The words became ingrained into Harry's very soul each year he spent with the Dursleys. Even Hogwarts' welcoming arms did little to dispel the darkness gathering around his heart. How could it? No one saw him as he really was. Dumbledore saw him as his "golden boy." The students saw him as the boy who lived, some sort of miraculous savior that could wave his wand and chase off the darkest of specters, the Dark Lord Himself.

Only Snape saw him as he truly was. Oh, Harry snapped back like was expected, puffed up with anger, shouted at the man once or twice. But deep down, he felt a quiet sense of contentment. Here was a man who knew. Who knew what a worthless, pathetic freak he was. Who knew that the Dursleys were right about him. Who knew that he should have died that night with his parents.

So each night before he went to sleep, whether he was at Hogwarts or at the Dursleys, Harry would whisper a thank you to Professor Snape. Thank you for ensuring I remember my place, he would say under his breath, honest gratitude underlying the words. He would remember the word burned into his back by Uncle Vernon when he was thirteen. "Freak." It was nothing more or less than the truth.

When Voldemort was finally defeated, at the beginning of Harry's seventh year, all he could feel was empty. The halls filled with silence when he passed the jubilant students, the sort of silence filled with awe, respect, wonder. Nothing he actually deserved. It made him feel sick to his stomach. He turned away from their whispers, their adulant gazes. For weeks, he spent all of his spare time in the dungeons. Snape, at least, had not changed. Oh, outwardly, he had a bit. A little more respect in those sibilant harsh tones. But Harry knew it was only an act. That Snape still knew. Despite this "accomplishment," the freak lived on.

But not for much longer. Harry's lips curved into a weary smile as he climbed the steps to the Astronomy Tower. It was mind-numbingly cold at the top, an icy wind blowing around the eaves. But then how could it not, it was the first day of Christmas break.

He'd wanted to stay at Hogwarts. Ron and Hermione had tried to argue with him, but he merely said that he'd rather be by himself this holiday break and they'd finally, reluctantly agreed. Letters addressed to them were stacked neatly on his bedside table. Hopefully, they'd actually get to read them.

Harry sat down at the edge, dangling his feet over. The wind threatened to topple him, but he refused to let it. That wasn't at all what he had in mind for his death. For that, he retrieved a knife from his cloak pocket. It was a six-inch hunting knife, one he'd picked up in a Muggle shop before returning for his final year. He'd had an inkling then that it would all be over with, sooner rather than later. And he'd been right.

Undoing his cloak clasp to let it fall carelessly to the stones behind him, Harry pushed up both of his shirt sleeves, revealing the white skin beneath, already goose-pimpled with cold and criss-crossed with old, faded scars already--relics of his time spent with the Dursleys.

"One for Voldemort," he said aloud and drew the knife down his left arm in one quick slash. Blood welled up in thick red drops. The chill in the air was such that he barely felt the sting.

"One for the Dursleys," Harry forced himself to continue, making a parallel slash down his left arm. His body was already starting to go a bit weak--he'd cut deeper than he'd realized he could, and he smiled weakly at the thought. At least there was something he couldn't muck up, right?

"One for Snape," he said, and switched arms. It was hard to hold the knife in his blood-slicked left hand, but he managed. This slash was even deeper. "For always knowing the truth about me."

"One for Harry," this mark was sluggish, shallower than the others, and he hissed in disappointment. "One for the freak," he said and let the knife drop off the edge of the Astronomy Tower, lost to darkness, wind, and a few faint flurries of snow.

Harry slid backward, falling into the soft tangle of his cloak. Blood spilled onto his face, still surprisingly warm. He flicked his tongue out to taste it. It was surprisingly metallic. He'd almost thought it would taste evil...evil like he was. Like he had to be.

"Potter!" a shout filled his ears and he frowned in confusion. No. Damn it, no, no one was supposed to find him. Not yet. There was still a chance he could be saved.

He looked up and saw Snape's face looming above him and did the man look scared? Worried? Harry tried to reassure the Potions professor that it was okay, he was just taking care of his freakishness, his worthlessness, but the words wouldn't come.

"I will not let you die, Potter," Snape's voice filled his ears even as something clamped around both arms, and Harry surrendered to the darkness encroaching upon his vision.