I don't own Harry Potter. Interestingly enough, though, I did, in fact, invent the internet, the computer, and the printing press.
Rated for language and mentions of suicide and self-harm... sorry younger/sensitive peeps!
Something makes me keep living. I'm not sure what it is; Merlin knows I've thought about ending it all enough times.
Maybe it's some fucked up sense of duty. This world is the only one that's ever shown me any kind of caring. I can't just let it die – for that's surely what would happen to it if I did, if Dumbledore's to be believed.
And why should I believe him? He's lied to me so many times.
"You're father was a good man," "He was always fair", "Noble, noble"; bullshit. I saw Snape's pensieve.
Sure, I know he was only fifteen.
I'm fifteen. I've never bullied anyone.
On the contrary, really. I was always the one bullied. I know the other side of the torment; and there's nothing noble about it. It's cruel, sadistic. Perhaps not physical torture, what he did, at least most of the time, but mental scars can be far, far worse.
Perhaps I can't die because I'm afraid to face my parents in… wherever you go after death. I'm afraid they won't be what I imagined.
Well, I'm already pretty sure James Potter won't be the way
everyone described him, but what about my mother?
No one ever tells me about my mother, except for the fact that I have her eyes.
Sure I do… what's the point? Lots of people have their mother's eyes, and no one makes such a stink about it with them. What are they hiding? What do they really mean?
Perhaps because I'm the Boy-Who-Lived. I'm not allowed to kill myself; then I'd be dead.
Kind of puts a damper on the whole "lived" thing, huh?
In any case, I'm not able to just dig the knife a little deeper, spill a little more blood. I can't "accidentally" fall off my broom. I can't jump off the Astronomy Tower.
Maybe Dumbledore put a spell on me. Maybe the Prophecy's coming into play. Maybe I'm a coward.
Oh, that's rich, isn't it? The Boy-Who-Lived, "Golden Boy of Gryffindor", afraid. I've faced Voldemort more times that I care to count, and pushed him back almost every time. I've faced down Dementors, lived with my Aunt and Uncle, gone into fucking battle, and I'm not even sixteen yet.
I'm not even allowed to be in the army.
So much for the precious Boy-Who-Lived's childhood, no? Too bad. No one ever let me have a childhood anyway. Sent to the Dursley's, so I would be safe? What kind of safe family makes their children cook them meals before they're four? What kind of safe family starves their children when they accidentally do something wrong? What kind of safe family ridicules their children for getting good grades?
That was no childhood.
And then Hogwarts. My first real home.
The first year there I killed a man. Not intentionally, of course, but his blood is still on my hands. My first kill.
I was eleven.
I almost died then. I've almost died a lot of times.
Perhaps I'm just not capable of dying. I couldn't even get that right. I was only one year old when I fucked it up the first time, and I've only got worse at it since then.
Five times I've almost died.
Five times, I've failed.
God, I wish I could die.