I should never be given coffee, then be given depressing things to read and watch before bedtime. I woke up in the middle of the night and suddenly wrote this piece of crap. Here you go...

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Harry sat there, slumped against the door, eyes shut, breath coming in ragged gasps.

How could they!

How could they say those things to him? Say such... such lies?

"You stupid git! You think that we wouldn't notice, wouldn't put the pieces of the puzzle together? You had to have helped You-Know-Who, how else could all of this happen? How could Cedric have died so easily? How else could you have 'miraculously' escaped with only some scratches?"

Ron could be such a bloody prat sometimes, not thinking before he spoke. Not thinking about the harmful words spewing out of his mouth.

But worse, far worse, was that Hermione was backing him up. Albiet reluctantly, she said it herself, "It doesn't make logical sense Harry. You have to have had some help... And Sirius..."

He wasn't sure what hurt worse, the fact that she brought it up, or the fact that she blamed him for Sirius' death too. Blamed him for almost getting her killed.

And how could he argue?

I did get them both killed. I didn't respond fast enough to save Cedric. I wasn't strong enough to keep Wormtail away. I couldn't do much more than run away, like the coward I am. Sirius... I just waltzed right into that one, eh? No need to tell me twice about how badly I fucked that one up.

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, pushing against them until he saw colors and they started to ache. A sob almost escaped his throat, the tears behind his hands spilling over.

How did they expect him to go on like this?

To save their arses while convientiently friendless, probably getting himself killed in the process.

No one would care.

They all thought him crazy, all thought he was a dark wizard in training. He was even begining to think that Dumbledore was starting to turn against him after Sirius' death. It seemed that nothing was going to be alright.

This is what I get for living. I make it through ten years of hell, ten years of abuse. Never being told how I was special, never being told I was loved. Never having a friend, never having anyone but myself. That's all there ever has been I guess... Just me.

Then I met these people, and for a while, it was good. Then things started to fall apart. After Cedric... I guess I took them for granted, pushed them away. I guess in my mind it was a way to try to protect them. But in reality, it just started to really push them away.

People whispering in the halls... Whispering wherever I go.

No one supports me, hell, even Neville and Ginny are starting to turn against me.

I would have excpected that Ginny would have understood. The feeling of being touched by a truely mad, evil...

"What is evil? Evil is a point of view... Voldemort thinks that he's doing something to better the world. I doubt he thinks himself entirely 'evil'. Just like he probably thinks that I am evil. That I, the one who opposes him, just like he opposes me... That I am evil."

He pulled his hands from his eyes, revelling in the afterimage effect he had created.

"And maybe, maybe I am."

He pulled himself up, brushing off his robes, thoughts whirling through his head like owls swooping for prey.

"And if they say I am evil, that I am bad, does that make it so? Or am I just opposing their point of view? "

He wandered over to his bed, sitting on the edge. He held out his hands, staring at them.

"'If you cut me, do I not bleed?' Don't we bleed the same? Why can't they understand that I am just like them? Well, maybe not just, I don't think that they have a connection with a madman through a fucking silly scar on their foreheads. I sincerely doubt that they understand what it is that they're doing. Do they know how cruel... How despicable...? Do they even care? Did they ever care?"

He trailed off, sighing. Tomorrow was another day, and tonight he lacked the appetite to go eat with those cruel children.

Petty.

That's what they are, petty fools. Jealous and at the same time scared. They see something different, and they want it to conform to their nice, neat little standards.

He laid out on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He could feel the saddness, that ball of ache sitting in his chest. But he could push past it for now.

He would survive.

No matter what they said, he could get past it.

He just had to keep his head up, and not get angry.

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It was a week later, and all he could feel was that ache in his chest. That buning behing his eyes, his cheeks. He had cresent moons in his palms from clenching his fists so hard.

But he had done it. One week down. Four months to go until the end of the school year.

He could do it.

He didn't need to feel, didn't need to breathe. The ache in his chest stole his every heartbeat, his every breath, every feeling.

And he was so tired... So very tired.

Apparently the madman was still sane enough to tourture him, sending him terrible dreams, filled with tortures, deaths, disturbing images that haunted him long after he awoke.

And nothing he did seemed to make it stop. Nothing he did could keep Voldemort out of his head. He tried the Occlumency, he practiced every chance he got. He tried to ask Snape, of all things, to tutor him. He was scorned, sneered at and told that he was hopeless, and that he should just give it up now.

If only Snape had to see these things... Not that he didn't ever see them, he just didn't have to watch them all night, every night.

Harry didn't even scream anymore. He couldn't.

He had blocked himself off, stopped trying to tell them. Stopped trying to tell himself that these were horrible crimes. He tried to think of other things, tried to simply accept that he could not help the people in his dreams.

They were already dead.

Lucky sodding bastards.

He had stopped even speaking to people in the halls, at meals. He didn't speak much in class, but it wasn't a problem. No one talked to him anyways.

He knew that soon, whether he cracked under the pressure or not, someone was going to notice his odd behavior.

He was smiling, even when there was nothing to smile about.

He would sometimes freeze in the middle of the hallway, or a class.

He would get visions, or would remember something horrible that happened to this person's relative, or that person's family.

Hannah Abbot's mother, raped in front of him (so to speak).

Pansy Parkinson's parents Crucio'd for hours, she herself being beaten for "impudence".

He always tried to be nicer to her after that... If only out of a respect for her pain threshold...

He would be ignored in some classes, and the center of ridicule in others.

Potions was the worst... Snape and the Slytherins hating him quite vocally. With help from his fellow Gryffindors of couse. It just wouldn't be a good day until he was reviled by everyone, enimies or former friends.

At this point, he couldn't tell the difference.

He laughed, a foriegn sound. The third years in the Gryffindor common room stared in horror just before breaking out into frantic whispers.

He laughed because he was starting to see it, starting to see why someone could want to kill an entire race of people.

Why anyone would kill anyone.

Why someone could, would kill themselves.

And it was funny only because he was turning into what they thought he was. He was a creature of their own making. They thought he was crazy, and he was.

They thought he was evil, and he was.

They thought he should have died instead of the others that had been killed. People he had never even met. They blamed the deaths on Harry.

And so he would. He would die just like they thought he should.

The only thing to think about was how...

He stopped, cocking his head thoughtfully.

He would have to find Voldemort, would have to find hs weakness... Or maybe he should research this proophecy a bit more...

After all, nothing in life is free, nothing so simple as death should be free either.

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Harry sat at the desk in the library quietly pouring over the parchments in front of him. He had written out the prophecy, and was trying to decipher it, trying to make sense of what it said.

"And neither shall live while the other survives..,"

Neither shall live while the other survives... So niether he nor Voledmort could live while the other was alive... No... He had no clue really...

He sighed and crumpled up the parchment. Maybe he should just leave a note saying "Well, you treated me like shit, so have a nice time dealing with the lunatic by yourselves." Move to the Bahamas, or to Mexico... Somewhere warm.

He thew the wadded up parchment into his bag, standing up and stretching. His stomache took this time to growl loudly, attesting to his lack of meals in the past 48 hours.

Well, I have to suck it up sometime and just eat with them. After all, how bad can it be? I know, dangerous question...

He started the long walk form the library to the Great Hall.

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There was a second of silence as he entered the Great Hall, and then the dull roar of whispered conversations and of those not-so-whispered accusations.

"Look at Potter, finnaly feels like he can stoop to our level and eat with us."

Malfoy... Harry wished he could tell the little bastard about the plan that Voldemort had to frame Lucious for another man's crime... Not the favored family anymore, eh?

Harry just looked at Malfoy, eyes blank, a vague smile present on his face. A smile that said "I'm not as sad as you think I should be".

"Look at Potter, just walking around like he owns the place."

"Malfoy, shut it."

Three words, three small words, and the entire school seemed to side with Draco Malfoy.

"Leave Potter, no one wants to move so that your majesty can sit upon his throne. "

"No one wants you here."

Harry just stopped dead in the center of the Hall. His head down so his bangs would hide his eyes.

Hide the anger, the humiliation, the hurt.

The tears.

"...Okay."

Whispers...

"Okay."

More whispers... What was he doing?

"Allright. No one wants me here? No one wants the beloved saviour of your arses to sit at the dinner table with them? Fine. Find someone else. I quit. I forfeit my title. I hereby don't GIVE A FUCKING DAMN. If you want someone to be your scapegoat, find someone else. I'm sick of this. I'm sick of the lies. Sick of the whispers. Sick of being hated. I'm sick to death of watching people die, watching people being tortured. Not that anyone believes that I see this stuff. No, you all believe that I somehow dissapperate into Voldemort's lair and dissembowl people for shits and giggles. Which, just to tell you, I don't."

He looked all around the Hall, looked at the faces watching him in disturbing fascination.

He pulled something from inside of his robes sending several people to grab their wands. He held out a knife, wickedly sharp looking.

"See this? It's a knife. It would hurt you. It could even kill you. And guess what? I'm human too. It can hurt me, even kill me too."

He moved quickly, pulling the knife deeply and quickly against his forearm.

Ruby blood gushed from the wound, even as several people gasped and screamed. He grinned.

Teachers were running down the aisle, trying to get to him.

He shouted, "SEE! SEE HOW I BLEED? JUST LIKE ANY ONE OF YOU!"

He pulled the knife against the other arm, revelling in the slight euphoria of bloodloss.

Lost in the sounds of screaming in his ears, lost within himself.

He could feel Voldemort in his head, trying to figure out Harry's mind. Trying to understand why, what?

Harry sat down heavily on the floor, staring at the enchanted ceiling. It was dusk, the stars just begining to peek through.

Voldemort, wherever you are in here, know this... You're going to die too... I can feel it. Can you? You can't live without me... Just like I wouldn't be able to live without you...

It was silent in his little world, his little bubble of existance.

"Ring around the rosies... Pocket full of posies... Ashes, Ashes..."

A deep, stuggling breath. His eyes seeming stuck to the image of the stars on the enchanted ceiling. He tore them away, laughing as he finished the old nursery rhyme.

"We all fall down..."

He could see the teachers in front of him, banging at the invisible barrier that he had unconciously erected.

This was his choice damnit, and for once he was going to go through with something HE wanted to do.

"'M sorry Ron, 'Mione. Sorry Everyone... I didn't mean to ruin your dinner... Keep eating... I'll just be leaving now."

He stood up, wobbling form side to side, barely able to stand.

He sighed, feeling his eyes close without his permission.

"He's dead you know... Voldemort's dead... 'Neither can live while the other survives...'"

He smiled as he heard their gasps...

"Damnit... I saved you didn't I? I didn't mean to. I meant for you to have to deal with the bastard alone... But fuck. Whatever."

The bubble of silence gave way to a deep, desperate roar, and a scream, heard only in his head as HE died. Several of the Slytherin group, all of which he knew were Death Eaters, and even Snape all fell to the floor, holding tightly to their arms, the Dark Mark burning brightly one last time. Like a star, flaring in it's final moments, before winking out of existance forever.

Snape's face was the only one Harry could see. When had he fallen down? He couldn't hear more than faint screams. He could only see the bright red of his blood seeeping out across the floor of the Great Hall. And Snape's face, on his level as the burning Dark Mark incapacitated him.

And Snape finally understood.

Understood that while he had shunned the boy, had ridiculed and hated him for things that he had and had not done... He had done this. He had killed this boy. Not only him, but every person in their world.

They had killed their only chance of redemption. And now that Voldemort was dead, they may be safe from him, but never from the atrocity that they had commited. They had foolishly sent this boy, this young, untrained boy, to fight their battles. Every battle that they had, every death that had happened at the hands of the Dark Lord...

Snape himself had witnessed (and committed) many murders at the hands of Voldemort. But this boy had come to him for help, because (as he could see now when it was too late) he had witnessed EVERY crme commited by the madman.

Every death, every torture, every spell.

He cried. Silent tears coursed down his face as he looked into those eyes, their vibrant emeraled dulled to a soft jade.

Dead.

How could they?

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R+R please?