More than a little tired By Candledot

Lying in his bed that night, Harry couldn't quite believe his incredible circumstances, and that once again he had been returned to the living hell known as Number 4 Privet Drive. Not that he didn't deserve it, not that it wasn't better than what he had done to Cedric, not that it wasn't better than the danger that he would have put any of his friends families into had he stayed with them. That was what he did not want, to be responsible for more deaths, more tortures, more pain..

Pain. The physical or the emotional, which hurt more, which drove him crazier? Today, it seemed that if it was a race between the two, they were neck in neck, and he wasn't sure which would win out. It would be far easier to just end it all, and he thought about it regularly. Ha-ha! What a fucking joke! The Boy-Who-Lived.. If only they knew, in reality, The Boy- Who-Wished-to-Die! Perfect Pussy Potter, the boy who everyone envied, the boy who had it all together, who would save the world single-handedly, the living bespectacled Messiah to the wizarding masses. Did these people ever actually listen to themselves? How realistic was it that all 135 lbs and 5 and a half feet of height could bring down the second greatest madman of all time!! Did the Muggles send a little girl to take down Hitler? What a crock of crap - he was only 16 bloody years old, and as confused about life as the rest of his classmates in his year!

Sighing as he rolled over to look out his barren yet barred window, he wondered if he had the guts to do what he wanted, or would he buckle to their pressure once again, go with the flow, eyes down and submissive, following his destiny and losing his soul along the way? Or should he just ensure that he had no soul left to go where he wanted, finish it all, leave the upcoming war to someone who was better equipped both physically and mentally, someone strong, tough and calculating. Someone older and more logical, someone who would stand up to a drunken fat man and let him have it, rather than take it noiselessly, pathetically, not being quick or strong enough to fight back, not having the wits about him to run like hell or hide.

He was getting more than a little tired of the expectations and other crap that constantly got downloaded onto him. sick of being what people wanted him to be, would he ever get the chance to find his true self? He was no saint, as everyone thought he was, and his inner Slytherin was as strong and virile as his outer Gryffindor..

Everyone has all of the four houses within them, though some traits are stronger than others. 'No wonder the sorting hat had been confused,' he spoke aloud, now that he lay in his bed fingering a razor blade. He came from practically nothing, and then was thrown into a world where he was famous, and had a vault full of gold, literally, and could have any fuckin thing that he wanted. 'Unbelievable isn't it?' he said to himself. 'It's ridiculous, all this because someone else messed up a curse and didn't kill him. Normally, doesn't society in general make a big deal out of those who've died? 'It all seemed pretty mundane to Harry, he was pretty sure that 99% of the population continued living and breathing everyday, and who really gave a shit about them? Just because he had a goddamned scar running down the center (of all places) of his face, it became a big deal.

If only they knew of all the other scars, the better and bigger ones, the ones that didn't heal, and the other ones that he didn't allow to heal. They wouldn't think he was so special and magical then, would they? Ah, the joys of privacy and concealing charms, it made life so easy. He wondered how Muggles did it and got away with it.

There are some things which were only for him to know, and that was exactly the way he liked it. Snape had almost seen something once, in Potions, when Harry had shown up early for class, after a particularly nightmare ridden night. On those nights, when he felt as if the world was on his shoulders, and that everyone was leaning on him and he was crumbling, he would creep out of the dorm, head down to the boys lavatory and let his inner pain escape. He wasn't sure why he always went for his arms, particularly his left forearm, and his overly-large Dudley shirts and robes were an advantage in keeping private such matters. On that one morning though, he had been angry enough to have cut a little deeper and harder than intended. one of the lines hadn't stopped bleeding, even after breakfast (which he had skipped, again). He had been muttering a quick clotting charm on it for the third time when Snape had entered the classroom from his private chambers. Fortunately for Harry, Snape had flung the door open, and he'd gotten the sleeve down before the dark professor could scrutinize it further. Harry had looked him in the eyes, daring the greasy man to question him on his actions, yet Snape had, amazingly, said nothing. It had been more than a little disquieting, and Harry was far more careful after that.

He shuddered at the memory. The idea of getting caught by his supposed enemy: the humiliation of it all, having to try to explain, the possibility of Veritaserum being administered, having to answer Dumbledore's bloody questions 'til his head spun. the looks of pity (Pity!), concern, Slytherin's mocking him. He'd rather have Vernon pound on him nightly than have to deal with that. As it was, it appeared that the later was becoming a trend. According to Vernon, it all had to do with Harry being, apparently, the sole reason why the Grunning's Drill Company was close to going out of business. In retrospect, Harry couldn't understand why he HADN'T thought of cursing Vernon's business. it would have been a lot more fun that way, and then at least he would have really deserved the beatings which occurred in this room at night. Running his finger down the length of the blade, he wondered again, this time aloud 'Should I just give up or live up to these expectations?'

Hedwig fluttered her wings in response, and on impulse, Harry rose carefully from the bed, opened her cage, and willed the bars on the window to widen, allowing her to leave for the rest of the night. He stroked her affectionately one more time, murmured to her about how she had never expected much from him, and watched her fly off into the night sky.