Disclaimer: If only I did, imagine all the money I'd have... (wistful sigh)
A/N: Wow, my muse is actually coming up with ideas! Bloody miracle.
Anyways, enjoy!
Harry Potter: Hero of the Wizarding World.
Me, a hero?
Not likely.
Aren't heroes supposed to have exceptional courage and bravery? Aren't heroes meant to be respected in society? Aren't they meant to have a drop-dead gorgeous floozy hanging off their arm?
Not likely in the slightest.
I don't have any kind of damsel in distress just waiting to snog the living daylights out of me.
I did. But that was before, when I was young and – I was just about to say carefree, wasn't I? That's a lie. I was never 'carefree', not once.
But that's beside the point.
I was talking about who I used to love, heck who am I kidding? I still love her, even though she fucking abandoned me. Pathetic fool, aren't I?
Hair as red as blood and skin as white as snow. She truly was beautiful, still is. My breath got caught in my throat every time I saw her, it still does. Too bad she never felt the same way.
Well...maybe she did, at one point.
But not anymore.
Otherwise the headlines wouldn't have read:
'Potter-Weasley Wedding Fiasco!
How Ginny Weasley preferred to be Mrs Malfoy instead of Potter.'
Part of me said I couldn't really blame her, but then another part of me said she was a two knut whore who would screw anyone with a large Gringotts account, Death Eater or not.
People say that Draco Malfoy turned at to the Light Side at the last minute.
I say he's a coward, he's a fucking weak minded bastard who was the cause of my mentor's death.
Though I probably just resent him. Very likely possibility, after all, he did steal my wife...
Wait – she was never my wife. She said I don't.
I'm not respected in society.
People don't even recognise me anymore.
They did, but that was when everyone depended on me, expected me, to defeat Him.
They don't need me anymore, not now, not now that He's dead.
They just threw me aside like I was old news.
Which, I suppose, I am.
Don't get me wrong, I like it now that I haven't got everyone stopping and staring blatantly at the scar on my forehead.
It's just that...I didn't expect everyone to ignore me.
Gods, I sound like such a whiny idiot...
But, it's true.
Even my friends have blanked me out of their lives. Or at least the people who I thought were my friends.
Ron and Hermione got married and lived happily ever after, carrying on the Weasley tradition of having as many kids as possible. It was three the last time I knew.
But I didn't expect for them to just cut me out completely.
They did keep in contact at first, but then after awhile, the number of times we would meet up or just talk to each other slowly started to diminish...until it was nothing, until we saw neither hide nor hair of the other.
So much for the Golden Trio, eh?
And as for the others, I have no idea what happened to them.
And again, this could all be my fault. I suppose I could've been the one responsible for not keeping in contact with them, any of them...
But why should everything depend on me? Wasn't this meant to be my time of being carefree? To make up for all the times my uncle abused me, to make up for the times I was ridiculed, to make up for the times I witnessed murder, to make up for the times I murdered.
Guess not.
Guess it's too much to ask for.
The Boy Who Lived was not meant to have a life of normality.
The Boy Who Lived was not meant to have parents, or a family that cares for him.
The Boy Who Lived was not meant to have anybody that cares for him.
The Boy Who Lived was meant to be miserable.
Guess I live up to all of those requirements.
There I go, sounding melodramatic and whiny again.
But I think I deserve that privilege. Because, in the end, I have nothing but my self-pity to keep me company.
Oh, and the alcohol, let's not forget the alcohol.
And another trait that heroes are supposed to have are courage and bravery.
Maybe, at one point, I had the same traits. I didn't get sorted into Gryffindor for nothing, right?
Then again, the Sorting Hat always said, no matter how many times I asked it, that I belonged in Slytherin. Maybe it was right...
But it doesn't matter now.
None of it matters.
It's too late for me.
Not that I care.
Not that anybody cares.
The red is steadily pouring now.
Staining the white of my bathroom.
Staining it in the same way it stained the knife in my hand.
I feel like an artist.
Blood as paint. Tiles as canvas.