Harry Potter of number 4 Privet Drive lay on his back. He moved as little as possible as that mattress had an annoying way of squeaking, and just stared at the ceiling, his hands behind his head. He couldn’t quite remember when his anger had subsided, or when he gave up and just threw himself on the bed, but Vernon was now snoring away in his own room, and Harry was left to meddle with his own thoughts. Something he hadn’t done in a long time.

His mind traveled around his parents, a lot. More than he was comfortable with. He kept wondering how life would be different. Not for him, but for everyone. What if he’d died that night? What if his mother and father lived and he had been the one to leave this plane? Would they have replaced him with another child? Vernon and Petunia would have been grateful that’s for sure. What about Ron and Hermione? Would they be friends with his little brother or sister? Would they be friends at all? Would Cho Chang be attracted to him (if it was a boy) solely to comfort him of his brother lost 16 years ago?

Sirius. Sirius would be alive? But then again, no. His mind would tell him Snape would most likely still be a Death Eater, a real one, and he would find a way to kill Sirius. And then with Wormtail’s help they would go after his sibling and his parents. At this he would admit defeat, everything would have turned out the same, no matter who died in place of who that night. He sighed and rolled onto his stomach, cringing at that damned sound.

“What’s wrong with me?!” He cried into his pillow. His muffled wondering woke Hedwig so she clicked her beak against her cage as if to say: “I’m trying to sleep!” He didn’t bother to give her a glance as his mind started to wander again. What was the matter with him?! Since when did he think stupid things like this? People were dying for him, people had died for him, and yet he continued to be ungrateful.

Yet for the first time in Harry Potter’s entire life, he wished he was dead. He had always wanted to be someone else before. An unknown, a random face, a student who scraped by in classes because he had a good friend, who was kind with her notes, just like everyone else. He was just like everyone else, bad in school, great in Quidditch, he wanted to rise above his fame and prove he was more than a name, or a stupid hyphenated phrase. “The-Boy-Who-Lived”. He shuddered at the thought of it. He hated that title, hated that stupid Famous Witches and Wizards card Ron had sent him as a joke. Hated being told he was as trouble-maker like James, and yet kind like his mother. Hated being told he looked just like him when the only memory he had of him (which wasn’t even his own) was a display so disgusting he’d trained himself to forget about it. And then his mother was no better. A beautiful little angel. Running to the aide of the needy-

“Don’t do that.” He suddenly spat. The sound of his own voice had made him jump. He closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. He was being stupid, ungrateful, and childish. His eyes darted over to the clock. 1 am…he was thirsty.

He tried to lift himself off the bed slowly, but found that that made the mattress squeak louder, and longer, so he hopped off and went downstairs, instinctively missing the creaking stair. Instead of heading for the kitchen however, he stood there, staring that the cupboard that had once been his home. Before he learned what he’d done, and the impact he made on the Wizarding world. The scared, skinny little boy, who lived solely on the mercy of a man who’s fat was beginning to cloud his vision. Before he realized what kind of pedestal he had been put on as the savior of an entire race, when he was only eleven years old. He couldn’t believe that he actually missed that part of his life.

The knob was cold under his palm, and yet comforting. The tiny almost in-audible squeak made his stomach jump as he set his eyes on the gleaming metal inside. The lights from the street reflected against the metal, and against the eyes that pressured him to stay away from the mirror. He hadn’t meant to take it, nor had he meant to take it upstairs and write a few miniscule notes. He didn’t know why he was doing this, he knew he wasn’t going to go through with it, he didn’t have the courage. But he scribbled out little notes to everyone he loved. Ron, Hermione, Mrs. Weasley, Mr. Weasley, Remus, Fred and George, McGonagall, Dumbledore, Snape-

He stopped halfway through Snape’s letter. He didn’t know why he was writing him, he didn’t know what to say…until it came as clear as day and he jot it down lest the courage left him.

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the black metal again. He shut his eyes for a moment, he needed to just think. This was just beyond stupidity, it was beyond selfishness or cowardess-

“NOW!” He cried.

He hadn’t meant to get blood all over Hedwig’s feather’s either.