Title: The Boy Who Survived

Writer: Azure K Mello

Part:1/?

Pairing: Draco/Harry (kinda)

Warning: I've called this angst for the mental state of our hero. It's too bleak to be anything else. Slash, self mutilation, abuse, rape, self loathing.

Angela, thank you for making this not suck.. You seem to be able to shred something and then like a phoenix a much, much better story raises from the ashes.

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I hate it when I watch you. I hate that you can't see me. I hate that they treat you like some kind of god. You aren't, you bleed. You *aren't* a god, that's why I love you. I hate that they follow you. I can see you don't like it either. I want to hurt them, to make them see that you aren't what they want. They put you on a pillar and I can tell from your face that it's cold and lonely there.

And yet you cling to them, like lifelines. As if the fool and the muggle can save you. But can't you see that they don't? They pull you down, hold you back. And you get so angry when I point it out. You called me so many hurtful names. You said I'm a classest, That I judged them because I was on some higher level, bullshit. You said I was a purebred snob. Then you tried to pin me as a dark wizard. Is it just that you're afraid to see what's right before you? I don't give a damn about their backgrounds. Those things are nothing, what matters are their actions. That Weasley boy has made you into an action figure, his own pet hero. He wants to have you in his back pocket with his slingshot. You aren't a person to him; you're an ideal. And she, *she* that muddling bitch, views you as a cause. Just like her precious S.P.E.W. You're "Poor, Unfortunate Harry Potter, Orphan cum Tragic Hero". She wants to be the woman who put you back together. But she doesn't even know where to start. Her lame attempts to set you up on dates, her "thoughtfulness" when she tutors you. All she does is berate you for your supposed ignorance. And she sends you off like a lamb to the slaughter to escort some bubble headed girl on some tedious outing.

I hate it when I watch you walk into the hall. Why can't they see your slight limp? Why don't they see that your smile doesn't touch your eyes? They all think you're Harry Potter the Boy Who Lived. But you're not. What you're doing? That's not living. It's subsisting. You're the Boy Who Survived. You're a survivor, you aren't a hero. You're broken. Don't they see that? Even the teachers, even Dumbledore, think you're something special. And you aren't! They all think I'm jealous of you. They think I want to be you. Be you? How could I want that? I don't even want you to be you. I would chose to live as mundane muggles if you could be just Harry. You're not a celebrity, you are just a boy, a child. You didn't want this and it isn't fair. Strangers feel they can judge you because you're a star.

God, then there is Snape, I love the man like a second father but sometimes I can't stand him. He's supposed to be all observant. Wasn't he a spy back when all that mattered? Back when the name Voldemort wasn't spoken without fear, now it's nothing more than a name in a textbook. So why is it that when he looks at you he sees what they all see, The Harry Potter. People cast you in whatever role they see fit. They want you to be a brave little soul. He sees you as James' son: an arrogant kid who's got ideas of grandeur. I would have thought that if anybody could see you it would have been good ol' Uncle Rus, that's what I called Severus when I was young. He should be able to see that you pale anytime people bring it up. That every time people ask you about "The Final Stand" between you and Voldemort in our sixth year you look like you might be sick. And that girl! The little girl who tried to touch your scar when we were in Hogsmeade for the day, did you know I saw that? Do you know that I watched you smile and walk away? Or that I followed you when you went to vomit behind the Three Broom Sticks? I'm a stalker, your stalker. Am I just like the rest of them? Do you want me to stop? I'm drowning in you, Harry. And I'm so busy looking for a way to help you that I don't notice my predicament for long enough to find a way out. I know I'm drowning, it just doesn't matter. But if by drowning I help you then so be it. I think you're aware that I know about you. I know where you live. But does that make you happy? Does it help to know that someone gives a damn or do I just piss you off?

Looking up from my reverie I see you staring at me. There's hate in your gaze and very little else. You nod. I nod. You look down and I feel like gouging my own eyes out. I can't eat as my heart lives in my throat as a constant, pulsing reminder of you. I see you laugh at something Granger says, forced merriment does very little for your complexion. I want to grab you and take you away from them. They don't deserve you. All of them have these expectations of who you should be. All I want is to see what you *could* be. Am I selfish? I want to make love to you and see you in the morning light. I remember when we met and you were just you, with no idea what you were about to face you laughed. I want to see you with a real smile again, after all of this, I wonder if your eyes would look younger, more human. I want a civil conversation with you. I want to see you cry and I want you to know that I'll be there to hold you. I want to see you stand up straight and tall without looking over your shoulder waiting for whatever it is that you always seem to be waiting for.

Leaning over the table you're careful to flick your wrists in just the right way to insure that you stay covered at all times. Nothing but your fingers are visible. How could your supposed friends have not noticed that you've not worn short sleeves since the summer after our first year? Never once have you rolled up your robe sleeves in Potions, not even when you caught your sleeve on fire. Silly boy. If they were truly your friends they would not judge you. You wouldn't worry about what they thought. But you know, don't you? You know that they would abandon you if they realized there was more to you than a golden savior. So you hide it. You hide behind the very veneer you loathe. Sometimes I lie awake in bed and wonder how many of the scars that you so carefully hide were placed there by your own hand. Some of them are, undoubtedly. It's a nice way of coping, I know. When I had problems I went to my dad or Uncle Rus, you went to a blade. I would love to call you weak. Would love to say you a coward. But you're the strongest person I know because you had no where else to turn and you made do. You fall like everyone else. That's not your fault, people are made to fall. But you somehow make the fall look elegant with all of it's flaws. I hate you for that. I wish I didn't notice these things. I wish I was caught in the same spell as everyone else. It would be easy.

But at the same time I wish so badly that I could be there, instead of a knife. If you could talk to someone would you still be marking yourself? I could leave a mark on you as indelible as any scar. Every night in my dreams I kill your family, please forgive me. When I see the way you act. . . what they must have done to you to break you down to a scared boy. . .what do the muggles say when they see you have a scar that they did not place there themselves? Do you lie? Blame bullies? I wish I could lay you down and run my tongue all over you. That I could make you realize that you aren't dirty or sick. You're not the god they want you to be and you aren't the demon you choose to view yourself as. You're human, beautiful.

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Please tell me if this sucked or if I should continue.