Chapter Text
This was it.
This was the end of the Boy-Who-Lived
Harry potter was everyone's favourite, he was called the hero, the one who ended Voldemort once and would again, destined to end the war.
But, Harry knew better, Harry knew he didn't have a chance, once he had learned he had to be killed or be a murderer he had knew which would be his fate. He was only a scared small boy with too much expectations from everyone. He loved his friends, he loved his godfathers who took him in and treated him as their son, and hell, he even loved his parents, even if they died way too young for him to remember!. (A small voice in his head, deep down, said his parents failed him by leaving him alone in this mess).
He knew this would make them dissapointed in him, he had no reason to do this at all, he had a perfect life (he tried to keep the beatings, the sleepless nights, the police sirens, and the pictures of blood in his time at number 4 Privet Drive deep down in his head too.)
He had amazing friends and loving godfathers, didn't to worry about anything at all, was famous, and was mostly liked by everyone.
But he didn't want this, he never wanted to be famous for something he didn't even remember, he didn't want people worrying about him and saying he was loved by them when it was a fucking lie! He wasn't loved, but he was the oh so great Boy Who Lived and of course they told him such stupid fucking words, "we are here for you", "everyone loves you", we care about you.
It was all a lie.
His friends could do well without him, they had eachother and the only reason he wasn't so useless was him being a "good" friend, but was he truly?.
For the last week, he had made multiple goodbyes to them, trying to change his decision, he was so desperately trying to find a reason to live, but, all his bestfriend, the dearest person to him, said was to,
"Jump"
He didn't believe him. He was thinking it was all a joke. He left him alone, in that disgusting tower (just a few steps and he would fall), just thinking he wasn't serious.
Hermione tried to talk to him, but she clearly didn't think it was true either, trying to help yet not really caring, not acting as if he was about to do it in any second like he felt.
But now, could he really go back? He had already annoyed them so much, worried them, even if it was just slighty, and if he didnt do this, he would look as an attention seeker, as a liar, and he knew if he tried to get help otherwise nobody would believe him. He had no reason to even be sad for god's sake!. But there was no turning back, no turning back to the several cuts in his arm, no turning back to the letters to his friends with long apologies, no turning back to the homework he never did because he was so sure he was gonna die and for this his falling grades, no turning back anymore at all.
He had to do this.
He took a small step further.
He decided to remember now, after all he had all the time in the world, nobody would come here at bloody 4am
.
So he remembered.
He remembered the letter he send to Malfoy.
He really didn't know why he was sending one to him, but he feel the need to apologize, for wasting his time, for being so useless he wasn't even good enough for bullying (he would never use that word, he couldn't accept that even in this, once perfect world, he was hurt too.) and as much as he didn't want to admit it he was quite fond of him and their small fights, he felt like Malfoy was the only consistent thing in his life, no mather what happens, he will always be there, with his stupid (handsome) smirk and mocking eyes, staring at him and saying mean remarks.
He just hoped by doing this he would atleast make him, anyone, happy.
Another step more.
He also thought of Dumbledore, him saying he was the one destined to kill or die by the hands of Voldemort himself. He used this as a reason that maybe, just maybe, he couldn't die, because Cedric, kind and atractive and friendly and- of course better than him!, died because of his fault.
(He tried to forget the words he said, he tried to forget the weeks before the third task, the memory of libraries, "Do you want me to show you?", smiles, bathrooms and fingers up his throat, him showing how to do it, smiling at him like he was proud, and he couldn't help but do anything to make him look like that again, anyone look at him like that, even if that meant, days later, to let him touch his body, small remarks whenever he said to stop, "you wanted this", because if he made anyone proud it was worth it, he didnt know why he was crying over it, he had no reason to, it was his own fault, he made him do this, he wanted it, but no mather how much he scrubbed his body he felt dirty.)
He would never forget the blood, the dead eyes, death eaters after him, him tripping over his dead body, and he couldn't help but cry, because Cedric was the only one who would accept him knowing how dirty and useless he was. (The blood was in his hands, he could feel all eyes staring at him, he was finally back at Hogwarts, and he couldn't help but want to run, hide, and sleep till everything calmed down, he couldn't handle the screams of horror, Cedric's father yelling to get help, the sound of his cries, and when a teacher, he couldn"t see their face, everything was so bloody and dizzy and he grasped into Cedric's body like he would die otherwise, because maybe he would.)
Another step further.
He remembered his failed attempt, he had woken up early to go to the astronomy tower, he was sure this was gonna be his final night, he had started till night waiting, and now it was 2am. Nobody would find him, he didnt want for people to see him fall, he couldn't handle annoying anyone else more. He could just hope that he didn't bleed a lot when his body hit the concrete.
(He remembered the blood on his arms slowly dripping to the floor, the blood in his face after a bad beating when he forgot to help aunt Petunia with her garden, the blood in the floor and his hands when Cedric died and when for the first time, when he was, for the first time, not enjoying the intense pain when he was stabbed in godric's hollow)
But before he could fall, he regretted it, maybe if he waited just a bit more there would be a reason, a reason to live, a reason to keep trying, there has to be one!.
He found his answer a week later. It was final, he had to do this. (He didn't feel in control anymore.
Just a step more and he would fall.
It was cold. The air was hitting his face. He was about to fall, he couldnt back down now, it was too late. He saw a few people down already, it must have been 5am already. He spent too much time thinking, if he waited any more, sooner someone would find him and stop him. Nobody could.
He had to do this.
He hoped his friends would be happy at his choice. He hoped nobody would miss him (he knew nobody would.)
He was done thinking, it was time to do it already.
It was the end of the Boy Who Lived, and he couldn't help but smile at that.
And so, he fell, and before he could hear the screams, before his body hit the concrete, his vision turned to black.