You may hate me by the end of this, but it's an idea I've had in my head for so long now, that I have to write it down.

This is my first Harry Potter fic, but not my first fic, so I'm sorry if I mess up something.

I hope you enjoy the story. Good luck.

EDIT 9-30-15 : Just tweaked a things at the end, no major plot changes. Should I add a second chapter?

The cool stone felt good against Harry's back and head, and he indulged in the comfort before the hardness of the rock began to push back. The hard surface bit into his skin, and the coolness felt less inviting, so he stood back up, pacing across the room to a collection of faucets. A quick turn of a nozzle, and water gushed into the sink and flowed down the drain. Harry cupped his hands, and allowed the water to pool in his hands, to overflow, and slip through his fingers. He lowered his head and slashed the water in his face. Droplets splattered against his glasses, water dripped down his chin and fell into his robe fronts, and the cool touch of the water tingled against his cheeks. He let out a small sigh at the feeling of the water (a refreshing burst), one he had grown quite used to in the past month. A habit he had recently developed.

He turned in place as he wiped his glasses of the remaining droplets, then placed them back on his nose to see a pearly white, translucent figure hovering in front of him.

"Hello Myrtle." Harry croaked.

"You're going to drown if you keep that up." Myrtle said in an oddly hopeful voice as a greeting.

Harry simply shrugged as he took his usual spot on the floor, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He honestly didn't think he or anyone else would care if he did. A tiny place in the back of his mind protested that thought, as it had all the others like it before, but it was growing softer and fainter each time.

"How was your day?" Myrtle asked as she floated down to his side. He glared at her, and she shrugged unapologetically.

"The usual. Horrible." He answered.

"Mmm." Myrtle murmured sympathetically, wrapping an arm around Harry's shoulder. He barely flinched at the rush of icy cold. He had gotten used to Myrtle's touch; it was the only thing he felt anymore.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No." Flat. To the point, with no room for arguing.

"Ron?" The only word Myrtle needed to say.

" . . . Yes." He whispered.

Out of everything that had happened, it was Ron's betrayal that hurt the most. His best friend for over 3 years, his first friend . . . Gone. No, not gone. Even worse than gone. A traitor.

Ron was the very first person he had counted as a friend, the first person at Hogwarts to earn his trust. And in one moment, after years of friendship, after all they had been through, Ron had thrown it all back in his face. For all it hurt, it may as well have been a punch to the gut. That's what it felt like to Harry; a swift hard pain that left him breathless and was agonizingly slow to fade.

"What did the prat do this time?" Myrtle removed her arm from his shoulders and crossed them over her chest, a scowl just visible on her face.

A flashback; two faces, different as night and day, wearing identical smirks. A tag team, taking turns landing hits until he was down and out.

"I don't want to talk about it." How could he talk about what he didn't understand? Was Ron's jealousy and newfound (or, not so newfound?) hatred of him so strong that he would employ "enemy of my enemy is my friend"? The same flashback; one face with red hair and freckles, the other blond and pale as deaths both smirking with victory. They should be enemies, yet they acted as allies.

"Well then, what do you want to talk about, Harry?"

"I don't know. I just didn't want to be anywhere else." Harry admitted. For the past few weeks, Moaning Myrtle's bathroom had been his safe haven. The only one who was ever there was Myrtle herself, so he could get away from the staring, the taunts, and the insults. And when he needed to talk about something, anything, Myrtle was always ready to lend an ear.

"I'm going to choose to be flattered by that." Myrtle commented.

"Sorry Myrtle. I didn't mean it like that. You know you're my best friend." Harry assured her.

Once he got past her trigger reaction of bursting into tears whenever she thought she was being insulted, Harry had found that Myrtle was a kind person. In turn Myrtle had learned from Harry not to take every comment so seriously.

"Thank you." Myrtle said in a self-satisfied manner, and she practically glowed.

Harry gave a sad little smile. At least he could make Myrtle happy. She seemed to be the only one. Everyone else glared at him when they passed in the corridors. His ears were assaulted with cruel remarks and teasing. Even his fellow Gryffindors were icy around him. All he had left from this stupid Triwizard Tournament was Sirius, Hermione, and Myrtle. Without them . . . He had nobody . . . He was nobody. If it weren't for those three people, Harry didn't think he would be able to keep going.

Harry walked into the bright room, filled with colorful things and other little boys and girls. It was his first day of kindergarten, and he was more excited than he had ever been in his life. Finally he would be able to talk to someone other than Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and Dudley. Maybe he would even make a friend!

He walked up to boy with light brown hair who was playing with blocks.

"Hello!" He chirped.

The boy looked up. "Hi! I'm Pier!" A toothy grin accompanied this proclamation.

Harry grinned. "I'm Harry!"

Pier's grin vanished. "'arry? 'arry Potter?"

"Yeah." Harry frowned. What was wrong with that?

"You're Du'ley's co'sin! He told me all 'bout you! You're a meanie an' a bad guy!" Pier said in a shrill voice that carried across the room, pointing a finger at Harry. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at them.

"What? No, no I'm not!" Harry protested.

"Du'ley said you were! He said that's why you don't have no friends! 'Cause you're mean, and no one likes you!"

"That's not true!" Harry shouted, clenching his small hands into fists.

A young woman, their new teacher, hurried over to the two boys, quickly kneeling and forcing them to move away from each other. She suggested they go do something else, away from each other. Pier immediately joined a group of boys playing with large clunky trucks. Harry wandered around, but no one accepted him into what they were doing. No one wanted to be around Harry Potter. They had heard all about him from Dudley.

Harry ended up staring at a picture book in a corner, all alone.

Harry could barely see as he ran through the corridors, his eyes blurred with tears. He stumbled, nearly tripping, but he caught himself in time and kept running. It was near curfew, but he didn't care. There was no way he could ever go back to Gryffindor Tower.

He burst into the bathroom, slamming the door open, then slamming it shut. His breath comes out in furious gasps and sputters as he throws his body against the door, then sinks to the floor.

"Harry?" Myrtle floated out of a stall and rushed to him. "Harry, what happened?"

"I - I - I got into - into a fight. With Hermione." Harry choked out.

"Cat girl?" Myrtle asked. Harry nodded frantically. "Hmph. I never liked her."

Harry didn't listen to Myrtle's declaration. His mind is still in the fight with Hermione. It was so stupid, so petty. Yet it evolved into something more, something terrible.

"I told you, Hermione, I'm fine!"

"You've been avoiding everyone for weeks, Harry! Where on earth are you going?"

"None of your business!"

"I thought I was your friend, Harry!"

"That doesn't mean you have to control me and hover over me every second."

"I'm just trying to help, to be there. But if you don't want me, then fine."

Hermione would hate him now, he knew it. Everyone did eventually. Even among wizards, he was a freak. And no one could ever care about a freak.

Harry hesitated as he padded down the hall toward the kitchen. A question had been bothering him, ever since school yesterday.

Summoning his courage, he pushed open the door to the kitchen to reveal his Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Uncle Vernon was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper and grumbling occasionally at a headline, and Aunt Petunia was hovering over the oven, something foul-smelling cooking on the stove top.

"'Unt 'tunia? U'cle Ver'on?" Harry said timidly.

"What is it, boy?" Uncle Vernon growled from behind his newspaper.

"Why - why don't you love me?" Harry whispered.

Everything froze. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon stiffened, and the air itself seemed to be holding its breath for a reaction.

Harry nervously continued, trying to explain his question. "At - at school yesterday, we read a story. 'Bout a fam'ly. And they all loved each other. So - why, why don't you love me?"

The world still seemed to be stuck in that moment, the only sound the boiling of whatever Aunt Petunia was cooking.

Then the world hit the fast forward button, then play.

Uncle Vernon put his paper down with a smack, and Harry jumped, scurrying back a step in fright.

"Listen here, boy. Despite what some may say, you are not a part of this family." Uncle Vernon rose out of his seat, towering over the little 6-year-old.

"Your mother and father were freaks. Strange and abnormal as anyone could be! You're just as freakish and wrong as they were, no doubt about it!" Vernon reached a meaty hand out towards Harry. Harry tried to run, but Vernon was too quick, and grabbed the back of his shirt, hoisting the small boy into the air.

"It's only out of the kindness of our hearts that we allow you to stay under this roof, and provide you with food and clothing!" Uncle Vernon stomped down the hall to the little cupboard under the stairs, throwing open the tiny door with a bang! Dudley Dursley watched from the landing, looking slightly frightened of his father.

"You're a freak! And nobody loves freaks!" Harry was tossed into the cupboard, landing roughly on his mattress. The door was shut with great force, and the tiny vent shut, condemning Harry to darkness.

Harry scooted into a corner, trying to make himself as small as possible, huddling in a ball. Tears slipped out from his oversized glasses and streamed down his face as he sniffled, trying not to make too much noise.

He was a freak. That was why he had no friends, no family. Uncle Vernon said he was a freak, so it must be true. That was why no one loved him, or even liked him. He was different. A freak. Wrong in every sense.

6-year-old Harry Potter cried himself to sleep that night.

Harry walked up the statute of the gargoyle. He had only been to this place twice before, both times in his second year. This was the entrance to the Headmaster's office.

As he stopped directly in front of the gargoyle, he realized he didn't know the password.

"Um, lemon drop?" That had been the password last time he was there. Unfortunately, it seemed that Dumbledore had changed it since then, as the gargoyle did not move. Of course.

"Um, hello. I need to see Professor Dumbledore, please. I don't know the password though. Could you let me in?"

The gargoyle stared blankly back, then Harry could have sworn it winked before moving aside to reveal a slowly twisting staircase.

"Thank you." He whispered as he passed the statute as stepped onto the staircase. The staircase twisted up and up until it came to rest in front of a wooden door with a knocker shaped like a griffin.

Harry wrapped his fingers around the cold metal and tapped it against the wood three times. He could hear the thuds echo inside the office.

"Come in." A soft, kind voice called. Harry turned a golden doorknob and pushed the wooden door open.

Albus Dumbledore looked up from his desk, where he was studying a piece of parchment. His face took on an expression of surprise as he saw who stood at the threshold of his office.

"Harry? It's nearly curfew. To what do I owe the pleasure of such a late visit?"

"I wanted to ask you something." Harry said softly. Professor Dumbledore gestured to a plush chair seated on the other side of his desk, and Harry took the seat gratefully.

"What is your question, Harry?"

"What - what exactly is a magically binding contract? What would happen if I didn't preform in the Triwizard Tournament?"

Dumbledore looked much older than he ever had at the moment. "A magically binding contract is just that. It binds the signer to the deed. If he does not follow through, the signer will lose their magic."

"Lose my magic?!" Harry cried.

"That is why I'm afraid you must compete in the tournament. I would not ask you to otherwise." Dumbledore said sadly.

Harry stood abruptly. "Thank you, Professor." He began to leave.

"Harry?"

Harry paused and turned around. "Yes, Professor?"

"Are you alright? You seem . . . Upset." This question was paired with a piercing stare over Dumbledore's glasses.

Harry's breath caught in his throat. What was he supposed to say? That he was fed up with everything, and everyone? That everyone hated him now, because he was a freak? No. Dumbledore wouldn't want to be burdened with Harry's troubles. No one wanted to be burdened with Harry.

"I'm fine, Professor. Just nervous about the Task."

Dumbledore didn't seem to believe him, but he let him leave the office.

"Mr. Potter?" The man behind the enormous wooden desk asked.

"Yes, sir." Harry nodded.

"Sit down." The man gestured to a wooden chair in front of him. Harry hesitantly sat.

"Do you know why I have asked you here, Mr. Potter?"

"No, sir." Harry said softly.

"I'm worried about you. Or, rather, your teacher is, and looking at your files, I am growing concerned as well."

"Concerned about what? Sir." Harry tacked on, trying to remain respectful.

"How do you feel about yourself, Harry?" The man avoided his question.

"Sir?"

"How do you feel about yourself? Do you like yourself? Are you satisfied with yourself?"

"I - I don't - I feel fine, sir." Harry stammered.

"That's not what I asked, Harry." The man stood up and moved to a window that let sunlight shine into the office.

"I know I will not be your guidance councillor for much longer, but I do care about you, Harry."

"Liar." Harry whispered in a tone he thought was too low for the man to hear. Unfortunately, he was wrong.

"What? Did you just say 'Liar'?"

Harry shrugged, his features not betraying the panic he felt at his blunder.

"Harry, why do you think I was lying?" The man asked, moving in between Harry and the desk, looking into Harry's eyes.

Harry tried to remain silent, to think of something to say other than the truth, but something about the man's stare compelled him to be truthful.

"No one cares about me. Why would you be any different?"

The man frowned. This was what he had been afraid of. Harry's teacher had come to him, asking him to talk to Harry. She had said that Harry seemed so lonely, and had no friends that she knew of. He had looked through Harry's file, and saw notes saying roughly the same thing each year.

"Harry, I'm sure that's not true." He tried to say.

"It is. I have no friends and my family hates me, because I'm a freak. Everyone hates me. I've stopped hoping for anything otherwise." Harry hung his head.

"What do you mean, a freak? You seem perfectly fine to me." The man asked, concerned by Harry's words.

"I - I don't know. But if everyone is so certain about it, it must be true." Harry stood. "I'd like to leave now."

"Harry -"

"Sir, I really want to leave."

The man didn't want to, but he let Harry Potter go.

Instead of going to Gryffindor Tower, Harry returned to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, where Myrtle waited.

"Well?" She asked.

"If I leave, I lose my magic." Harry said shortly. He sat down. "I can't leave, or I lose my magic and you, and where would I go anyway? I'll be a freak wherever. But Myrtle - I - I don't think I can do this much longer. Being hated. What's wrong with me?" He cried, turning desperate green eyes on Myrtle.

Myrtle didn't know what to say. She hugged him, and Harry shivered in her embrace.

"I can't leave. I can't do this whole tournament or deal with this anymore. No one loves me, except for you. I've lost Hermione and Ron, and Sirius hasn't written back in weeks. Has - has he forgotten about me? Was he only pretending to like me?" Harry grew hysterical. "I'm just a freak that everyone hates. Everyone. I'm a freak to Muggles. The only reason anyone in the Wizard World liked me was because I was The Boy Who Lived. Everything bad happens to me, though, which makes me a freak here. If I was dead, no one would care. In fact, things might be better. Voldemort would never target the people I care about if he came back, because I wouldn't be around. I wouldn't have to deal with the hatred if I were dead. I'd be free."

"Harry . . . " Myrtle sighed.

Harry laid in his cupboard, fingering a long shard of glass. He had overhead Uncle Vernon going on again on how much Harry had cost them, how they were practically saints for taking him in. How their lives would be so much better without him.

Harry ran his finger along the razer sharp edge of the glass. He wondered what it would be like if he just stabbed the shard into his chest, or his stomach, or used it to cut his throat. He would bleed out right there in the cupboard, and die, and go to Heaven. His family would be rid of him. No one at school would grieve; they may even throw a party. He would be in heaven with his mum and dad.

If he was dead, everything would be better.

This was the first of many thoughts of suicide.

Harry's thoughts of dying had decreased ever since coming to Hogwarts. At Hogwarts, he had friends and people who cared about him. People still hated him, but he had friends that cared about him, and he couldn't bear to cause them pain by freeing himself.

But now, he was all alone again.

"Myrtle . . . I want to die." He whispered. Saying it felt almost powerful, and a weight seemed to lift from his chest. The truth shall set you free.

"I want to die." He said louder, in an almost testing way, seeing how they settled in the air and in his ears.

"Harry . . . " Myrtle repeated.

"I can't do it anymore, Myrtle. I just can't. I'm sorry."

Myrtle sighed. "I understand."

"Could - could you do me a favor?"

"Anything, Harry."

"Can you get me a quill and parchment?"

Myrtle nodded, and vanished.

Harry sat patiently, looking around the bathroom, trying absorb every detail. Now that he had finally decided to do it, he felt light. None of the hated could hang on him anymore. He was about to leave, for good.

Myrtle returned, clutching a quill, ink well, and roll of parchment. "Take it. Hurry."

Harry hastily grabbed the items and set them on the floor. He unscrewed the lid to the ink well, and dipped the quill in the ink. He smiled. Green. His favorite color.

He began to write in his messy scrawl a final message to the world.

"There. I'm done." Harry laid the quill down and replaced the cap on the ink well. "Can you take this to the Headmaster's office when I'm dead?"

Myrtle nodded.

"Thank you." Harry rose from the floor, and walked across the room to the faucets, Myrtle following closely behind. He ran his fingers on each of the taps, until he came across the one with a tiny snake etched into the side.

"Open." He hissed, taking a step back as the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets was revealed.

"May I come?" Myrtle asked.

Harry shot her a sad smile. "Of course."

He jumped down the pipe.

It took a few minutes, but he finally came to a bumpy stop at the bottom of the pipe. He had landed in a familiar tunnel, littered with tiny skeletons of small animals that had been unfortunate enough to be victims of the basilisk.

Myrtle appeared beside him, and without a word, they walked down the dark tunnel, Harry's footsteps and the crunch of bones echoing all around them.

They came across the site of the cave in, but Harry was now decent enough with magic to concentrate Reducto spells, and clear himself a path.

Finally, they came to a large round door. The final door.

"Open." Harry hissed once more, and the door obeyed, slowly creaking open. Harry stepped through, and entered the Chamber of Secrets.

It was just as he remembered it. The Chamber was filled with statues, carvings, and pictures of snakes. Columns held up the roof, and pools rested on either side of a walkway that lead to a statue of Salazar Slytherin. Lying on the ground was an enormous skeleton, clearly once a great beast.

It was ironic, in a way, that Harry would use the remains of a beast that had tried to kill him to do the deed.

He approached the skeleton, kneeling before the large skull, still full of razor sharp fangs.

"Myrtle, this is what killed you." He whispered to the ghost.

The girl hovered over the skeleton, examining it from every angle.

"Hmm. Well, at least it was a cool way to go out. Death by basilisk." She put on a sense of bravado, but Harry could tell she was rattled by meeting the tool of her murder.

Harry reached out a hand, and grabbed a fang. He tugged, and after moments of resistance, felt it loosen, then pop out of the skull and into his hands.

He finally had it. A way to end his pain, to end the hatred. He gripped the fang tightly, and turned his gaze to Myrtle.

"Goodbye, Myrtle." He whispered.

"Goodbye, Harry. I'll never forget you."

Harry shifted his grip, lifted his arm, and plunged the fang into his heart.

Ron woke, and immediately cast his eyes to the bed besides his own. Empty still, with no indication that anyone had slept in it. He stood and placed a hand on the sheets. Cold. Harry had not come back to the tower last night.

Ron may have been fighting with Harry, but he was still worried about him. No matter how angry and at odds he was with Harry, he was still his best friend, and he didn't want him to be hurt.

Ron returned to his own bed and got dressed in a hurry. Maybe Harry was at the Great Hall.

He descended the stairs quickly, making his way to the ground floor and entering the Great Hall. He scanned the Gryffindor table, but did not see Harry sitting anywhere along it. He looked around the rest of the Hall as well, but Harry was not anywhere to be seen.

But Hermione was, reading an insanely thick book.

He walked to the table and sat across from her. "Have you seen Harry?"

Hermione looked up from her book and shot him a dirty look. "Why do you care? If I recall, you don't want anything to do with him."

"He didn't come to bed last night."

Hermione's expression turned to one of shock. "What?"

"He wasn't there when I went to bed, and there was no sign that he had come in at anytime during the night."

"Oh, dear." Hermione bit her lip, a worried look filling her eyes. "I - I haven't seen him since yesterday. We - we had a fight, and he left the common room."

"Hypocrite." Ron murmured.

"Hey! For your information, our fight started because I was concerned about his well-being, and he was being extremely closed-mouthed about it. You, on the other hand, acted like a jealous part over something Harry has never wanted and never sought out." Hermione snapped hotly. "I am not a hypocrite."

Ron opened his mouth to respond, but any reply was drowned out by the sudden booming of a voice.

"ALL STUDENTS REPORT TO THE GREAT HALL IMMEDIATELY, AND DO NOT LEAVE UNTIL A TEACHER INFORMS YOU OTHERWISE. ALL TEACHERS REPORT TO THE STAFFROOM." Professor Dumbledore's voice bellowed into every corner of the school.

A second of silence followed this proclamation, before a buzzing of voices filled the Hall, rumors beginning to fly.

"Do you think this has anything to do with Harry?" Hermione asked, wringing her hands nervously as she watched Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbaton students begin to pour into the Hall.

"What could Harry have done to deserve a reaction this big?" Ron countered.

They found out an hour later.

The teachers filed into the Hall, walking down the center aisle before taking their positions in front of the staff table. They did not sit, instead standing in front of the table to face the students. Every single face was grim, and more than a few showed evidence of tears.

Albus Dumbledore gripped a roll of parchment in his hand as he stepped up to his podium.

"It is my deepest regrets, and with a sorrowful heart, that I must inform you that Harry Potter committed suicide last night."

Gasps and cries of disbelief came every corner of the Hall, and the air weighed heavy on every soul.

"NOOOOOOO!" Hermione and Ginny Weasley screamed in perfect sync, a cry that was echoed from dozens of other throats.

Shouts and gasps and yells began to fill the room, denying Dumbledore's words. Harry Potter could not be dead. He was the Boy Who Lived, a Triwizard Tournament champion. He could not be dead, certainly not by his own hand.

"Quiet." Dumbledore shouted, though not harshly. After a few moments, the noise died down, save the sounds of sniffles. Ron suddenly had two arms full of two crying females, while he himself stared numbly at Dumbledore in disbelief. No. No. His best friend could not be dead. No. He couldn't have killed himself.

"Harry Potter wrote a letter, and instructed the ghost Moaning Myrtle to deliver it to me. Myrtle refused to say anything on the matter other than that. I hold this letter in my hand now. Harry requested it be read allowed to you all, and so I shall do so, to honor his last wish."

Dumbledore unrolled the parchment, and began to read.

"Dear Hogwarts,

If you are hearing this letter, then by now I lie dead in the Chamber of Secrets. Yes, it really exists. The entrance is in Myrtle's bathroom, but the heir and I are the only ones who can get in.

Anyway, I'm dead. I'm sure you all are shocked, confused, and wondering why I would do such a horrible thing. Why on earth would the famous Boy Who Lived kill himself?

Well, this may come as a shock, but I am - was - not a happy person. My aunt and uncle hate me. They abused me, called me freak, and never showed an ounce of kindness to me. My cousin spread rumors about me when he was in preschool and I was locked up in the cupboard under the stairs, which served as my room until I was 11. Because of those rumors, no one wanted to be my friend. I was alone my entire life, hated by everyone around me and reminded everyday how much of a waste of space I was. How everyone's lives would be so much better if I had died with my parents. How no one would ever love me, because no one could love a freak.

I began thinking suicidal thoughts when I was 9. I had found a shard of glass in the street one day and pocketed it. Later that night, as I listened to my uncle go on about me, I thought about killing myself, freeing myself from the hate and freeing the space I was taking up with my uselessness.

I could never work up the courage to do it, and a couple years later, my Hogwarts letter came. After a fiasco I won't waste parchment explaining, I finally learned that I was a wizard, and I was taken to Diagon Alley and introduced to the Wizard World. I finally began to hope. Here I was no different from anyone else. Maybe I could make friends, find acceptance.

But then I learned of Voldemort, and my role in his downfall, and suddenly, I was a freak again. People stared at me wherever I went, whispered about me behind my back, treated me like an animal in a zoo who was rare enough to be marveled at and dumb enough to not understand. I hated it, but for the most part, it was friendly chatter, so I dealt with it.

Then I came to Hogwarts, and I made my very first friends, chief among them Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger."

By now, Hermione was sobbing at the top of her lungs, clinging to Ron's robes like her life depended on it, and tears were running down Ron's cheeks as well.

"The next three years were rough and dangerous at times, but they were the best three years of my life, because for once, people cared about me, something that was every bit as amazing as I had dreamed it was.

But then this year came, and someone entered me in the Triwizard Tournament. Yeah, that's right you jerks. I didn't enter myself. All I've ever wanted was to fit in and be expected, to find caring people. Why the Heck would I enter that tournament?!

Suddenly, everything fell apart. The entire school turned on me, even my best friend Ron. I couldn't get out of bed without being bombarded with hostile words. Everyone hated me again, and I fell back into my old mindset.

I found refuge with Myrtle, the ghost that haunts the abandoned bathroom on the first floor. She didn't judge, and listened to me when I needed to talk and left me alone when I just wanted some peace and quiet.

But that alone wasn't enough to keep me sane. I also relied heavily on Hermione's presence. Hermione cared about me, she had proven it over and over. If Hermione cared, then I had to hold on.

But earlier today, Hermione and I got into a fight, and I knew that she would hate me, just like everyone else. My uncle was right. I'm a freak, and nobody can love a freak. It just took the Wizard World longer to figure that out than the Muggle.

I can't deal with the hate any longer. I can't deal with words stabbing me like knives, or with scornful, loathing gazes piercing me. I can't deal with being me anymore. I have to escape.

And so, I venture into the Chamber of Secrets, and will kill myself with the fangs and venom of the basilisk remains that lie there. The world will be rid of Harry Potter.

Oh, one last thing before I go. The matter of Sirius Black. Sirius is innocent. He did not betray my parents. James and Sirius chose to switch Secretkeepers without telling anyone, to throw Voldemort off the scent. They choose another school friend, Peter Pettigrew. He was a spy, though, and betrayed them to Voldemort, later faking his death and framing Sirius.

Please, try to free my godfather, as a final request.

I finish my letter now, and give my final farewell to Hogwarts.

Sincerely,

Harry James Potter"

Dumbledore finished the letter. Several female students were crying loudly, while the majority of the Hall sat in stunned silence. Not even the Slytherins were capable of coming up with some degrading remark.

Hermione and Ginny were clutching Ron, and tears were falling unhindered down Ron's face. Professor McGonagall and Hagrid were crying as well, and Trelawney was sputtering out that she had seen the signs in her cards in between sobs.

Even the enchanted ceiling grew dark and clouded, actual rain falling on the students heads.

Hogwarts had lost one of its champions, and she grieved.

I . . . Am not sure what to say.

Suicide is never the answer. People care about you, no matter what anyone else may say or think. Please. If you feel suicidal, find someone, anyone, and talk to them. Please. I don't even know you, and I care about each and everyone of you. Don't do it.

Please review, tell me what you think.

Should I add a second chapter about Harry's funeral/the aftermath of his death?

Good morning, afternoon, and night,

Blue