This is a rather depressing piece written for:

.HollyPotter28's Latin Challenge - Effugio (escape), Mors (death), Sanguis (blood), and Solus (alone, lonely, only, on one's own)

.Empress Empoleon's Dark Side Competition - Marvolo Gaunt's Ring

.Cookies-and-Ink's Not For the Faint of Heart Competition - Operation Void.

Yup. Cool.

WARNING: depression, character death, suicide

To Save the Savior

Life is one of those tricky things that turns too quickly and changes too fast. Time flies, life happens, and people die. Isn't that the history of every one of us?

He sat on the bed in silence, wishing he was back at Hogwarts, wishing there was someone around him who cared. Who even knew, for that matter. Life can change a lot in the span of only a few months, and it had for him. But then again, it had gone back to the very day he was born, to the very moment a woman applying for a teaching job had unknowingly spouted words that had led to the downfall of a powerful man.

He raised his head slightly, staring down quietly without seeing the threadbare bedspread beneath his crossed legs, the slight pinkish tint of his thin hands, the spidery blue veins that ran up and down his pale arms. He was so used to ignoring everything that it came nearly natural to him. He ignored the tentative knocks on his bedroom door. He ignored the painful growls of his stomach protesting its lack of food. He ignored the loud shouts of his uncle, the slaps across the face. And most of all, he ignored the steadily growing pile of letters on his dresser addressed to one Harry Potter.

He hadn't answered. He hadn't even opened them. Because he didn't feel like that person anymore. He didn't feel like the little boy who had been locked in a cupboard growing up. He didn't feel like the cute little eleven-year-old who had run off with a half-giant and showed up at school. He didn't feel innocent anymore. He was a fourteen-year-old whose parents had been murdered because of him. He was a teenager who had been chased after and attacked from the moment he had set foot in Hogwarts. He was a boy who had caused the death of several men, the insanity of another, and the murder of a boy not much older than himself. No, he was far from innocent.

Everything was his fault. Everything. From the murder of his parents to the murder of Cedric Diggory. He had done nothing but cause problems from the start of his life. He didn't deserve to live.

Oh, he had thought about it plenty of times. Suicide. At first, it had been a passing thought, an idea to which he did not give much time. He had given the opportunity for everything to get better. And yet it hadn't. And it wouldn't.

No one really cared. Not really.

His relatives, although probably shocked, would have no problem with his death. They hated him enough already, already pretended he didn't exist. In fact, they might even be happier without him, enjoy his absence.

Dumbledore would be disappointed, perhaps, maybe even a little bit sad. But if he didn't have the guts and the foresight to step in, then much of the blame fell of him. And of course, he had been the one to send him to his blasted relatives in the first place, the one to refuse Harry's begs and pleads to not be returned 'home.'

Many of the teachers would be sad or angry, at both themselves and him. Maybe because he hadn't gone to them. Maybe because they hadn't seen it happening and stepped in before it was too late.

And his friends. Oh, his friends would be upset. They already were upset. He could tell by the increased frequency of his mail and the handwriting that grew hastier and messier with each letter that arrived. Yes, they would be upset at first. They would wonder why. They might even blame themselves a little bit. But in the end, they would be safer and happier. They wouldn't be dragged into danger by him anymore. And they would live happier lives without him. They would forget him.

Harry leaned over to the table beside his bed and pulled open the drawer. He pulled out a small towel and unfolded it carefully in his lap. The dim light glinted off the metal inside.

He picked up the razor with shaking fingers and brought it close to his face, inspecting it, stalling.

This was what he had to do. It was what he wanted.

I wonder if it will hurt.

He pressed the sharp edge of the blade into the skin of his wrist, feeling it begin to slice through flesh. He dug it down deep, hard, and dragged it across his skin. A gasp of pain escaped his lips at the sharp pain in his arm, but he continued, moving on to do the same to the other wrist.

It will all be over so soon.

He looked down at the pale skin of his arms again, watching the blood flow from twin cuts on his wrists. They were dark, deep – deep enough to kill. The crimson spilled across his smooth skin, taking over, dying it a sick shade of red. It dripped down onto the bedspread beneath him. It didn't hurt anymore – not really – and this way no one else would be hurt because of him.

The point of no return.

He felt himself losing strength, and smiled sadly. Blood was soaking into the bed now, forming a small, wet puddle around him. His jeans and his arms were red with the pain of too many deaths on his hands.

Darkness played at the edges of his vision, and he took one last long breath, reveling in the feeling of air filling his lungs, pleased at the prospect that it would all be over in only a few minutes. He leaned back so he wouldn't have quite so far to fall when he finally lost consciousness.

The loud pounding knock at his door roused him slightly.

"Boy!" The door was flung open, and it hit the wall with a loud bang, bouncing back. Harry heard the sharp intake of breath followed by heavy footsteps. "Boy! PETUNIA! He's – come here! Call the hospital. Call them."

Harry felt beefy arms grab him roughly, but it was too late. Too late.

Too late to save the Savior. He was too far gone.