairs bathroom and turned the shower on. He had slept outside last night, not wanting to endure another beating from his Uncle for waking the house up with his screams. He turned the tap as hot as it would go, stripped out of his damp clothes and climbed into the shower. The steaming water scalded his skin, but Harry didn't notice. He always felt cold, not just his skin, but his bones, his entire body, his soul . He stood in the shower for over half an hour. He knew that the water wouldn't warm him, but that wasn't what he was looking for. He enjoyed the sensation of the burning water pelting against his skin. The pain overrode all other senses. It made Harry temporarily forget that he was an orphan, that his only living relatives hated him, that he was supposed to save the world, and that he was to blame for the deaths of his godfather and Cedric. The scalding water cleared his mind of everything save for the burning sensation in his skin.

When the memories of his life started to seep back into his mind, Harry got out of the shower. He turned the water off, wrapped a towel around his waist and looked at himself in the mirror. He was thin, very thin. The small amount of bulk on top of his bones was pure muscle from Quidditch. His ribs were clearly visible, as were his hipbones, shoulder blades, and spine. His skin was perfectly clear, extremely red, but clear of blemishes. Most people assumed that Harry was just lucky and didn't have to go through that portion of being a teenager. Technically there were right, although that wasn't the reason his skin was perfectly clear.

Harry had learned years ago how to heal his own wounds, how to focus his magic to heal his self inflicted cuts. Looking into the mirror again, Harry realized that he needed to shave. He finished the job quickly and smoothly. His facial hair was soft and light, barely noticeable. Harry stared at the razor in his hand. It was new, and fairly sharp. He pictured himself slitting his own throat with it, saw his aunt and uncle come in to find him lying dead on the floor, surround by a pool of his own blood. The thought didn't scare him. He often longed to be dead. Living wasn't worth the pain, suffering, and guilt that he tried to deal with everyday.

Harry heard someone walk down the stairs. He quickly dressed in clean, dry clothes and hurried out of the bathroom, taking the razor with him. He slipped into his own small bedroom unnoticed and sat on the edge of his bed. No one would bother him here, for another half-hour at least. He pried the blade out of the plastic razor and held it over his forearm. He ran the blade over his skin, creating a thin red line horizontally across his wrist. Again, he ran the blade along the cut, making it deeper. It hurt, but that was the point. Harry watched, almost spellbound, as blood ran down the length of his arm, pooling in the crook of his elbow. He wiped the blood away with a rag from under his bed and made a second cut with the blade. This one wasn't as deep, the shallow cuts always hurt more. He watched the blood trickle down his arm. It probably would have tickled, but the nerves on top of his skin were unresponsive because of his earlier shower.

Harry stared at his bleeding arm for ten minutes, concentrating on the pain. Finally he wiped the blood away again and sighed. He closed his eyes and, breathing deeply, focused his magic towards his arm. The cuts healed quickly and smoothly. No one would ever know that he had cut himself just to feel the pain. He knew no one would understand it. No one could. He was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, no one else was like him. No one else had been through everything he had been through. No one else had lost everything they ever loved to Voldemort. No one else had been marked Voldemort's equal at the age of one. There was no one to understand the simple fact that he, Harry, was responsible for the deaths of two innocent people. He was different, he had been through too much by the young age of sixteen and he knew it. He also knew that it was only the beginning. He would have to go through more than twice as much by the time it was over. And Harry couldn't help thinking that he didn't want to go through any of it. He didn't want to be responsible for any more death. He didn't want to kill Voldemort.

He didn't want any of it. He couldn't take any more of it. So as his Aunt banged on his bedroom door, telling him to get downstairs and make breakfast, he placed the razor blade underneath his bed, knowing that one day soon he may very well cut both of his wrists in long longitudinal lines and not bother to heal them.