Diclaimer: Don't own.

Warnings: Angsty and very dark.

A/N: I wrote this because, well Harry is so full of angst it's actually very sad. Plus it keeps my angst muse happy.

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No one understands. They think they do, when in truth no one actually does. They can pretend they do and I will go ahead and pretend right along with them. Inside however I know it's all a lie.

Lies to help protect them as much as to protect me from them. No one understands. What can I really do? I can not go to them and tell them of the burning desire I have to kill everyone who has ever had a hand in making my existence wretched, miserable a living hell.

I cannot tell them how I want to make hose people suffer at my hands. How I want to watch them scream in agony as they slowly die. How want to see their faces twist in agony and pain, a physical pain that will never measure up or come close to reflecting the emotional pain I feel. But I can not tell anyone.

No that would only frighten them. That would make them see my real feelings and I refuse to let them see that part of me. For as much as I want to tell my friends my real feelings I can not.

My friends right along with anyone who has ever known or heard of me, expect me to feel hurt and angry for having lost so much in my life. What they don't expect is for me to have the burning feeling of revenge that dwells rooted in my heart and soul and threatens to destroy me from the inside. Those thoughts I can never reveal to anyone.

No that is not what is expected of me. I am everyone's hope I am suppose and expected to be the pure hearted one. I am expected to feel the need to bring justice against the ones who have wronged me. Justice however is not what I feel, for I am sure that revenge and justice are two completely different things, yet so easily mistaken for the other.

How it would shock them if they only knew truth. The boy who lived I am them. The boy who carries out justice and rights the wrong. The boy who smiles through the hardships. The boy who has hope and gives hope to others. That is what I am to them.

What can I do? Let them believe?. Of course after all, who am I to shatter the false image they have of me? Who am I to tell them the truth? No one. Just the boy who lived. With feelings I know no one would ever understand

I have few friends and even less people who I can truly trust. If my friends ever knew of this darkness this loathing I feel growing inside of me day by day. They would not understand. They would not accept that from me. And as much as I want to tell them I can not. For the simple fact I cannot bare to loose them, I could not bare them look at me with fear.

My friends though understand so little of me, are all I have left. They are the only light that shines and fights off the hatred that threatens to consume every fiber of my being. They are the only ones who keep me sane. Though it hurts, I've accepted the fact they don't understand. How can they when they've never know what it feels like to have every hope taken slowly from you.

They've never known what it feels like to not be able to trust. To see everyone as an enemy. To feel everyone is plotting against you. They will never have that paranoia. And I am glad, because their optimism on life is the only thing that keeps the paranoia at bay and keeps me half sane.

As long as they are there for me I will keep on letting them have their false image of me. The image of the boy who lived. That is what who I am. Who am I to deny them that? No one. I am just. Harry no I am Harry Potter the boy who lived.

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