I'm sick of it.
I'm sick of seeing him every time I look in the mirror, sick of being resented, sick of hearing that damn phrase muttered behind my back one hundred times a day. Like father, like son. No! The mistakes he made will not visit me, because I learned through his experiences. He believes that he fights for power, for glory, for a name that will make wizards and perhaps even Muggles tremble when they hear it. I know the truth. My father is used in the way which most utilizes his capabilities, to be disposed of in the most convenient way possible when his services cease to be profitable. Big words, I know. I got sick of not knowing what my father was and sat down with a thesaurus to figure it out. In simpler words, my father is a tool, worked harder and faster than normal and thrown away without a second thought the moment it's broken.
I will not be used.
I will not be a tool, will not call anyone Master, will not bow in submission before anyone, ever. I am spoiled, I am biased, I am prejudiced, but I am not evil. Nor precisely am I on the side of "light", per se, but sooner would I join them than become a dog spinning the wheel of my Master's rotisserie. I exist for myself, and myself only. I may look like my father, I may have some of his ideals, but I am not him.
I am an individual, with my own ideas and plans, with my own aspirations and my own revenge. Because I share the same hair and eye color with the man who sired me does not mean that his beliefs are genetically engineered into my DNA as well.
Yet I still bear the brunt of the resentment that comes from being his son. I am still feared, rather than respected, and it is not my first name which causes this state. First years are warned of me - I know they are. And in spite of this attitude of the general public, or perhaps because of it, I still act as if daddy knows best.
No more. I know the truth now, I know the who, the what, the when, the where, the how. In fact, I alone know the why. My father believes he knows the why, but only I do. The why is because my father is a weakling, a coward, fit only for following orders, with not a shred of loyalty in him. I am much, much more, should I only seek to shed the burden of my father's name.
I will not be a wooden toy on a puppeteer's strings.
I will not hide behind a family name.
I will not be haunted by that cliche.
Like father, like son.
