A/N: Warning: there is quite a bit of depressing violence in this. If you don't like it, that is up to you, but no flames please.
He couldn't stand this anymore. His life had become completely warped and smothered by the Prophecy, wrapped so tightly that he felt claustrophobic. That stupid Prophecy. It seemed that his life started and ended with those few words, the words spoken by one who couldn't even remember them. The Prophecy governed his every action, led his very life and perhaps even spelt out the end of it, and had certainly led to the end of many others. Those few fatal words, spoken one night, late, in a pub:
'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…'Harry sighed and rubbed his eyes, turning restlessly in his bed. The covers dragged with him and twisted around him, another thing restricting him. He couldn't sleep, hadn't been able to for weeks and months. Not since the realisation of what he had to do sunk in. The mind-numbingly impossible task that had been assigned to him, of all people. It plagued his mind constantly, the thought that he had to murder someone, or they would murder him. Kill or be killed. It wasn't an easy choice.
Finally giving up on trying to sleep, Harry swung his feet out from between the scratchy sheets and placed them on the splintery wood floor. He stood up and walked over a threadbare rug and into the tiny, dirty white bathroom. He turned on the cold tap and splashed his face with water, rubbing his eyes. It was almost one o'clock in the morning, and as he was still wide-awake he felt that he should try and get something done.
Going back into the crammed hotel room whilst rubbing a towel over his face, Harry tried to decide what to do. He made the bed that he had been sleeping in and glanced wistfully at the empty bed beside it. Ron should be there. Ron, who had stood beside Harry through thick and thin. Ron, who had walked into danger time and time again at Harry's side, always there to watch his back in times of need, yet always able to laugh about it later. Ron, who would never be anywhere again.
Harry ripped his gaze away from the bed, feeling his eyes stinging. He tried to turn his mind away from thoughts of his best friend. There was no point in thinking about what could not be remedied. But still the images came. Pictures of Ron flashed through his mind. Ron pushing a dazed Harry through a door, shouting at him to run. The door slamming in Harry's face as Hermione, sobbing, pulled it shut and locked it. Hermione grabbing his hand and dragging him down a winding corridor. Harry's own half-hearted attempts to go back and help his friend despite his own injuries.
Most of all he remembered breaking out into the night, where the sky was clear and every start looked like a new jewel, shining heartlessly so far above. How he and Hermione had just kept on running, unable to do anything else, until Harry had fallen and dragged Hermione down with him. Then how they had sat in each other's arms and cried until they fell asleep, where they were found the next day.
Harry would never forget those moments. Blurred and hazy as they were, they were fixed in his mind forever.
His mind, as it inevitably did every night, now turned to what had happened a couple of months later. How he had returned to the hotel they were staying in one evening after a successful trip into the suburbs they were staying near, only to find horror in their room. When he had walked in the door he had seen Hermione lying on the bed, seemingly asleep. But when he walked closed it was only too clear that she was dead, killed with the avada kadavra, the same way that many of Harry's loved ones had gone. On a note next to her on the bed someone had sketched the Dark Mark. The image of her face felt like a tattoo on the inside of his eyelids, there whenever he closed his eyes.
He was alone now. That wretched prophecy had torn away first his parents and then his friends. One by one the people he loved were falling; Lily and James, Sirius, Dumbledore, Lupin, Mr Weasley, Charlie, Ginny, Ron and Hermione. The last two hurt the most. No matter how hard he tried, as the others were slowly killed, Harry couldn't shake off his two best friends.
Without their help he would have died so long ago. But how many more people would have to die to save his life? What was it about him that bought anyone he cared about into the line of fire in this deadly war? Was he really worth this?
Sadness, guilt and depression welled up inside Harry, an unstoppable torrent of misery. He made his way back into the bathroom and leaned on the sink, staring into the mirror. Sunken, dull green eyes outlined by heavy bags stared back at him. The first signs of stubble showed on his gaunt chin. Only his messy hair was the same as it once was, but even that had lost its healthy shine. Harry was diminished, fading away, unable to keep up with the strain that life was putting on him. His soul was slowly being pushed further and further away into some tiny corner as he fought and ran and hid from his enemies.
Reaching out, his scarred hand picked up his razor blade. He ran a thumb slowly down the edge, feeling the cool sharpness. He started lifting it to his face, as if to remove the hair forming there. All the while he started at the image in the mirror. Through his black hair he saw his scar, outlined against his white skin.
A sudden hatred seemed to burst through a dam inside him. A gushing, pouring fury seared through him, infecting every part of him, making him red-hot. Hatred for the prophecy. Hatred for the scar that linked him with such an evil mind. Hatred for the people who followed Voldemort. Hatred for Voldemort himself. He felt a fierce, primal need to inflict pain on those who so tortured him. He wanted to maim, injure, kill. To make those who had hurt him feel every bit of his agony.
The scar was livid on his forehead; he could see it even in the dim light, mocking him. Suddenly his hand was flying at it, still clutching the razor. It was as if his hand belonged to someone else as the blade sliced into his forehead, cutting across the scar again and again. Pain seared through his head as blood trickled down his face and ran into his eye.
But the pain was good.
The pain he had been feeling on his inside, the scars from the horrors of his life, suddenly, desperately, needed to be expressed. He couldn't stop his hand. Again and again he cut, mutilating his forehead into a bloody mess through which no scar could ever be seen. His vision was almost blinded now by the blood, which gushed down his face and poured off his chin. Looking down he saw red covering the dirty white sink.
The blade lowered, but not to stop. He was hurting so much inside that this pain was only a relief. It was something he could understand, see, accept and control. It wasn't the overwhelming torture that he had again and again pushed down deep inside.
He was crying now, something that he hadn't allowed himself to do in years, not since he had gotten over Sirius. He had hardened himself, vowed never to cry again. But now it was all being released in huge sobs, salty tears mixing with blood as he struck his arms again and again.
Eventually his arm slowed in its movements, finally stopping. The razor dropped from his limp hand and he stood swaying slightly. Harry grabbed onto the sink for balance, smearing it with bloody hand marks. He stared down at his arms in amazement, so covered in blood that you couldn't tell one cut from the next. He stared at them, as though trying to work out how they had got there. His eyes were struggling to focus, as if he had just come out of a trance.
Weakened by blood loss he sank to his knees, still gazing at the blood like he was unaware what was happening. All was silent now, except for his ragged breathing which seemed to expand to fill the tiny room. His eyes rolled up, and his fogged mind tried to register what was happening. Hopefully he tried to look for those that had gone before him, but all he could see was dark.
His final thought before the blackness smothered his mind what that he had defied the prophecy. He hadn't died at Voldemort's hand; he had died at his own.