Harry's Time Alone, a harry potter fanfic

Hi, I'm Harry.

I mean my name is Harry, and since you are reading this you probably know me better as Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, The-Chosen-One. You've previously read my story in the books written about me, or at least I hope you have, cause I don't have time to fill you in on my back-story. I don't even know why I am bothering to write anything, but I feel compelled to speak my mind before this place takes it from me.

If you know me from the movies, I'm afraid you really don't know me. That person and his life were created for you. I cannot be captured on celluloid or by digital wizardry. I was born and live in the mind of the reader. Created from a sprinkling of descriptive details.

I must thank the moviemakers for casting a somewhat stunted, awkward, average boy to play my part, because that's what I really am.

My nature and beliefs you know from the tales that the author has told. You may think you know me intimately. Bullshit!

That's Harry Potter, and to me he is one of the biggest twats I know. So as not to confuse you any further I will refer to myself by my given name, Harry.

Harry Potter and I are two totally different people. I expect the author never spent too much time as an adolescent male, so I forgive her. I became separated from Harry Potter while he was in the process of dying from Basilisk venom. Although I can recall being self-aware before that, those memories are blurred.

There was growing conflict between the Harry Potter who plodded along, content with his scripted life and the part that wanted a say in his own future. This was the point at which I realised I was not Harry Potter.

Of course it took me longer to figure out that he was just a fictional character, living out a life where he had no real choices. Where free will is as real as Dumbledore's eloquent speech about how it is the choices that we make, that make us who we are. I swear that man was on drugs most of the time.

My chronological age is seventeen, but I have experienced a great deal more time here, in this derelict castle called Hogwarts, my prison, my personal Hades, the mechanics of which I have learn the hard way.

Have you ever wondered what happens to the characters in a book, when the book ends, or when they are not involved in the action? They go into storage, a huge warehouse-type building that floats just above the forbidden forest. I can't really describe the outside. It looks like it has a strong disillusionment charm on it. You wound never notice it, but once you did, it was one of those things that you could not un-notice. Its outlines shimmer just beyond perception, I guess that's because it's really not meant to be seen, but more about that later.

Imagine the mind-fuck it is for a twelve year old to come face to face with himself, only to get slammed, face first against a granite wall, and then have his legs kicked out from under him by one of his supposed, fictional best friends. My advice to you is stay away from the characters when they are not in storage. They will walk straight through you, or worse. On second thoughts, do what the fuck you want. The chances that you are a self-aware fictional character are pretty slim. Or maybe not. In fact I am pretty sure you would have to be, to be able to find this.

I still bear the scars of that first encounter with the trio. Madam Pomfree was of no use simply because she was nowhere to be found.

As I made my way to the infirmary, a searing pain in my skull and blood splattered over my face and robes from deep gashes in my forehead and right cheek, no one seemed to notice me. The brave Gryffindor in me fought against the rising panic, the panic was winning. Panic one – Gryffindor zero

I was hurt and couldn't heal myself. Why wasn't anyone there to help? This must be another Harry Potter nightmare, so I waited with a towel pressed to my face, knees to my chest, I waited -- and waited.

Intense sounds of activity could be heard within the castle, then deathly silence. After yet more waiting I did something very un-Harry-Potter-like. I let the fear and confusion that was pooling inside of me erupt into a flow of stinging shameful tears. And so started my nine-year slide to where I am now, and to what I have become.

It's confusing, Harry Potter was born on July 31st 1980, that would make me twenty-seven this year, but that's not the case. Harry Potter came into existence on the 30th June 1997. (Thank you very much Bloomsbury books!) And was approaching his eleventh birthday. Ten years later he will be approaching his seventeenth birthday and I have been self-aware for nine of those years.

I am very different from Harry Potter. I think I have developed a level of emotional maturity that he will never attain. I have lived more years than he has. I have had most of that time to think. Sure there is lots of despair in my thinking, and a smile or two, but for him, he has grown up through a story where he's seen only a sprinkling of love and very little intimacy. For Merlin's sake, until the author decided he was old enough, none of the older characters held hands or stole kisses. Book five comes along and he has the flutters for Cho which he completely screws up then comes book six and they're all snogging like, I donno, things that snog a lot.

I don't have to worry about love or intimacy, unless it is me loving me or me being intimate with me. Yes I am better than Harry Potter. And not half the prat he is.

I started wanking not long after I became self-aware. Not to any particular fantasy but just because it felt good and took my mind off of things. The feelings I was experiencing were confusing, and at times I felt ill equipped to deal with them. I even went as far as summoning Mrs. Weasley during the third book to talk about this stuff. Big mistake, I got the whole lecture about characters not having these feelings and that I should not even think about kissing a girl until I was of age. Then she was all, oh Harry dear, so nice to see you. Are you hungry? I could fix you something to eat. Bla bla bla...

I walked away from that encounter feeling guilty, as if I were doing something wrong. Note to author: Please include a bit of sex education early in the story, it would make things a lot simpler for the one in a million fictional characters that become self aware, unless I am unique, which, after nine years I think I must be. But still you could have done it for me.

Most characters can be like Molly Weasley, they are not good at things that haven't been specifically written or maybe it has something to do with the degree to which the author has created them in their own mind.

Neville is adorable and so is Luna, although she was never used until book five. They are both tons of fun to be around. I sometimes wonder if Harry made the right choice of friends with Ron and Hermoine. They seriously lack a cheerful side.

Once you call a character from storage they can see and interact with you. This discovery was welcomed. The thought of never being able to interact with another living soul was something that used to keep me awake nights. One of the drawbacks to the process, was once you send them back they forget everything.

How to get them in and out of storage is one thing I will keep to myself. That is one experience best self-inflicted.

I used to recall a small group for longer periods during the gaps between books, which fortunately was perpetual summer till the next book was published. Every time I had to explain the whole situation to them. I did get pretty good at explaining it in terms that they would understand. Ron is about as thick as a plank and would take most things at face value. Hermoine rambles on forever, trying to convince me that I didn't exist. I mean, give me Luna and Neville any day.

What does any of this have to do with my wanking or my loneliness now? Maybe it doesn't, perhaps I am just thinking out loud.

When I became aware of myself I also knew the entire story through to the end of the current book, so I spent a lot of time just being where the action was, observing or just trying to enjoy it all. God forbid the author write something like two weeks later, and then I was stuck by myself for two weeks. I also knew the end of the book was approaching and was becoming anxious. This was a line drawn in the sand separating the known from the unknown.

What would happen after the end of the book? I could sense that there were more books to come but my survival beyond this book was a new boundary for me to cross, another mystery to figure out. I was twelve and resilient, so I adapted. I was also terrified that last day of book two. Would I just vanish? Maybe that option would have been a blessing.

On that last day I traveled to Kings Cross with the rest of the students and then it ended. Big frigging anti-climax. Poof everyone just vanished leaving me alone in an empty world. Fortunately the floos still worked and after a eerie trek through deserted muggle London I managed to get to the Leaky Cauldron and from there back to Hogsmead.

And that is why I wank so much, to relieve tension, to keep fear at bay, to fill the empty days, and all of those excuses, and more. It is also extremely habit forming and pleasurable.

I have done many things to make life more bearable. I found a safe place to live, far away from the characters. The entrance, a spiral staircase in the bowels of the dungeons, past the Slytherin dorms and Snape's quarters, down a series of uneven steps, and past several disused classrooms. Here no torches burn to fend off the darkness, darkness so thick that it clings to your very clothes.

At the end of this corridor which turns sharply to the left, you will find an alcove on the right that leads to this spiral staircase, It's size would surely slow Crab or Goyle down. Descend this and you will be in the center of a large circular common room with seven doorways leading to the dorms. This is the center of my world, though you have obviously figured this out by your mere presence.

I suspect this was where the author first planned to stick the Slytherins. There are several places like this, they seem to have been fully created in the authors mind but never used, stores in Hogsmead and Diagon Alley, structures on the castle grounds. I have probably not found them all, but my interest in these turned to apathy by the end of book four.

The time between book four and book five I had a plan. I would recall Molly and Arthur to take care of us and the Twins, Ron, Hermoine, Neville and Luna for some fun. This was the summer of my introduction to Firewhisky. The Twins' fault of course, and we soon had to send Molly and Arthur back. They definitely did not approve. So we were left alone to do as we pleased, and do we did.

It is interesting how some characters react when the realise nothing that they do matters. Hermoine turned into a right slapper after a few drinks. She and Ron moved through the snogging phase as if it wasn't even necessary and right on to shagging like bunnies phase.

Right there in the midst of our drinking sessions. No shame whatsoever, the rest of us just turned our backs on them and continued. From the sneaked glances Neville was giving them, and the way he was acting, I suspect he came almost as often as they did. Funny the things that a little Firewhisky will do to you.

I had never felt any sexual desire towards the characters. Call it the honourable Gryffindor in me, or maybe when they're around I can only view them as glorified, animated manikins. In my eyes they were just a poor substitute for the real thing. Lower even than wanking, so wank I do.

Luna and the Twins seemed devoid of sexual urges, and found their pleasure in just being entertaining. Luna showed me something once that explained her perfectly. To me it looked like a tiny dragonfly in amber but she swore it was a baby amorstfly. She explained at length that it was these, her father had assured her, that were responsible for uncontrolled lust. Once bitten the victims had no control over their carnal desires. Her amulet warded them off. I smiled and nodded thinking how wonderful it was to have something to believe in.

I was just disgusted with Harry Potter's best friends behaviour. Once Hermoine got pregnant that was it, I sent them back. When drinking is involved they stay in storage, which nowadays, is a regular occurrence.

Where do the characters go when they are not involved in the timeline of the book? Well that was a painful discovery. Not painful in the emotional or psychological sense. Painful as in the I-flew-my-broom-head-on-into-it, sense. This happened early in the third year.

Once notice could not be un-noticed.

Although I was knocked off my broom in the collision I managed to hang on to the bristle, slowing me just enough so I didn't break anything important as I tumbled through the lush foliage of the forbidden forest.

I was lucky in other respects as well; I was flying slowly and paying attention, not my usual seat-of-the-pants, look-I'm-a-natural, type of flying.

When I became self-aware I was virtually a squib and I had to relearn my magic. Actually more like exercising it. It was as if it had atrophied away, leaving it weak and practically ineffective. Oh! Unlike Harry Potter, I am left-handed. Another mind-fuck.

Flying was the hardest to regain, after weeks of flying low and erratically my confidence picked up and I ventured higher and became more adventurous.

Now I had found something in the sky and my interest were painfully aroused. My cock was already aroused before the collision. Flying does that to me. Oh hell, sometimes even breathing does that to me, but now I had found something not belonging to this world. The only rewards boredom offers are in her absence. I had found myself a new distraction, an adventure.

Although I'm not as easily defined as Harry Potter, I find his Slytherin, Gryffindor mix interesting. Why is he one of the few characters to defy the house stereotypes, and couldn't he benefit from a bit of Hufflepuff good humour? Unlike him I am the sum of many parts. Most of my daemons are self-created, not simple manifestations of being locked in a cupboard and never being held. Get over it already, Harry Potter!

Excuse my ramblings, or blame it on the Firewhisky. I don't rightly give a toss.

I dusted myself off and waited for the bleeding to stop. A few more scars to add to my collection. I have learned some basic healing spells, but unless it is life threatening I leave it alone. The pain somehow comforts me. Broom between legs, friction in groin, I ascended slowly towards my new distraction.

Tiny wisps of its form betrayed its existence, a giant monolith lying on its back. The wall I hit was fifty feet wide and thirty feet tall. The structure extended back over the forbidden forest for hundreds of feet, definitely too big to be a bird and too small to be God.

Flying very slowly, parallel to where I could sense the front wall I extended my right hand and it brushed against smooth corrugated steel. Then nothing. My hand vanished, then my arm. I unconscionably veered through the entrance, my broom fell from under me and I had yet another falling-down moment. What awaited me when I stood up was different, to say the least.

Along both walls, as far as I could see were my friends, my enemies, my past and my future.

My parents were there, my mother, yes, with my eyes, so beautiful and so peaceful, frozen in time. If only I could bring them to me. What I wouldn't give for a hug and some comforting words or guidance from this woman who gave me life, then gave her life for me. She gave love to me in abundance, so the story goes.

Doubt levered its way into my thoughts. Maybe just as I didn't like Harry Potter and his direction, she would also disappoint me. What about my father?

In this place, magic seems to have no meaning. I tried casting a few spells, nothing happened. In the haunting silence I walked the three levels, recognizing people here and there but most were featureless, much like many of the magical creatures stored there, the extras, those who lived on the periphery of the story. It brought home to me how insignificant most of the characters really were in a story that contained thousands.

There was nothing I could find, that would allow me to release the characters at will. Sure they vanished of their own accord when called for in the story and returned just as soon as their appearance was complete, no curtain call required.

If I could find a way, would they be the same. Not able to see me or interact with me, or would it be different. The frustration was torture and I took to spending hours sitting cross-legged in front of my parents telling them the stories of my life and my desires.

At first, I must admit, I was a bit embarrassed talking about many of the things on my mind, but slowly I realised it didn't make any damn difference what I said and I started to unleash my misery, allowing myself to wallow in it. I truly wish I had been introduced to Firewhisky back then, it would have dulled the pain of what was to come.

That is the way it continued, day after day, talking to myself. What started as monologues turned to dialogues, some inside my head, some outside, interspersed with futile attempts to dislodge them from the pedestals on which they stood.

In those few weeks I came to know myself a lot better, and I must admit it dawned on me that I was way more fucked up that I had first imagined. There were still many remnants of Harry Potter in me that were at odds with who I knew I was.

I had just about run out of patience with this new game, when, quite accidentally I said the magic words. My mother was out of her cubicle, standing in front of me. My feeling of accomplishment was quickly destroyed, like some delicate insect being trodden underfoot. She was shrieking at the top of her voice, hurling profanities that I could never imagine crossing her lips, all aimed at me.

My callousness for getting her killed. Damning her to an eternity of reliving her death. She was relentless, the dancing silver flecks in her wide, staring emerald eyes, (My eyes.) exposed the insanity that lurked beneath.

Unable to get her back into her cubicle I grabbed my broom and fled. Even from the Quidditch pitch I could still hear her lunatic ranting. The logic in my brain was shot. I thought it would help her if I took my father out of storage. Instead of appearing up there, he was suddenly in front of me on the pitch. He blinked twice and then laid into me as well. With a flash of genius I whispered the words and brought my mother down to his side.

Bad move. As soon as their eyes met pure hatred erupted. Hands went to wands and hexes and shields were flying everywhere. They were good at it too. Damn good.

In its paralysis, watching James and Lilly duel, my brain reached for yet another pearl of wisdom. Bring Harry Potter down.

The duel was brutal and with all the stray hexes flying my way, I retreated a safe distance, back to the Quidditch stands, before calling Harry Potter down, and having enough foresight to relieve him of his wand before he could comprehend the scene.

Looking me over in his ever so smug way he calmly stated, "there seems to be something wrong with your Polyjuice potion. You're fat."

Already the cretin was pissing me off. So what if between books two and three I survived on Honeydukes candy and the odd ice cream. How dare he insult me. He is nothing but a cupboard raised, scrawny little runt.

Now I have a house elf to mother me, Gilgy is his name and he takes care of me between books, or whenever I need something extra. He is a sarcastic bastard though.

"Master Harry is a filthy pig."

"Master Harry is a disgrace."

"Master Harry smells funny."

"Master Harry is quite capable of scourgify himself after he wanks."

I guess it is because I am not a character so he doesn't have to be completely subservient; at least he does what I ask, I can live with the sarcasm and rudeness, it makes him more real. Fortunately he is not totally disrespectful like that damn Kretcher.

Back to Harry Potter. He did not seem to be too bothered by my looking like him. (A slightly more Dudley-esque version) He didn't even go mental when he saw his parents off in the distance. They had given up on dueling and were now in an all out fistfight. James' voice drifting across the pitch at that moment, "Fight like a man, Bitch!"

Harry Potter was doing what he always does; waiting for some turn of fate to rescue him from the situation he was in. His bravery clearly superceded by his stupidity.

"Potter are you not at all concerned that you are here talking to yourself while your parents beat each other to bloody pulps?" I venture to ask. This was not going how I expected.

His reply was brief, "No need to be. Its just a dream." and after a pause adds "They're dead already, anyway."

That was my first experience with just how dependant the characters are on the author to guide their thoughts and actions. This Harry Potter seemed to be the sum of his weaknesses and I was not keen on trying to reason with him. I had to figure out how to return these three to storage. Two who were screaming banshees, and one who was a mindless dick wad.

"Look Potter, this is no dream." I told him. Then kicked him square in the crotch. The look of shocked horror on his face as he fell to his knees, hands cupping his bruised balls, was priceless.

Time for action, I had only been in this world for about a year, so a lot of it was still new to me. Anger is one of the few emotions that wake me up. I mounted my broom and grabbed Harry Potter by the collar of his robes, dragging him into the air like a rag doll. Well bad analogy, lets just say, shrieking, flailing rag doll with very sore balls.

As I got closer to the storage locker I could both hear and feel the threads in his cloak giving and it was a close thing whether I got there with or without him in tow. Fate was with him and we both tumbled onto the floor of the storage locker when the magic in the broom expired.

He looked around the space and asked, "What is this place?"

I was still taken aback by his lack of concern. I could see from his spread leg stance that the wake up call to the balls registered, but the absence of anger or any other emotion was surreal.

"This..." I started, my thirteen-year-old mind trying to frame the word in such a way as to get a reaction, so I went with the truth. "is where you come from. You are Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, and you are the main character in a series of novels. This is where they keep you when you are not in the story. These," I gestured around the room to the other lifeless figures, "are the other characters in the books. Today is the first time I have figured out how to get anyone out of storage. Now I need to figure out how to get you and your parents back in, before they kill each other like jilted loves, and I kill you for being a stupid prick."

"Oh" he replies, "Why don't you just reverse whatever it is you did to get us out."

Just like that. Stating the obvious and perhaps logical thing to do. For Merlin's sake he is a Gryffindor he is not supposed to be logical. I cursed him under my breath. I wish I could just slap that smug look off his face, but grudgingly I admit to myself that he may be right, the urge to slap him growing stronger still.

On the third variations of the incantation, Lilly and James reappear in their cubicles in pristine condition.

"Not that difficult, was it?" he chimes in.

Slap him I do, full open hand slap on his right cheek followed by a powerful backhand to the left, bright crimson marks rising on his not so pretty face.

"Fuck you Harry Potter!" I shouted, then repeat the incantation to send him back as well.

My first major victory in this place and he made me feel like a failure, a fucking failure. If I disliked him before, now I would love to skin him alive. Bastard!

Broom between my legs I dove out of the locker and headed for the Broom shed. Once there I vented some of my frustrations on the door by blasting it off its hinges, and throwing my (Harry Potter's) broom carelessly inside and smashing my fist into the stone wall.

I have gradually learned that a little physical pain can derail an errant or upsetting train of thought. Not that I like pain, but when it is the lesser of two evils, I go with the pain. The thoughts in my mind mixed with the emptiness in my heart remained. Fist on stone wasn't working. My next resort was skull on stone.

Though I had never gone to this extreme before, I had enough sense to do it with just enough force to break the skin without breaking my skull in the process. Once the skin was broken the spikes of pain from raw nerves on stone lulled my mind into submission, then clarity.

Shite! my whole purpose of getting anyone out of storage was to find out how aware they were of their situation, and I had totally bollixed it with Harry Potter. I let him get to me and get me angry. Fuck it, he had done a Malfoy on me. There were answers I needed and I needed them now.

As soon as I was off my broom in the storage locker I recalled Harry Potter again. There was no need to disarm him and I would actually enjoy watching his magic fail him. His first words, wand drawn, were "you are bleeding on my face."

"Shut up Potter. This is a dream." I told him and before he could prattle off some other stupid comment. I continued. "When I talked to you just now I forgot to ask you what you can remember doing last. Before I came."

To my surprise he had no knowledge of having spoken to me before, and his last memory was inflating aunt Marge and escaping on the Knight bus. He could also remember other things from his past, things that were written in the story, but nothing in between.

When I asked him if he knew what would happen in the future he gave me a confused look and said that he was supposed to kill Voldemort but he had no idea when or how.

Satisfied that he really did not possess any awareness apart from what had already been written, and knowing he would forget when I sent him back. I left the storage locker a lot calmer, but still very disappointed that the characters were mere shells.

They were destined to become my playthings. Harry Potter himself would stay in storage most of the time. The fact that I wore his body would always complicate things.

During the remainder of book three and through book four I played with my new toys. Some like Malfoy, McMillan and Parkinson I terrorized and the ones that were good company, they I used as companions.

I was not happy but I was content for the time being. My hormones were raging, and my sexual fantasies became more extreme. After my introduction to Firewhisky and Hermoine the slut I slowly lost the need for companions, and found other ways to entertain myself.

They say that the Unforgivables drain the magic of the caster, and the more powerful the curse the longer it takes to recover. You bet they do, but the rush you get from casting them is amazing. So what if it takes you a few minutes before you can cast another. Your body is on fire with sensations, your reflexes heightened; you can literally taste the fragrances in the air. Your eyes take in details you never knew existed and you are so hyper-aware that you can predict the actions of others before they even know themselves what they are going to do. Maybe this is built into the magic of the Unforgivables, to allow your regular magic to be more effective while you wait to cast the next Unforgivable.

How would I know this?

Piss me off and you'll find out!

There are only three characters that I really would like dead, and these are Petunia, Dudley and of course that fat ass Vernon. Aunt Marge really is not worth it. I took great pleasure in torturing and killing all three of them, several times over. I had little use for the Imperious curse but honed my skills on Cruciatis and Avada Kedavra.

When you kill a character they automatically go back to storage, ready to be killed again. Killing does get routine after a while and though the high of the unforgivables is incredible, it is not addictive. Once again I needed more. And more I got.

Out of the blue I started getting glimpses of things relating to Harry Potter that were not part of the story, tons of information, and sometimes whole new worlds, I was hooked, I had inadvertently discovered fanfiction. The fifth book passed in a blur of sexual fantasies, none of my own design

Everything I had accomplished so far took work, took effort, and took way too much time. I needed luck on my side for a change. When book six came along there was a cauldron full of it in Slughorn's classroom. Without hesitation I scooped out a large flask full of the iridescent golden liquid. This Felix Felis, the elixir of luck.

Next morning I took a big swig and waited... Nothing! Same the next day. I thought It might be because I didn't leave the dungeons and simply waited for luck to find me. The next day, after a swig, I went out exploring but the results were the same. The following day I recalled dear old Uncle Vernon and forced a vile full of it down his throat. I don't know if it was luck or just a heart attack, but he dropped dead and returned to storage before i could kill him.

I know most of the healing potions I had stolen and use on myself, worked pretty well. Perhaps the Firewhisky was affecting the potion, so I stopped drinking Firewhisky for two days. Easier said than done.

There were cold sweats and blurred vision for half a day followed by cravings that took all my willpower to resist. After two days of sheer torture, most of which I spent asleep or trying to sleep, I took another swig of luck, again, nothing. Absolutely, fucking nothing.

Then realization struck me. This is as lucky as I am ever going to get. If this is luck I sure as hell do not want to experience misfortune.

I can recall things in my mind, in a similar way to your Internet doohickey, but I only have access to things that I... he, Harry Potter is involved in. news stories, reviews, speculation, that sort of thing, and it is only text that I can view in my mind. Damnit I was hungry for something to read, anything to read. You would think that with a library full of books I should be satisfied. Well go look for yourself and tell me what you see.

Yes, Library. Yes, books. No text. That's right the library is full of empty books with no titles. Admittedly one in a thousand may have a title, and some even have a paragraph or two hidden within their blank pages. They are just props, empty, and of no consequence, much like most of the characters.

I read what i could call to mind as quickly as I could find it, and quickly became aware that there were going to be seven books in total, one more to go. Then somewhere along the way I read a news story about unofficial Harry Potter stories that were sexually explicit -- Jackpot!

Finally something more than a pathetic Cho Chang kiss, or some Ginny fondling. Of course by then I was quite familiar with the differences between boys and girls, in fact since book three, when I did a bit of show and tell with the characters in storage. Very few had anything under their kilts, so to speak. Peek under the skirt of a store manikin and you will get the idea. Only a hand full of the main characters had equipment, they were the ones who in later books would show some glimmer of a sexual awareness.

Ron was the clear winner in the size department. Typical, least capable always gets to hold the rocket launcher. If you were wondering, the answer is no! The question would therefore be, did I check out the teachers?

That would have been, just wrong. Worse than Harry Potters, body invading, snake eyed Nightmares.

By the first chapter of the first story, I was hooked. Lots of Het fiction at first, then I discovered Slash. Was I ever in horny heaven. Days and nights wove together into a simple tapestry of actions.

Wake up, read till you get hungry – eat -- read until you fall asleep.

Don't forget to slip quite a bit of wanking in there as well, plus the obligatory "Master Harry is quite capable of scourgifying himself after he wanks." from my favourite midget, mutant pig.

Gliding my way through this tapestry I suddenly realise that there was more to the stories than smut and angst. These people were inventing and teaching me new spells, potions and hexes. I had no idea if they would work but now I paid attention. In the footnotes there was something even better, English translations of the Latin incantations.

They work! Well most of them and some are too ridiculous to even attempt. Those I leave for Fred and George to discover. I have even managed to create some of my own using my long list of Latin words.

It was fabulous. I was alive, running around like a complete nutter, with a goofy grin. Learning, mastering and perfecting spell after spell, I was in heaven. Maybe my luck had arrived.

Then it hit me. Ton of bricks on the head, pissing into the wind, the Apocolypse, the End. My last thread of patience with this place snapped. This was rock bottom, Straw on camel's back fable, and every utterance of Confucius.

Sure it would have been OBVIOUS to Harry-FUCKING-Potter.

You see, Dear sir, I just got ecstatically happy about learning something that is of -- absa -- FUCKING – lutely no use to me in this place. What the fuck am I going to hex?

Myself?

Shite, I hate it here!

Dealing with bad hangovers was a problem at first, until I discovered an enormous stash of hangover potion in, of all places, Dumbledore's office. I use it when I need it because I don't want to sleep all of the time. Blame that on the infernal Harry Potter as well.

You're fat, he had said. Well not any more. In fact I am in pretty damn good shape for someone about to die. Not the tallest guy at five foot seven, but good muscle tone and not too bulky.

I am sure I would break a few hearts along the way, if there were any bloody hearts to break.

My dick is my friend. My confidant, and all round favourite toy. Average size, nice weight to it, cut. I like it mighty fine. Sure another couple of inches and I could suck myself. The thought has crossed my mind.

Not too leaky in the precum area. I cum a good thick load, and I'm not averse to the taste. Don't tell me you haven't tasted yours. I am again assuming that if this were found, it would surely be by a bloke. I know it might be sexist but I just don't see a girl surviving long enough and being adventurous enough.

So if you are a girl. Congratulations, you would have made one hell of a bloke.

Is it sexual frustration that has guided me along the path that leads to my current predicament? Is my libido at odds with my choices?

If I have been dancing around the topic of my sexuality, I apologize. I am gay. Very Gay.

How could I know this? I have never had sex. I have never kissed anyone. I have had no intimacy of any sort.

Trust me, I know. Just ask my prostate as it swells under my gentle caress. Ask the colours that explode behind my eyelids as I come. Ask the moans and screams that echo through the dungeons. Ask my racing heart and my sweat-drenched body as it writhes in a post-orgasmic haze. Ask my hands as they smear my spent load over my torso and in gentle circles round my nipples, over my cheeks and lips and through my hair. Ask my tongue as it licks these fingers clean.

The fact that I know I am gay has nothing to do with gay sex. Many times the images that my mind conjures are benign, images of friendship and sharing, a touch on the cheek, a kiss. Admittedly many have also been erotic and diverse.

In the beginning It was Hermoine, and Lavender, and Ginny and... any girl that would enter my fantasy and allowed me to sleep at night without guilt. Does that make me straight? I could probably give any of them a good shag in real life. But could I shag them senseless?

Do I come more violently, and with fewer inhibitions when I imagine girls? Just ask my conjured images of Justin or Neville or Collin or Oliver or Cedric among countless others. The answer would be no, a resounding NO. The intensity is even greater now that I have created my own fantasy men, with no back-story, no baggage and malleable enough to be moulded to fit my needs and fulfill my darkest desires, and worship me.

Are any of the characters gay? Dean and Shamus? Sure, but more in the Fuck Buddy or Friends with Benefits kind of way. The only slightly effeminate character is Malfoy; though he is not a flaming queen he is soft, and fragile, and weak and way too delicate with his fake aristocratic facade.

Fems don't do it for me and although the author has started to create empathy for this miserable excuse of a character he is still a pile of festering dog crap. Empathy is one thing but would you want to fuck a redeemed pile of dog crap.

Am I a top or a bottom? I don't know, bottom I suspect, and I can't picture a dainty Malfoy topping.

Oh god! Bad mental image. Malfoy dissolving into a fetid, steaming, putrid pile of dog crap right there, right on top of me. I need Firewhisky. I need a lot of Firewhisky. NOW!

I have never been one for giving up, not in the beginning. I craved to change things, let Harry Potter know that he had choices. I tried the obvious, I tried the ridiculous, and nothing made a fucking difference.

This is worse than being a castaway on a deserted island. This is my deserted island and this is all there is. There is no hope of rescue. No world beyond to long for. Nothing to focus me resolve on. My only real companions are the characters, and they are worse than imaginary friends. Imaginary friends, at least have the decency to remember their last visit. Escape for me is being welcomed into the arms of the nothingness that lies beyond. Would my death be any different?

I have seen it with my own eyes. There is no afterlife, just ask Lilly Potter, and to live a life where I make no difference is to waste the precious space I occupy. If you find this, maybe you will find a way where I failed, or at least I have cast a revealing light on the potholes that need to be avoided, and gives some insight into what is possible. If you find this, try not to forsake your sanity, as I have done. If you find this, what a paradox. I truly don't want this found, as it would mean that I should have waited. You would have been a kindred spirit, but I would have been in no condition to console.

I don't want to die I have to die. It is the only choice this place affords me. Should you find my final note, remember that I did not die of loneliness or from the fear of living. I retain some of Harry Potter's recklessness, and I simply rushed headlong into another situation that has the odds stacked against me. However the Slytherin part of me has tempered my recklessness and I have carefully weighed the rewards of staying against those of leaving.

You have seen from the fragments of my life, that staying holds no rewards, and when faced with the unknown I can only hope that my leaving will cause some ripple effect, somewhere, regardless of the fact that I was never meant to exist.

Maybe somewhere an author will give characters more freedom to be themselves, or maybe I'm not really a character, so my fate on dying may lead me to an some afterlife, where real companionship exists. Maybe I just cannot die and this is my purgatory until I can redeem myself.

Slice it whichever way you want. I still have to try to do something... anything to stop the jagged edges of nothing from carving their tracts in my psyche.

For all I know I may not be the only person stuck in a novel. This may be an integral part of life, perhaps a precursor to birth. There may be millions like me being moulded in their own fictional worlds, aligned to the character that most closely represents, who they will become. Maybe god got tired of creating man in his own image and found a new incubator for the soul. Maybe.. maybe.. maybe...

I am not afraid of dying but I am in no rush. I know it will be some day soon. When I can no longer face the hollow echoes that stick to these dungeon walls, or the underlying fragrance of decay. I know the day will come.

As I close I feel obliged to be as honest as I can. What started as despair in my third year has evolved into an unhealthy anger at everything and everyone. These threads of anger have long since plaited themselves into a long and thick rope of raw, unadulterated Hate.

I hate this place with a venom as strong as Basilisk venom and the tears I shed have no healing powers. They just sting with shame. I am ashamed that I have not found a way out. I am ashamed that I am weak. And there is only one meaning to these feelings. I have lost hope. Try as I might I still remain on this helter-skelter. Always moving downwards, shredding my fingernails whenever I am foolish enough to try to claw my way back up.

I am not afraid of dying. I am terrified.

Goodbye to those I will never know.

Harry James Potter.

"Potter!"

Something in Harry's mind registered his name being shouted, another chunk of the madness fell into place as he stared blankly at the parchment in front of him.

Now I am hearing new voices, he thought, great! Fucking brilliant!

"Petrificus totalus!"

TBC