News Release

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News Release

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Today, I hate myself.

I hate myself with a passion unparalleled. I hate my body, my abilities. I hate the things I do, the things I can't do and the things I want to do. I hate the constant strain on the place between my shoulder-blades, the streamlined ache running through my legs, the weight pulling my eyelids down behind round glasses.

I hated myself yesterday, too, but it wasn't the way I hate myself today. Yesterday I had a purpose, a reason to go on, to keep my hate to myself. Today I am different. My future is a blank.

I am a murderer.

It was kill or be killed, and I hated the way I refused to succumb to the higher power. Oh, yes, I knew he was better than me. I've always known it. I've only ever got by on luck, or from flukes, never because I was better. Other people have been saving me my whole life. I hated that even though this was my one chance to let him know that he was better than me, I couldn't tell him. I had to do away with him and be the savior of humanity, exactly the way I didn't want to. I had to live a lie--the lie that I was a hero. And instead of squashing that lie the way I should have, I didn't, and the lie prospers.

I'm not hero material, to be honest. I'm short. I'm scrawny. I wear glasses, I'm not all that smart, and I hate like the rest of the population. People treat me like I'm so much better than them, but in truth, I'm mortal. I have been, I always will be. I sin. I yell and scream and cuss and drink and all those other things that no one thinks I do.

HARRY POTTER DEAD!!

Harry Potter, twenty-two, the hero of October 31^st, was found dead yesterday morning in his bathtub. He was found by his house-mate and guardian, Remus Lupin, a well-known rebel against You-Know-Who. He was visibly distraught and refused to answer our questions.

But no one wants that kind of hero, they want the hero who has a halo, all shiny and ready to go for when they step out off the battlefield, spotless, unruffled, and already pulling that halo out for the Daily Prophet photographs. I remember that before the photographer would take my picture last night, he called make-up over and they washed my face of the dust, grime, and blood. I was a clean-cut, righteous young man, and everyone loved it.

But though I was clean on the outside, my mind was tormented and my emotions unraveled. I kept seeing the look on his face when he realized that I could do this, I could actually do this. I will never forget the way he fought to keep his face neutral through his horror. There was a bright light when he left. Sometimes I think I could hear him scream through the light; other times I think I imagined it. Death is not roses and daisies. It's not a walk in the park.

Tonight, it's dark and the moon is wild. Wispy clouds float across the sky, a dusty gray against the indigo. I hate my existence here. Here it is beautiful. I can hear the wind through the trees, making the music of nature. The stars are huge and bright, and the night air surrounds me like a blanket.

I don't deserve this existence. I have seen the dredges of eternity. I know what evil looks like; I know what evil feels like, running through my veins. I know the voice of Death and I know the hands of Hell. I am impure, dirty, tainted. This existence calls for everything I can't be.

Investigators immediately suspected Lupin, who has been a werewolf for over thirty years, but Medical Examiner and Head Healer Ginevra Weasley, of St. Mungo's Hospital, proved that the death was a product of suicide. Weasley was also a close friend of Potter's, and also declined comment.

The moon is bright but my blade is brighter. I have chosen this way, this knife, after careful consideration. There are easier ways, faster ways. I am, after all, a wizard, and I have felt the spell on my tongue. It would be cleaner.

To be cleaner would be adding to the lie I have lived before. I don't want to continue living that lie, even after the breath has gone from me. I want the truth in my final moments, and I want the world to know what I truly was.

The blade will draw blood, and with that blood I will prove my own worthlessness.

The first cut is clean. A fine line of red begins to appear on my pale wrist. I have been planning this moment all day. As more blood comes, it bubbles up, then pops. The release I feel is nothing like the release to come.

I savored that first one, but the following ones are less carefully done. I slash and slice as fast as I can, creating as many wounds as I can, digging the blade through the layer of skin until I can't feel it anymore.

I lean back. When the blood started pooling in my palms I came and sat in the bathtub. The plastic is cool and unforgiving. There is a window across from where I sit and I can see the stars through a canopy of leaves. It is a good view to be left with.

My head is getting heavy. There is darkness in the corners of my eyes.

For the first time I think I may regret my decision. I haven't thought it through. "What if" scenarios run through my head, leaving me wanting each one more than the one before. A wife. Children. The return to a normal life that I never fully made. Now I have the chance.

Hermione Granger, school-friend and love interest of the deceased hero, was the only friend closely connected to Potter who gave comment.

Tears run down my face, but I can scarcely feel them. I think of Ron, who died in the war three weeks ago, and of Hermione, who is still alive but wasting away. I haven't seen her eat for at least four days. I wonder vaguely if she's eating now that everything's over. I think of the morgues, the last places for the bodies, where Ron lies, cold, among so many others awaiting burial. Magic has been used to increase their capacity.

I lean forward, so quickly I get dizzy, and have to grope, almost blind, for the faucet. Cold water flies down onto my shoes, contrasting the warm blood that has pooled underneath me. I didn't realize there was so much of it.

"I hold the entire Wizarding community responsible for Harry's death. You have treated him like something he's not ever since he was a baby. The man didn't shit marble, you know. He was just a normal person shoved into an abnormal situation. If Dumbledore were still around, he would never have let Harry into the situation alone [on October 31^st]. If I had known what the plan was that night, I would've insisted coming along. I suspect that's the reason why I wasn't told.

"But no sane, normal person can brutally kill another--even with good reason--without feeling remorse. People should've known that this would happen, and I even blame myself for not realising it sooner. You have lost a hero. I have lost my best friend."

I reach up for the washcloth shoved into the corner. I can barely lift my hand that far. The skin is a brilliant red. I dip the cloth in the bloody water, and I want to press it to my forearm to stop the bleeding, but I can't tell where the cuts are and where they aren't through all the blood. I wipe some away and now I can tell.

Ms. Granger is the current Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, having been named Dumbledore's successor in his will. No one this institution is aware of opposition her position.

I press the bloody cloth to the wounds and hiss. This is new pain, fresh pain, and I have a feeling somewhere inside that it is numbed. Even though, it's wretched. I want to cry out.

The idea strikes me. Now I want to scream, scream as loudly as possible, for help, for my wand, for the mistake I made. I can live through hate for myself, through the lie that I live, if only for those I love. Hermione's face haunts me through the darkness I am seeing. I open my mouth and croak. Nothing comes.

Only one family member agreed to comment to this institution, Mrs. Vernon Dursley (Muggle). As Potter's aunt, she says, "I always expected him to meet a rotten end. Who could live in a world with the power to kill, without effort? I must say, though, I didn't expect suicide... My husband has received several nasty letters from Harry's friends and we would appreciate it if they stopped."

I tell myself not to give up and try again. I can set things right. This was a mistake. I can set things right, and true, and honest. I did it once before, I can do it again. This was...a...

There will be a memorial service on Monday, October 5, and will be public . The funeral is Sunday, October 4, and is private for close family and friends.

mistake...