Stepping over the Edge

Wish I was too dead to cry

My self-affliction fades

Stones to throw at my creator

Masochists to which I cater

You don't need to bother; I don't need to be

I'll keep slipping farther

But once I hold on, I won't let go 'til it bleeds

- Stone Sour / Bother

Epilogue

The room was completely dark and dust lay heavy on the cold stone floor as if it hadn't been entered for years. The great windows were bare of moonlight that usually cascaded through. But if you squinted your eyes and let them adjust to the darkness, you could see the outlines of footprints coming from the door, head for a big mirror at the other end of this small room. And if you looked even closer you could see that at the bottom of the mirror sat a boy.

At first, you might take him for a young teenager, no older than fourteen, because even when seated on the floor with his arms around his legs you could tell that his height wasn't much to brag about. You could also tell that he had a very slim body, something his far too big Muggle clothes couldn't hide.

But his young appearance would quickly fade if you took a second look for there was an aura around him that told that this was not a boy, but a man that had seen more than most, and who had dealt with more than should be allowed. His body shone with age and wisdom, like there was nothing that could surprise him anymore and that few would even dare to try.

Sitting on the floor of a dark, cold and deserted room with only a mirror as company was Harry Potter, saviour of Muggle and Wizard world alike.

A tear rolled down his cheek as he slowly lifted his hand and touched the mirror in front of him with such a gentleness that you would think he touched the most precious thing on earth, because for him it was.

He had come here as soon as Madam Pompfrey let him out of the hospital-wing in hope that what he would see would not be the same as last time. Deep inside he had known that the image wouldn't have changed but he still felt a desperate need to see it with his own eyes. And now here he was, in front of something he had once hoped never to see but now wished for with all his heart.

"I show not you face but your hearts desire," the soft whisper was so low that it was hardly spoken at all but Harry still felt like he had to say it, had to say it to believe it, to make it true.

His fingers slowly traced the contours of the dead body in the mirror. His body. After all that had happened he still wanted this, he still wanted to die. He couldn't deny it. Sure, he had fought Voldemort and yes he had killed him, but that didn't take away the fact that he would have gladly switched places.

Ron and Hermione were talking to him again like nothing had ever happened between them. It was as if the whole beginning of this year never existed and they were right back at the end of fifth year, The Golden Trio, friends forever. He didn't know how to respond to that. All this year he had been trying to push them away and they had easily agreed to it, but now...

He let his hand fall down from the mirror and reached into his pocket. Slowly he pulled out a knife; his knife. No one had bothered to search for it even though they had found out about his cutting. Probably because of all this "the war is over" celebration that had gotten in the way. Or maybe they simply didn't care if he cut himself anymore. He had killed Voldemort for them; there was no more reason to keep him alive.

He shook his head. No, they still cared for him, he knew they did. That was the reason he had stood up against Voldemort one last time. He had done it so they would be safe, because that's what they wanted for him.

A weak smile made its way over his lips. Safe, yeah right. He pulled up the arm of his sweater and carefully broke the skin with his knife, making a clean cut over his wrist. He watched, fascinated as the blood ran freely down his hand and then dropped to the floor creating a small pool.

He was their saviour now. Everyone's saviour. The-Boy-Who-Lived. He snorted. More like The-Boy-Who-Isn't-Allowed-To-Die. It was like Dumbledore said he was now free to be old and senile. The thought didn't strike Harry as amusing, not even pleasurable. He had no wish to live and be over 150 years old, like Dumbledore, he didn't even wish to see his seventeenth birthday.

He placed the knife in his cut once again and made it just a little bit deeper. There was nothing for him in life, if nothing else then the Erised mirror showed him that. He would live all his life as the famous Harry Potter and no matter where he went or how many years passed; he would still be the hero, the perfect role model with not a fault to show. At least that's what everyone would picture him like. They didn't care that he was hurting and that he had already sunk deep into depression. The-Boy-Who-Lived didn't have normal feelings and he would surely never cut himself. It was bellow him.

In a sudden fit of rage Harry threw the knife with all his might across the room where it slammed against the stone wall and fell clattering to the floor. He covered his face with his hands and, trying to calm down, wiped away the tears that were now running madly down his cheeks. Then he stood up and stared into the mirror. His lifeless body lay there on the ground with a mocking smile on its lips.

"Fuck!" Harry roared and slammed his fist into the mirror making it break and the shards fell to the floor. If he couldn't have his heart's desire then he didn't want to be able to look at it.

He turned around and pulled out his wand, quickly cleaning and bandaging his cut. Then he took in a deep breath and walked for the door. He might not want to live but as Snape had said, the choice wasn't up to him anymore. They needed their saviour alive, someone on which they could dump all their troubles and who they could look up to. Someone who could be that perfect role model that they all needed. It might not be true, but they needed to believe in it anyway.

"Maybe I can't live on for me, but I will do it for them."