A Very Pissed off and Angry Harry Potter
Harry Potter was lying on his bed in the smallest bedroom, number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, looking up at his ceiling emotionlessly. One thought swirled in his head.
It's my entire fault.
It's my fault Sirius is dead. It's my fault Cedric's dead. I never asked for all this! Why is it always me? Why? Why? Why?
I hate Dumbledore for telling me the prophecy now, hiring incompetent DADA professors, messing my life up, trying to manipulate me, and pretending to be such a nice old coot. Although I shouldn't be so angry now that he's gone. Like Sirius. I hate Snape for torturing me every year. I hate Umbridge for trying to use the Cruciatus on me, sending dementors to me, and giving me detention all the time. I hate Fudge for discrediting me and being such a bumbling idiot. I hate Voldemort for murdering my parents and trying to kill me almost every year. I hate Malfoy for being such an insufferable son of a bitch. But most of all, I hate Weasel (Ron) and Bushy Beaver (Hermione). They never understood me, always too busy with themselves, trying to boss other people around, and definitely showing off.
I want revenge. But who will pay?
All of them. They will realize that they cannot manipulate me like other people. They will all pay.
Harry Potter opened his eyes and laughed. A cold, heartless laugh that chilled the Order members outside his window to their very bones.
They would all pay!