Bitter

He had barely moved from his position on his bed in… what was it now? Hours? Days? He really didn't care anymore. What did it matter? The world would keep on turning even if he wasn't out trying to save the world from Voldemort. Everyone would get on like they normally did, trying to live their lives routinely with the fear of war hanging over their heads. But what did it matter to him right now? For him the war was over before it was started. He was to defeat Voldemort? Hell, they had already lost then. Any motive for winning the war that was inside of him had died, just like his godfather. Sirius was dead. Why bother fighting? For all the people who had believed that he was an insane psychotic teenager who needed to be locked up in St. Mugo's mental ward with Neville's parents? Or for Fudge and his team of assholes who were probably deatheaters? The same Ministry who had once condemned his godfather to twelve years of hell? Or maybe for Dumbledore, who had done the same thing to him, just less of a hell then Sirius had to go through.

Why should he fight? Why should he go out and kill off Voldemort for ungrateful bastards who hadn't even believed that the man who had killed his parents was even alive? Well, was he alive? He wasn't dead. He wasn't going to die. Nothing Dumbledore said would change that. Nothing Harry did would change that. Let him do what he wants to do. Nothing mattered anymore. Everything sucked, and nothing that happened could really change that. He would never get his godfather back. Nothing could bring back the dead. Nothing…

"Boy! Get your lazy ass off that bed and do something!" His Uncle yelled. He didn't bother to elaborate. He did it every morning when he was going down the stairs for breakfast before work. Every morning he would find Harry sitting in the middle of his bed, and he would bark at him to do something. Harry would look at him blankly, or he would glare back at him. Today he was feeling particularly creative and gave him the finger. His Uncle would then turn purple and look menacing until Harry stood up and walked out of the room indifferently to go eat breakfast. He knew his Uncle wouldn't do anything to him. What could he do? Punish him? Hit him? He wasn't afraid to get hit. In a sadistic sort of way, he kind of wanted his Uncle to attack him. That way he had a plausible excuse for beating the crap out of someone. He dared someone to cross that line, almost wanting it. He knew he couldn't just beat someone mercilessly unless he was provoked, but sometimes he wondered what was stopping him from doing it. He wasn't afraid of the consequences, but somewhere deep down, he had the smallest bit of self-resistance left in him, ready to snap at any moment.

He stalked down the stairs, ready to verbally assault anyone who wanted to get in his way. He needed that outlet. It was literally the only reason he was still sane… he could snap at his cousin, or glare meaningfully at his Aunt. He really didn't care if they got 'sick of his nonsense'. They could throw him out for all he cared. In fact, he wished they would. If he got thrown out, then someone would come collect him, and let him live somewhere else where he would have someone who was being annoyingly nice to him to bitch at.

Despite the Orders wishes, Harry would only send a letter once a week. At first, he had resentfully sent letters every three days, but once he didn't send a letter for four days, and no one seemed to notice. The next letter was sent after five days, and again, Harry wasn't berated for it. He settled on sending a letter every seven days, and no body said anything about it.

At first, the letters consisted of three pages of 'How are you doing Harry?' 'Are you holding up all right?' 'How are the Muggles treating you?' 'Don't worry about what's happening here, we're just extremely busy.' Ron, Hermione, Lupin, Tonks, or Mrs. Weasley usually wrote him the letters, but he liked it best when it was someone he didn't know very well, or not at all. That way it was impersonal, and difficult questions of how he was doing were avoided.

At first, he made an attempt to sound almost cheerful. He would write a page long letter that usually took him a day to write, as it was difficult to make up half-truths that didn't sound like he was completely lying. After two page long letters, he cut it down to just the basics, 'I'm fine. Dursleys are treating me okay' and other stuff like that. This weeks letter consisted of 'I'm still alive. Doing okay. Talk to you later.'

But the Order never read the real letters he was writing. Just to be spiteful, he would write four page letters about how he was really doing. 'When I do sleep, it's very rare. Sleep without dreams that send me back to consciousness screaming almost never happens. I look like someone gave me two black eyes from sleep deprivation and any weight that I've gained over the years at Hogwarts has all but disappeared. I have to force myself to eat, though I don't know why I bother. I wish Remus hadn't stopped me from rushing through the veil after Sirius. I think that it would have been a better alternative to the hell my summer is right now.' Harry reread the letters with a smirk on his face. He found the whole thing cruelly funny. Sometimes when he had his wits about him, he would find things he had written kind of sick, but those where few times.

He had to stop himself from 'accidentally' sending one of those letters, just to see what the order would do. He expected a letter back three days later saying, 'Glad your summer isn't too bad, keep up your good spirits.' He really wondered if people read his letters. It wasn't that he wanted attention. He knew at some point they would come for him. But bitterness was aimed at anybody these days. Anybody cheerful… in good spirits? He glared at them viciously. They had no right being happy while Sirius was dead. When he was dead… on the inside.

He ate his meal in silence. What was there to say that didn't invoke yelling, and cursing? What was the point in getting his Uncle all riled up over stupid crap. "Boy, you're going outside today. I don't want to hear any protests. Go to the park, or go run around the track for a bit. God knows you need the exercise. You look like a toothpick, and I don't need those annoying little prats like you breaking down our doors because you blend in with our walls."

"Oh shut the hell up Dursley. If anyone needs exercise around here, it's you, fatso. You and your wall of a son here, though I figure if he started running around the track, he might cause a friggin earthquake. And your wife over here who looks anorexic because you two fat asses eat everything in the house. You can't talk about looking like shit."

"Boy. I have one word to say to you. Run!" Harry stayed seated as his Uncle rose from his seat looking menacing. Harry didn't flinch.

"Go ahead oh high and mighty uncle. Hit me. Go ahead." He taunted. A beefy arm swung towards him, but he merely stood up, dodging the fist. Uncle Vernon lunged toward hi, but he merely dodged his arm again. When the next one came, Harry met it with his hand, then twisted it so that it was twisted to the point where tendons where being stretched to the point where pain was exceptional.

With a cry of pain, he saw the frantic fist fly towards him as his Uncles arm was pulled forcefully from his hand. His uncle's fist met its target: his nose, though he made no sound of protest as blood poured from it.

There was crack like sound coming from behind him, and, as he assumed, an order member had apparated to the house. "Dursley! We warned you!"

Authors notes: All right. That was a bit short, I know. Now, I'm not sure if anyone has taken this angle before. I have read quite a few 6th years fics, and they're all pretty much 'Harry turning into an emotional sap, and finding comfort from his friends/Remus Lupin'. This is just my opinion of how I probably would have reacted had I been Harry, and had just lost the only decent parental figure I'd ever known. Probably a bit off the mark, I'm sure. *shrug* Who knows. Harry was pretty bitter throughout his fifth year. Well, flame if you wanna. If you like it, please let me know. I'll start writing the next chapter if I get more positive reviews then negative… if I get them at all.