Harry Potter Oneshots From Every Era

Broken

None. Warning, possible trigger warnings. Expressing deep emotions in this one.

Harry slumped against the bathroom wall, his heart pounding painfully. It seemed to sit in his throat, constricting his airway, but sink down below his stomach, to somewhere just above his pelvis.

He blinked desperately, clinging as tightly as he could so the clothes he was wearing with numb fingers. His body twitched violently, but he couldn't contract his muscles and wipe the ice cold but burning hot tears from his face.

He took shallow, laboured breaths, and he felt like he was slowly being dragged away into an empty pit, even deeper than last time. Deeper and deeper he fell, the only thing showing he was still alive and there was the fact he could feel his fingernails ripping through his thin, worn shirt.

Shadows gathered around the corners of his eyes, his stomach tingling unpleasantly. A dull buzzing was filling his ears, vibrating angrily, as though berating him for allowing him into this state.

His arm made the familiar movement to the side of the bath, and he felt a new sensation under his fingers. He slowly, with shaking arms, lifted up the razor and brought it, with worrying effort, towards the deep red scars that had been left on his skin after the last session like this.

He felt pain, but not the type of pain you would expect. It wasn't like being stabbed, or shot, or even Crucio-ed. No, this pain was emotions, so strong that they felt like physical pain. Guilt, grief, sadness, and, worst of all, happiness. This was the cause of all other emotions, and his brain used this emotion to torture him worse than any spell.

How could he be happy, when there was someone out there mourning the loss of a loved one? What if that death was his fault? What if, simply because he was alive, he was destroying other people's lives for his own happiness?

It was these thoughts, these reasons, that punctuated every cut. Deep or shallow, long or short, every one had a reason, and all because of him.

Because he deserved this, didn't he? He deserved pain, because this type of pain couldn't amount to what other people in the world were feeling. This was a small sacrifice compared to what others had done.

Like how his own mother, Lily, had given up her life for a worthless son. How Narcissa Malfoy had lied to the most evil wizard of all time to protect her son purely to hope he was alive. How Molly Weasley had killed, murdered someone, out of love for a daughters life that was almost lost, because of him. His father, James, who had faced the Dark Lord without a wand, only for the life of the woman he loved and his failure of a son, who he knew probably wouldn't make it out alive.

But he had, hadn't he? He had left two of the most people in his life behind and carried on, living and breathing traitorously.

All these brave parents had been forced to sacrifice such great things, and it all led back to him, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who Lived, Slytherin's Heir, the Chosen One, the Saviour. Yes, the so called saviour of the wizarding world, who had cause all the death and destruction in the first place. The one who had destroyed the lives of innocent people that he had hid behind, letting them take the curse that was destined to end his life.

Why hadn't he died there and then? That fatal curse, which had failed to kill him once, failed again. It would have been so much easier, had he just given up then, instead of coming back.

He brought the blade down again, on the opposite wrist this time. He could see, almost from a different body, the shockingly scarlet blood that was pouring around his body.

A beautiful red, like Gryffindor red, or perfectly bloomed roses. It was far away though, and the black spots that were forming on his vision were blocking it.

Then, there was another type of red swimming amongst the colour which his eyes had grown to see, equally as beautiful. He felt hands clasp around his wrists, and attempted a smile with bitter satisfaction as he felt a stronger pain flowing up his arms. This was the strength of pain he deserved.

His hands tightened reflexively around the cool plastic, but it was tore from his grasp and the perfect buzzing sound he had been hearing was punctured with begging wails of his name and desperate cries calls him back.

His body fell weak, his blood loss already great, and he saw more of that new reddish colour, with a large amount of brown, before it dissolved to black.

The last noise he heard before he fell unconscious was 'We'll wake him, we always wake him. Always.'