Harry knew he was self-centred, and that he didn't care enough. Harry knew that he put himself almost in the centre of the universe, and let everything else spin around him, too fast for him to catch up with. There was perhaps only two people he would care for more than himself. Two living people, in any case.
People had such high expectations of him. Due to a fluke in infancy, people expected him to be some kind of star. To talk endlessly about his real feelings, and how he mourned for his family. They wanted him to spill his guts over his terrible childhood - about how he had lived as a muggle for eleven years of his life. But people didn't understand that he didn't have any urge to reveal these feelings to the public. He didn't want the fanmail which arrived every day - sackfuls and sackfuls of the same tedious proclamations of adoration. What was even worse than fanmail was what Harry had come to label "sympathy mail". Witch mothers around the country would send him letters, telling him how brave he was, how proud his mother would have been. Some even offered a temporary home! Some sent him food, which usually ended up with Dobby and co in the kitchens - or the source of endless Gryffindor midnight feasts.
He didn't feel like there was a single soul in the world who understood him, apart from himself. And he didn't like himself one bit. He didn't think of other people, not because he couldn't, but because he chose not to. He chose to be selfish. It's not like he would be living long anyway. If he didn't get himself, the Death Eaters would. Yeah, that's right - get himself.
Parvati Patil was a show off, and an attention seeker. It infuriated Harry to see her endlessly prancing around the common room, moaning about death and destruction - wearing tiny short-sleeved tops to "accidentally" show off her "cuts". Those cuts were nothing more than scratches from a pin, or a razor. Just because they were keloid it gave them the impression of looking more painful than they were. You didn't need to hurt yourself physically to be messed up. The people who kept quietest about their inner trauma were often the ones you had to watch for. Harry was hoping Ron might realise this after tonight.
And Draco, too.
Why did he like Draco so much? He never found him attractive, no. Harry never went "that way". He just found himself craving a respect that he knew he would never get. Draco hated him purely and earnestly. To suggest friendship - even in secret - would have been laughable. If Harry had suggested friendship all Draco would have used it for was as an excuse to lure him, so he could do something. Harry didn't know what. He wouldn't kill him - Draco might be an aspiring Death Eater but he wasn't high enough on Voldemort's 'friend list' to kill Harry. He supposed he could take a little pride in being more than the average murder victim, although it was unlikely he'd be leaving a pretty corpse.
Harry found it amusing that the people who can make fun of you the most, or clearly dislike you at times, can be the ones you long for a soul connection with the most. Harry believed in soul connections, though he didn't believe in souls. A soul connection was just the easiest way to describe it. Harry believed in magic.
But he didn't like the world, and he didn't like pain. He found himself living for nothing. The only thing he strived for was to maintain a friendship with Ron, and to somehow convince Draco that maybe being friends wouldn't be so ridiculous. The explanation being insane in itself, as not even Harry would believe what he was saying - so how was he supposed to convince somebody else? And Ron - he grew closer to Hermione day by day. Soon there would be times when Harry was left on his own, when they had excused themselves, and he would have nothing to do. He could not even write to Sirius, because Sirius wouldn't know what to do. He was a genuine man, but he did not work well with teenage angst.
But no one would have to worry about him any more, because now he was taking action. He was taking out a quill and parchment, and he wrote, "To anyone who cares," at the top. Followed up with:
"I want this to be relatively short, or else I'll lose my bottle. I don't think anyone understands me, but it's not your fault - it's just that I never talked to anyone enough to give them the chance. I just want to say don't dwell on me - you know that if I hadn't done this a Death Eater would have done it to me instead. I love some of you - I'll keep you guessing who - and I hope you don't get too many complaints from Argus Filch about the blood on the pathway. Bye everyone. See you someday. Maybe?
P.S. Ron, take my invisibility cloak."
Leaving this on his bed, he walked over to Ron's bed where the redhead lay sleeping. He looked for a moment, but was unsure of an action to take, so just shut the curtains again and left the room.
***********************
'Albus, it's another attempted suicide.'
Dumbledore stopped his writing immediately, and looked over his half-moon glasses at his (rather flustered) employee Minerva McGonagall, standing in the doorway to his office.
'Oh dear,' he said, with an air of hopelessness. 'I'm beginning to feel there is nothing I can do for my students, especially not in the light of recent events. Who is it this time?'
'I am apprehensive even to tell you his name,' said McGonagall, wringing her hands together. 'He jumped from the astronomy tower. You're not going to like it. But you'll find out somehow. It's Harry Potter.'
Dumbledore did nothing, except lower his head, shaking it slightly.
'You don't seemed shocked,' said Minerva.
'And is it any wonder?' said Dumbledore. Pause. 'Did the forcefield stop him?'
McGonagall nodded. 'We have him in the hospital wing, with all the others. He's not awake yet. But I personally removed the note he left on his bed before others were awake, so there would not be any suspicion. Do you want to go and see him?'
'Yes,' Dumbledore sighed, wondering at that point what the world had done to an already damaged mind, 'yes, I suppose I should.'
People had such high expectations of him. Due to a fluke in infancy, people expected him to be some kind of star. To talk endlessly about his real feelings, and how he mourned for his family. They wanted him to spill his guts over his terrible childhood - about how he had lived as a muggle for eleven years of his life. But people didn't understand that he didn't have any urge to reveal these feelings to the public. He didn't want the fanmail which arrived every day - sackfuls and sackfuls of the same tedious proclamations of adoration. What was even worse than fanmail was what Harry had come to label "sympathy mail". Witch mothers around the country would send him letters, telling him how brave he was, how proud his mother would have been. Some even offered a temporary home! Some sent him food, which usually ended up with Dobby and co in the kitchens - or the source of endless Gryffindor midnight feasts.
He didn't feel like there was a single soul in the world who understood him, apart from himself. And he didn't like himself one bit. He didn't think of other people, not because he couldn't, but because he chose not to. He chose to be selfish. It's not like he would be living long anyway. If he didn't get himself, the Death Eaters would. Yeah, that's right - get himself.
Parvati Patil was a show off, and an attention seeker. It infuriated Harry to see her endlessly prancing around the common room, moaning about death and destruction - wearing tiny short-sleeved tops to "accidentally" show off her "cuts". Those cuts were nothing more than scratches from a pin, or a razor. Just because they were keloid it gave them the impression of looking more painful than they were. You didn't need to hurt yourself physically to be messed up. The people who kept quietest about their inner trauma were often the ones you had to watch for. Harry was hoping Ron might realise this after tonight.
And Draco, too.
Why did he like Draco so much? He never found him attractive, no. Harry never went "that way". He just found himself craving a respect that he knew he would never get. Draco hated him purely and earnestly. To suggest friendship - even in secret - would have been laughable. If Harry had suggested friendship all Draco would have used it for was as an excuse to lure him, so he could do something. Harry didn't know what. He wouldn't kill him - Draco might be an aspiring Death Eater but he wasn't high enough on Voldemort's 'friend list' to kill Harry. He supposed he could take a little pride in being more than the average murder victim, although it was unlikely he'd be leaving a pretty corpse.
Harry found it amusing that the people who can make fun of you the most, or clearly dislike you at times, can be the ones you long for a soul connection with the most. Harry believed in soul connections, though he didn't believe in souls. A soul connection was just the easiest way to describe it. Harry believed in magic.
But he didn't like the world, and he didn't like pain. He found himself living for nothing. The only thing he strived for was to maintain a friendship with Ron, and to somehow convince Draco that maybe being friends wouldn't be so ridiculous. The explanation being insane in itself, as not even Harry would believe what he was saying - so how was he supposed to convince somebody else? And Ron - he grew closer to Hermione day by day. Soon there would be times when Harry was left on his own, when they had excused themselves, and he would have nothing to do. He could not even write to Sirius, because Sirius wouldn't know what to do. He was a genuine man, but he did not work well with teenage angst.
But no one would have to worry about him any more, because now he was taking action. He was taking out a quill and parchment, and he wrote, "To anyone who cares," at the top. Followed up with:
"I want this to be relatively short, or else I'll lose my bottle. I don't think anyone understands me, but it's not your fault - it's just that I never talked to anyone enough to give them the chance. I just want to say don't dwell on me - you know that if I hadn't done this a Death Eater would have done it to me instead. I love some of you - I'll keep you guessing who - and I hope you don't get too many complaints from Argus Filch about the blood on the pathway. Bye everyone. See you someday. Maybe?
P.S. Ron, take my invisibility cloak."
Leaving this on his bed, he walked over to Ron's bed where the redhead lay sleeping. He looked for a moment, but was unsure of an action to take, so just shut the curtains again and left the room.
***********************
'Albus, it's another attempted suicide.'
Dumbledore stopped his writing immediately, and looked over his half-moon glasses at his (rather flustered) employee Minerva McGonagall, standing in the doorway to his office.
'Oh dear,' he said, with an air of hopelessness. 'I'm beginning to feel there is nothing I can do for my students, especially not in the light of recent events. Who is it this time?'
'I am apprehensive even to tell you his name,' said McGonagall, wringing her hands together. 'He jumped from the astronomy tower. You're not going to like it. But you'll find out somehow. It's Harry Potter.'
Dumbledore did nothing, except lower his head, shaking it slightly.
'You don't seemed shocked,' said Minerva.
'And is it any wonder?' said Dumbledore. Pause. 'Did the forcefield stop him?'
McGonagall nodded. 'We have him in the hospital wing, with all the others. He's not awake yet. But I personally removed the note he left on his bed before others were awake, so there would not be any suspicion. Do you want to go and see him?'
'Yes,' Dumbledore sighed, wondering at that point what the world had done to an already damaged mind, 'yes, I suppose I should.'