"The world is a very dark place now," lamented the wizened man, "there once was a time where the light side were in control, a time when murder and dark wizards were too unreal. But that was a long time ago… Back when the Dark Lord returned to power, back when the fate of the wizarding world rested on the shoulders of a lone teenage boy. Many call him selfish for what he did, and at first I was angry at him too, just like the rest of the wizarding world, but then I came to realise that he was trapped inside his own head, trapped by the dark thoughts that lurked there. That was when I learned to forgive and pity the great Harry Potter…"
Harry Potter sat alone in his darkened bedroom at Privet Drive. Guilt gnawed at his mind every waking second. Dumbledore was dead, it was all his fault and nobody would be able to convince him otherwise. Why hadn't he tried to save him? Why did he just stand there?
He had only been home a week but already the letters were piling up. Every letter he received filled him with an unexplainable hatred. How dare they try and comfort him, they didn't understand, how could they? They had no idea about the significance of Dumbledore's death; Dumbledore had left this lifetime with unfinished business, namely helping Harry in his quest to destroy the horocruxes. Besides they didn't truly care about him, no, they had been fed a load of crap from the Prophet; they just wanted a miracle, a scapegoat, a saviour.
Inside Harry was angry, angry about the secrets that had been kept from him in the past, angry because seemingly the whole world now rested on his skinny shoulders, and he was angry at Dumbledore or more specifically at what he had done. He was sick and tired of people taking the bullet for him, so to speak. First his parents, the Sirius, and now Dumbledore.
Harry James Potter was sick of this life and it was beginning to show.