a/n: please leave a comment! sorry for the long wait between updates, i only every update whenever an idea strikes me, which isn't often. anyway, go read my new fics! i have a harry x salazar slytherin fic i'm really happy with !!1 it's called "a thosuand splendid suns."

Harry Potter tries to kill himself first on Halloween, the anniversary of his parents' deaths, when he is age eleven. He'd kept asking Madame Pomfrey for pain potions, complaining of a headache or back pain or whatever, and hadn't been taking them. He's instead been collecting like, like they're trinkets. He thinks of these potions as something special, and in a way they are, not because of their physical composition -- they are, after all, run of the mill pain potions -- but because of what they mean to him:

A way out.

Harry carries a heavy briefcase with him out of the commonroom, the sound of it clinking with each step too loud for comfort. He's on edge. He doesn't know what'll happen if he gets caught, doesn't know how he'll possibly explain this briefcase full of potions and this dead look in his eyes in a manner that will let him walk away.

So he moves slowly but with a swift efficiency along the castle floor. He knows where he's going for this, where he's going to kill himself. He'd been thinking about it for quite some time. He's spent his evenings in Astronomy thinking this is a good, remote place; this is a beautiful place; they will not find my body until morning.

Beautiful. Beautiful, really, is the simplicity of it. He loves being up here, watching the stars, charting them. It is perhaps the best place to die in, this beautiful space in which he once enjoyed living.

If it was up to him, he'd kill himself in the same house his parents died in. He wants things to come full circle. He was supposed to die then and he didn't. It would've been so much simpler if he died then, but he didn't. And so here we are. And so Harry Potter will die on the steps of the Astronomy Tower, his second best bet.

He makes it to the Tower without incident. It is the dead of night now and the sounds of the night follow him. He sits at the top floor of the Tower, revealed to open air. He looks up at the stars.

When he looks back down, there is a man sitting across from him. He sits on the ledge, so close to falling over with the way that he's leaning. So dangerous. He is quite literally living on the edge.

"I'm sorry to bother you," sputters Harry, clutching the briefcase lightly. He points behind him, toward the door in which he entered. "I'll just be on my way, if you'll excuse me--"

"It's not going to work," says the figure.

Harry blinks. His blood runs cold and he feels chills coil on his arms. "What?" he says, startled.

But the figure is gone and Harry is alone again.

He considers the figure's words, the doubt of them. Harry wants this to succeed. More than he has wanted anything to do with living, more than he wanted parents to rescue him, more than he wanted to come to Hogwarts -- more than that, he wants to die.

He thinks about Ron and Hermione. The festivities of the day, the way that everyone celebrated the defeat of the Dark Lord and the way Harry sludged through each celebration because today is the anniversary of the Dark Lord, but it is also the day Harry's parents died. Ron and Hermione kept asking him what was wrong, and though Harry tried to tell them, he just quite couldn't. It's like there is something lodged in his chest, keeping all his feelings stuck to him, impossible to talk about.

He likes Ron and Hermione. They're kind and loving and everything a boy could ask for. He thinks he likes Ron in the way that men usually like women and that he would like to let this small, childhood crush flourish into something lovely, into something more. But they're not the problem. Harry is; Harry is the problem. He thinks that they might miss him, when he dies. He prays it is not too much.

He sets down his briefcase, the warning from the mysterious stranger slipping in one ear and out the other. This will work, he tells himself. He won't be found up here until morning, until it's already too late.

He sits down below the stars and begins gulping down potions, slowly at first, like he's hesitant, and then with an indescribable urgency and speed.

He lies against the ground whenever he's done, letting out a sigh of relief. He sets two hands over his stomach, which is deeply upset and also full. He lets his eyes flutter close as the awful sensation begins to sneak up on him. As four am nears, the first seizure begins, and the Astronomy Professor opens the door to her Tower.

Harry Potter wakes in the morning with IVs in his arms and the foul taste of vomit in his mouth. Madame Pomfrey is fussing around him and as she explains his state to him, it is all it takes for him not to break down crying.

"I failed," he states blankly, interrupting Madame Pomfrey.

"No more pain potions for you," she says, shaking her head. "Yes, Mister Potter, you failed. The psych eval team will be coming in a little while, and your present gaurdians have been contacted -- but I cannot help but ask, Harry... why did you try to kill yourself?"

He doesn't say anything. How can he explain it, this undeniable pull toward death? It's like there's something living in him that hates him being alive. This thing has been there all his life; it's only just now consumed him. He remembers being eight, seven, six years old and something wrong happening and him thinking this wouldn't be happening if I was dead.

He's sent off to a psychiatric facility, which Harry didn't even know wizards had, for a week and a half and when he returns, he does so with dread. Everyone has heard the story by now, the one of Professor Sinistra opening her classroom door to find the one and only Harry Potter convulsing and throwing up, surrounded by empty potion vials. Everyone is whispering to one another haven't you heard? The Boy Who Lived tried to die! Suicide! Suicide!

Harry thinks that suicide is an ugly word.

Ron and Hermione don't know how to act around him. Harry's sure they've never had a friend try to kill themselves before, never had someone who flirted with death. They're young. This isn't supposed to happen, not to children, not to Harry Freaking Potter, of all people.

"Are you okay?" asks Ron, nearly all the time. And Harry says, "Yeah. I'm okay," even when he isn't because Ron is eleven years old and far too young to know even how to comfort Harry, let alone deal with the guilt of failing. No. Harry has dealt with his problems for years on his own and he will continue to do so.

Ron and Hermione do their best to make the worse days a little better and sometimes, just being around them helps. Things do get better. He never thought things would be okay, and they still sort of aren't, but existing every day no longer feels like it's forced. He has things to look forward to.

He forgets about the figure that haunted him during his suicide attempt. He will remember it later, much, much later. But for now, it is forgotten.

After the incident in the Chamber in Harry's second year, he sits with Ron in the infirmary. "You saved my sister's life," he says, in awe.

But only barely, thinks Harry. "I almost died," he admits. "But I wasn't afraid. I was able to stop Voldemort and save Ginny. I was not afraid to die."

Ron's gaze darkens a bit and he bites his lip, looking away. "It's been over a year since you tried to kill yourself," he says, and perhaps a person with more tact wouldn't bring it up, but this is Ron Weasley, the furthest thing form tactful. "Do you still think about it?"

Harry considers how to answer this. "Sometimes," he says. "But I think about other things now, also."

"You didn't before?"

"No. My mind was always... morbid. But I have you now," and he can't help the way he smiles, "and Hermione, and Quidditch. And I think everything's going to be okay."

"Do you?"

"Yeah. I do." He takes Ron's hand in his own. "I want to ask you something."

Ron smiles slightly -- he knows where this is going, where this has been headed for quite some time. "Okay," he says. "Ask away."

"Will you go out with me?"

Ron squeezes his hand tighter and says, "Okay," and Harry thinks, with the day saved and his best friend by his side, that everything is going to be okay.

The summer before third year: an absolute crash. He's just blown up Marge and is on the run and he thinks there is a monster living within me and now that monster wants him dead. Even after the Minister of Magic pardons him, he can't help but think about what type of kid blows up their Aunt, even if their Aunt deserves to be dead as much he does.

And that is a new thought, that he deserves to die. It had been before mostly that he needs to be dead, that things would be so much easier if he was. Now he considers himself the way one might consider a severe criminal; deserving of the death punishment.

He tries to kill himself at the Burrow this time. He thinks the fact that he's doing this at another person's house, a house that is full of children, makes him even worse, even more deserving of the punishment he is administering himself.

He steals a bottle of Benadryl from Mr. Weasley's collection of Muggle artifacts and downs it outside, by the garden. He thinks all the while that this is right. Just.

He sees the figure again, and only now does he remember it for what it was before, and its strange message. Harry is already feeling queasy.

"Not quite," says the figure, and it is gone by the time Ron arrives, for it is Ron who finds him, sent out to the garden to clear out the gnomes. He is horrified and drags him into the Burrow, calling for help.

Harry wakes up in St. Mungos. This time, he doesn't cry. It is like all his tears have dried up. When a reporter visits his bedside, asking after the reason for his new state, Harry sews his mouth shut and doesn't speak, not to her, not to anyone, for the entire day. And a day turns into a week, a week of silence. It's a purification of sorts, he thinks.

Dumbledore visits him. Says that Sirius Black is on the loose and after him, what the Minister refused to tell him earlier. He is... worried. "Maybe long term help is the solution," offers Dumbledore. "There are some great places in Northern Europe I know of.:

Harry doesn't speak, but his face gives away the impression that he's not all that happy with that idea.

Dumbledore ducks his head and says as he's leaving, "We will speak more about it later." Speak. Right. Harry feels like he will commit himself to silence forever, like he doesn't deserve to speak.

Ron and Hermione visit him before he's sent off to the ward for a second year. Hermione tells him about the happenstance of the world, tells him that Hogwarts is already started and about the new Defense Professor, as well as the news on Sirius Black. Harry listens. Harry says nothing.

Eventually, Hermione bids him well and leaves so it is just him and on. "You said you weren't thinking about it as much," says Ron, and it's nearly an accusation.

It hurts. So Harry speaks in a croaking tone. "You don't know what it's like, to have to return to them each summer."

Ron grips Harry's hand. "So tell me."

Harry closes his eyes. Harry tells him.

It is Harry's fifth year. Dolores Umrbdige is a bitch; Sirius Black is an amazing godfather except for his tendency to try and live vicariously through him; Harry Potter is having the worst depressive episode of his life.

"You always seem preoccupied," says Ron one evening.

"I'm sorry," says Harry. He has a lot on his mind -- mostly death, the upcoming OWLS, Voldemort's return.

"No, don't apologize. I know it is not your fault. It's just your mind is always somewhere else. I don't know how to drag you out of your own head." Ron sighs heavily.

Harry confesses, because Ron deserves to know: "I've spent my life flirting with death. I keep thinking about it."

Ron cups Harry's cheek with his hand. "If you keep thinking about it, it's going to happen." His voice breaks.

"I know," says Harry. He doesn't know what else to do. How can he explain that his heart is in love with the concept of not having to exist? "I'm sorry."

Ron ducks his head into the nook of Harry's shoulder and cries. Harry cries too. It is so awful to hurt the ones you love when you're only trying to hurt yourself.

The evening after Sirius Black dies: Harry Potter is possessed by grief. Once an idea gets into his head, it is really impossible to get it out unless he acts upon it. Like with the Bendyal, and with the pain potions.

Now he remembers the Astronomy Tower and thinks that he was half right there.

He wanders the halls of this school in a daze. He knows this time, it will work. It will not matter if he is found before morning strikes. It won't matter if he's caught on his way tot he Tower -- he has a detached sense of obsession about him, and he will fight, kick, and scream his way onto the top of that Tower. Nobody will stand in his way.

Dumbledore invites him to talk with him, and Harry knows he really should go... but he's good. He really is.

Harry spends one last evening with Ron and Hermione.

Ron must be able to tell something's wrong, because he catches him before they go off to bed. "If you ever need to talk, Harry," says Ron, and he says it like he means it. "I'm here. So's Hermione. We're here for you. Okay?"

Harry smiles and it is a little too bright. "Okay," he says. "I love you."

Ron frowns deeply. "I love you, too. And that's why I want you safe. Please, tell me you'll be safe tonight?"

Harry places a heavy hand on Ron's shoulder. "I'll be safe," he promises, softly. "Why wouldn't I be safe?"

Ron does not pull away, but it's a near thing, like he really wants to. "Because you've said that many times before," he says, lowly, "and each time has been a lie."

Harry grabs Ron's chin in his hand, making him face him. "Don't tell me you're growing tired of me," he says, playfully.

But Ron is no mood to be playful. "I'm not. I'm just... trying to keep you safe." Harry supposes it is hard loving someone who does not want to be alive, who is always trying to end their life. It must be hard, constantly being lied to.

It is harder to be alive.

So Harry smiles, pecks him on the cheek, and promises to be safe. Says that if there is ever anything wrong, Ron will be the first to know.

Harry lies in his four poster bed, surrounded by the sleeping sounds of his companions, listening to their snoring like it is a melody. He rises and moves when he is sure he's the only one awake.

He takes the Marauder's Map with him and avoids those in the hall. He watches Dumbledore pace the length of his office. Do you know what's happening? he thinks. Do you know what I'm about to do?

Does it matter?

He makes it to the top of the Tower without incident. He stands on the ledge, swallowed by stars, and takes one great breath of air. This place is not his home. He has never had a home. His heart has always, always been with death.

Death, who is standing behind him now.

Death's been with him, Harry realizes, his whole long life; Harry has been ever infatuated with him.

Harry steps away from the ledge, not for good, only for the moment, and into Death's open arms. He feels like he is betraying Ron by doing this, but everything from this point on... it does not matter. Nothing matters.

So Harry falls into Death's slow dance. He waits until he can take Harry's soul too. When he is finally released, when the dance is over, Harry steps off the ledge of the Astronomy Tower. He is one with the stars.