Summary: How long can darkness surround you before it begins to consume? Why should you fight when you have nothing left to fight for? Who can you believe when you've been lied to all your life? Why should you have to pretend anymore? A dark Harry fic.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything even remotely affiliated with Harry Potter. Not that you didn't already know that.

"Misfortune shows those who are not really friends."
-- Aristotle

CHAPTER ONE: KICK ME WHILE I'M DOWN

I cry myself to sleep, locked up inside 'my' room. It matters not what perceived weakness I show all alone in here at night; only Hedwig and the sad remains of Dudley's discarded toys long forgotten are here to see me, and I don't think that they're going to be telling anyone anytime soon.

An ocean of loneliness, hurt, and despair fall from eyes that have seen too much and are far too old for the face that houses them. I grieve for all those that have been lost thus far in the fight against Voldemort and his followers, and still more tears fall as do the victims of the power-hungry Dark Lord.

I want to scream at the injustice that continuously surrounds me like a death omen to those that I love. I wonder if, perhaps, Trelawney is right, though not in the way that she believes. Maybe it is the fate of those close to me that she reads when she looks into my eyes, and she is not predicting my death, but theirs.

I can't help but feel an overwhelming sense of guilt for the deaths that I inadvertently cause. I'm trying so hard to save everyone, but it's just not possible. Every person Voldemort kills to get to me is like a knife stabbed into my already tender heart. I wish that I could end it all now...if only I was strong enough to kill the murderous bastard that's made my life and so many others a living hell.

He knows no mercy or bounds, ruthlessly slaughtering any and all that get in his way. He killed my parents because he was after me, sent Sirius to prison because he knew too much, and killed Cedric Diggory because he was nothing more than a 'spare,' not to mention the fact that he's tried to kill me quite a few times by now. He wants me dead, but I think he wants me to suffer first.

Haven't I suffered enough by his hands? What more could he possibly want? Yet I know that there will be more; the only question is, what will it be next and when will it come? More death, more destruction, more torture...I don't think that I could bear it.

I find myself feeling too much, caring too much; sometimes I wish that I could just become numb towards it all. I find myself unable to function with all of the horrors and monstrosities that surround me. I can't focus when all I am able to do is worry and attempt to brace myself for whatever Voldemort plans to do next. I don't think I can take it much longer. But, then again, what choice do I have?

I wish that I could tell someone about the way I feel; I wish that I had someone I could talk to. But there's no one. I don't wish to spoil the hope and naivety that Ron and Hermione still have left; none of my other friends are close enough to consider. I wouldn't want to burden them with my pain. Dumbledore, McGonagall, Mr. Weasley...they're all so busy; they don't have time to deal with my petty problems, nor would I wish to worry them by bringing to light my fears.

I'm supposed to be strong; I'm supposed to be brave; I'm supposed to be the one that will defeat Voldemort eventually. But what if I can't? I know what the prophesy reads, that if I can't than nobody else has a chance...but what if Voldemort is just too powerful for me to beat? I'm not even a full grown wizard yet; how am I supposed to contend with the most powerful Dark Lord of this time?

And I haven't even been given the means to destroy him by. How am I supposed to kill him without being taught the killing curse? I can't go on fighting Voldemort using Expelliermus, now can I? When am I going to get some proper training?

Sometimes I wonder if Dumbledore is afraid of what I'll become should he give me the means to be dark. He is the only one who knows that I was supposed to be sorted into Slytherin, that that is where the sorting hat wished to place me. He said it is the choices we make that really matter, but what use would the sorting hat be if we could all just 'chose' which house we wished to be placed in? Perhaps he is just trying to convince both me and himself that I am supposed to be a Gryffindor.

But was I truly meant to be in Slytherin, though I shudder at the thought? The hat said that there I would meet my true friends, but I have true friends now, don't I? They've stood by me all this time, although we've had our problems. They care about me; they would never hurt me; they're all I have. They wouldn't ever—I don't even want to dwell on the possibilities that will never come to be. I am in Gryffindor, not Slytherin; that's what's important; nothing's going to change that.

I force my mind to go as blank as it can be with so much turmoil and doubt, trying to put into good use the occlumency that Snape taught to me. Snape—another thing I don't wish to dwell on. I close my eyes and let the sounds of Hedwig's rustling feathers as shifts inside her cage calm me. I'd better get some sleep if I am to wake up at five tomorrow.

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I watch as water trickles slowly down the window pane from where I am sitting despondently in the back seat of Uncle Vernon's company car. The raindrops fall like tears from the dark mass of clouds blanketing London in a sheet of gloom. Vernon complains loudly about the 'horrible weather;' I happen to enjoy it.

It suits my mood: dark, gloomy, sad. The streets and buildings are a blur as we pass them by, the water obscuring them, turning them into nothing more than a mirage of colors, an indecipherable array of images, a sea of grayish hues.

I let my mind wander as we approach King's Cross station, absently noticing the hustle and bustle of people as they go about their routines, not bothering to take notice of anything but what is right in front of them, the help or hindrance to their goals. Most of the people are muggle; they go about their daily lives not even aware of the upcoming war. I almost wish that I could be one of them, worried about whether or not I was running late to meet someone or wondering which street I was supposed to turn down to get to wherever it was that I needed to go. They don't know how lucky they are.

Uncle Vernon pulls up in front of the station, stopping the car just long enough for me to get out and unload my stuff. Without so much as a goodbye he zooms off down the busy street and is lost in the traffic as I am left there standing all alone in the rain.

I drag my trunk with me on my search to find a cart, Hedwig's cage clasped carefully in my other hand. She lets out a baleful hoot; I can hear her through the cloth I used to cover her cage. The rain is already soaked through it, but there is nothing to be done about that now. We should be on the train soon enough.

I lift my trunk onto the cart; it's wet and slippery and slides in my hands as I do so. I set Hedwig down on top, carefully propping her so that she won't fall and steadying her with one hand as I use the other to maneuver the cart. It glides along the slick concrete as I push it towards the barrier between platforms nine and ten.

My trainers splash in the shallow puddle of water that covers just about everything as I walk. My hair is, for once, not sticking up in all directions; instead it is plastered upon my head by the rain as if I had used a whole bottle of hair gel. It reminds me of the way Malfoy always styles his hair; it always looks so fake.

Stopping before the barrier, I turn to look about me. People are rushing all around, avoiding me as they go along, but they don't really take any notice of me; I move closer to the barrier. I look around once more, making sure that no one sees as I lean against the brick barrier and slid on through to the other side; I vaguely wonder at the fact that I didn't spot any other Hogwarts students, but it's still fairly early, maybe ten, so I let it slid.

There are a couple of other students here already; they all look young and nervous. Their parents sit with them as they wait, probably telling their children what Hogwarts is like and not to be scared. I sit down on a nearby bench; it's covered by a bit of roof that juts out to cover it, providing some shelter from the rain. Dudley's old sweater, too large and worn through with holes, is all I have to keep warm on this unusually cold late summer's day; I huddle up within it, thought the wet cloth does little to warm me.

Soon more students began to arrive, slowly trickling in as the rain keeps pouring down. Most of them appear to be staying rather dry, though none are carrying umbrellas. I wonder if their parents cast a rain repellant charm on them; I wish I were so lucky. I'll have to remember to cast a drying charm on myself when I get onboard the train, where I'll finally be able to do magic once again after a whole summer without it.

I wait patiently for my friends to arrive; watching the large wide arch that appears on this side of the barrier carefully as it begins to near 10:15. I spot Neville from my spot; he looks somewhat nervous as I wave at him and give him a small smile. My eyebrows knit together as he looks cautiously around before heading over, wheeling his cart, his gran following at a slower pace behind him.

"Hi, Neville. What's up?" I ask, as I spot his grim and worried look. He looks at me, somewhat bewildered as I try and force a smile despite my uncertainty. What could be wrong? What could have happened? A million thoughts race through my mind as he pauses; I try to squelch my imagination from running away with me until I know for certain what is going on.

At length Neville speaks, though his speech is hesitant and full of stutters. "I-I...d-did you r-read the Daily Prophet at all this summer?" he questions me. I shake my head no and wait anxiously for him to continue. "Well, th-they...Harry, it's not good," he manages to get out, his expression grave as he fidgets with his hands.

I pull him down next to me on the bench, spotting Neville's gran watching carefully over us from the corner of my eye. I ignore her for the moment as I began to question Neville. "What happened? Is it Ron? Hermione? Did somebody die? You have to tell me, Neville. I need to know," I whisper harshly and fearfully to him. A sudden sadness washes over him as he shakes his head slowly.

"I-It's nothing like that, Harry. It's just that..." he trails off as if dreading what he has to say next. I wait tensely for him to finish, my hands clasped on his shoulders, forcing him to face me as he breaks whatever horrible news he has to tell. "...they don't believe you, Harry," he says at last, looking down at his lap as if ashamed.

I just stare at him for a moment as I try to comprehend what he's just told me. They don't believe me? What is that supposed to mean? "What do you mean by that, Neville? Who doesn't believe me, and about what?" I ask him frantically, shaking his shoulders a bit when it looks as if he's not going to answer me.

"The ministry, the papers, everyone...they don't believe you about You-know-who and his return and Cedric and...and everything..." he spoke quietly, his voice barely a whisper and fading at the end so that I, barely ten centimeters in front of him, could hardly hear what he was saying.

My mind goes numb with his words. How could this be true? He said that everyone believed Voldemort hadn't returned, but..."How? Why?" I whisper faintly, talking more to myself than the boy in front of me.

Neville shrugs his shoulders helplessly in front of me, seeming to be at a loss for words. "I'm sorry, Harry," he finally manages to choke out. I nod distractedly as my mind reels. How could they not? Why didn't anybody believe me?

I feel tears spring to my eyes before I remembered where I was. I can't cry here, I can't; I quickly choked down my tears, barely managing to keep them at bay. A sudden, hopeful thought came to me as I looked into Neville's sorrowful eyes. At least some people believe me...Neville for one. I'm sure that Ron and Hermione do, too, and plenty of other people.

I stubbornly refuse to acknowledge the tiny voice at the back of my mind reminding me of the heir of Slytherin incident, when all but a few close friends turned against me. This isn't the same—it just can't be. Beginning to think more clearly I wonder vaguely what exactly the papers said about the Tri-wizard incident. How else could it be explained but by Voldemort's rebirth?

"Do you have any of the articles with you?" I ask Neville urgently. It would be better if I could read them for myself and know exactly what I was up against.

Neville shifts nervously in his seat, almost as if unsure whether or not he should give me the articles to read. Could they really be that bad? "I need to see them for myself," I urge him seriously.

He nods his head in resignation as he turns to his trunk to dig through it for the papers. It's not long before he's found them, all in a bundle tied together with a bit of string. It seems almost as if he predicted that I wouldn't have read them and brought them along just in case.

I hastily untie the red yarn that binds them, setting it upon the bench beside me as I splay the articles across my lap. It appears that Neville has cut out all of the most important ones and laid them on the top of the pile; I leaf through them, reading only the headlines for the moment.

"Harry Potter's Current Fame Not Enough? Why the Boy-who-lived is Claiming You-know-who's Return and What Happened to the Boy Who Got in his Way," "New Medical Study by the Journal of Magical Medicine Proves that Surviving the Killing Curse Left Harry Potter's Brain Permanently Damaged," "The Boy-who-lived's Fall into Insanity: A Daily Prophet Exclusive," and the list went on and on. It was sickening to read. The lies were so blatantly obvious, and he hadn't even read the actual articles yet. How could anyone possibly believe this rubbish?

The train had arrived by now, though Harry had been too engrossed in the scandalous editorials to notice. Neville placed a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him from his stupor and nodding his head in the direction of the train. "Perhaps we should go get ourselves a compartment," he muttered. Harry shook his head mutely, signaling that he agreed.

Neville stood, heading over to say goodbye to his gran as Harry stared vacantly at the articles on his lap for a moment before stuffing them hurriedly inside his trunk, careful to keep from jostling Hedwig too much as he did so.

Neville was soon done parting with his grandmother and he and Harry then made their way over to the train, an uncomfortable silence hanging between; there was much that they wished to discuss but could not do so at the moment. They set their carts aside as they hauled their trunks, and for Harry Hedwig's cage as well, up the steps leading onto the train. Most of the compartments were empty still, so they had a wide variety to choose from.

They chose one near the back, stowing their luggage under their seats, though Harry made sure to grab the articles out of his trunk before he stashed it, setting them upon the cushy bench he had chosen for himself, along with Hedwig's cage, before sitting down himself. Neville sat opposite him; Harry stared for a while at the boy as Neville continued to glare at the burgundy colored carpet beneath his feet.

Drawing his wand from a pocket of his oversized jeans, Harry cast a drying spell upon himself before muttering a silencing charm upon the closed door. Grabbing the first article on the depressingly thick stack ("Harry Potter's Current Fame Not Enough? Why the Boy-who-lived is Claiming You-know-who's Return and What Happened to the Boy Who Got in his Way" by Lenora Borealis) Harry begin to read, growing angrier and more incredulous with every word.

"I am sure that you have all heard of Harry Potter, a.k.a. the boy-who-lived or the 'savior of the wizarding world.' The fact that at only one year old, nearly fourteen years ago, the infant son of renowned aurors Lily and James Potter defeated the most powerful Dark Lord the wizarding world has ever seen, He-who-shall-not-be-named, made the boy an instant hero and catapulted the only fifteen month old baby into the limelight.

"Growing up coddled and adored, admired and hero-worshiped, it should come as no surprise that our 'boy wonder' expects to be the center of attention whenever he walks into a room. No doubt it had been that way all throughout his childhood and to have come to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where Potter attends school and will be entering his fifth year this September, must have been quite a shock.

"According to housemates Matilda Bapshaw and Rowland Kirk Potter is treated 'just like everybody else.' Fellow yearmate Terry Boot agrees saying that 'although Harry always...gets into trouble...he is treated the same.' One can only wonder if Potter's trouble-making ways are a cry for help, an alternative way of gaining the attention he so craves now that he is expected to be a normal member of society.

"Seeing as how his 'rebel without a cause' attitude did nothing but gain him detention and lose the Gryffindors precious house points, it is natural that Potter found another way to fulfill his need for attention in his fourth year.

"As I am sure most of you have heard, Hogwarts hosted the reinstated Tri-wizard Tournament just this past year, inviting both Beauxbatons and Durmstrang schools to participate in the event. Tradition holds that one contestant from each school takes place in the tournament; each participating individual must be at least 17 years of age.

"Somehow Harry Potter managed to circumvent the usual rules in his ever present need for a claim to fame, causing the Goblet of Fire, the means by which the contestants are picked, to spit out two names from Hogwarts, his included. Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge claims that they 'still don't know how Potter did it, though the Department of Magical Objects is currently investigating.'

"Mr. Potter's actions, whatever his intentions, seem to have been the cause of the other Hogwarts contestant, Hufflepuff Cedric Diggory's death. Although the truth about the incident may never come to light, as Mr. Potter was the only one who knows all that transpired and seems unwilling to tell the truth, I have it heard on good authority that it was Diggory's caring nature, leading him to help his opponent Harry Potter when he got himself into a dangerous spot, that led him invariably to his death. Although Diggory was able to save Harry Potter's life with his brave and noble dead, he lost his own in the process, giving his life to save that of Potter's.

"Potter, however, refuses to acknowledge this as truth, though even Headmaster Dumbledore has admitted that Potter 'must be mentioned in connection with Cedric's death,' as he put it at the Hogwarts end of the year feast last year. But Potter still remains adamant about his version of events where Diggory was killed by the spirit of the Dark Lord, You-know-who, who was vanquished by Harry Potter himself over a decade ago before said Dark Lord then reclaimed his body using the blood of the boy-who-lived. Not only that, but the delusional boy also claims that he was entered into the tournament in the first place by the long dead Bartemous Crouch—a Death Eater who was sentenced to Azkaban and died while in its confines—who was posing as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, ex-auror 'Mad-eye' Moody.

"There is, of course, no proof of Potter's self deluded claims and it is apparent that Potter's self-centered and attention grabbing antics have gone too far this time. The boy is obviously sick and needs help. I, for one, am voting for his direct placement in Saint Mungoo's hospital where, if we're not too late, perhaps he can recover from the mental illness his early fame in life caused."

There was a picture included as well, of Harry flying his broom around the Hungarian Horntail during the tri-wizard competition. The caption read, "This image of Harry Potter doing a daring stunt during the first task of the Tri-wizard tournament was taken by fellow Gryffindor housemate Colin Creevey who claims that he is 'always taking pictures of Harry' putting into question just how attention craving Potter really is."

Harry stared down at the article in shock. How could that stupid bloody reporter possibly have...? And why would she...? Did she really think that...? He was too incensed to think straight, his thoughts a swirling mass of indignation and outrage.

It was then that Ron and Hermione whipped open the door, their figures framed by the doorway as they peered into the compartment with mixed emotions. "Hey, guys," Harry greeted them, barely recovering enough from his rage at the audacity of this 'Lenora Borealis' reporter to notice his friends' arrival. He was happy to see them after the two long and arduous summer months spent in the Dursley household.

His friends, however, did not seem to reciprocate the feeling. They were staring at him intently, almost suspiciously; Harry had the feeling that something had dramatically changed since he'd seen them last. But they couldn't possibly have believed the articles, could they?

Ron and Hermione finally entered the compartment after their long and awkward scrutiny; they came inside just far enough so that they could close the door behind them, Hermione putting a silencing and locking charm on it as Ron shut it.

"You never told us what happened," Ron began in a heated, accusing tone. Harry just stared at the red head, feeling at a bit of a loss as Ron suddenly stalked towards him menacingly.

"I...Dumbledore he told everyone at the feast..." Harry replied weakly, wondering what was going on and why it seemed as if his friend had suddenly turned against him. He shifted to face Hermione then, pleading her to help him talk some reason into Ron. She just glared at him coldly.

"I can see you've been reading the articles on yourself," Hermione begin, her voice icy cold, "They make a whole lot more sense than Dumbledore's version of things, don't you think? Not that you'd read them because of that; I'm sure you keep them just because you like to see your name in print. Rita Skeeter told me that you paid her to write that garbage she wrote last year. How long did you think you could keep lying to us before we found out about it?" Hermione asked him, almost daring him to try and explain his way out of that one.

Harry didn't know what to say. How could his friends actually agree with what the reporters said? They knew him; they should know that he'd never do any of the things those lousy articles had said he'd done. He'd only read one so far, but from what he could tell, they were all the same or at least there was nothing good about him in any of them.

"I-I never lied to you...How could you think that..." Harry trailed off, unable to comprehend his friends' reaction. "Those articles are nothing but rubbish," he finally ground out, certain in this if nothing else.

Hermione let out a derisive snort and Ron stepped even closer, before interrogating Harry once more. "Maybe if you'd give us your account of what happened then we might have something to compare it to. But you never told us your version of events, now did you? What were we supposed to believe, Harry?" the red-head questioned. Harry felt his heart drop to his stomach and his blood run cold.

"I-I didn't want to burden you. W-What was I supposed to say? It was j-just so horrible—I didn't even want to think about it..." Harry tried to convince them desperately, hot tears pricking at his eyes, which he desperately tried to keep from falling. "I thought that what Dumbledore said would be enough..." he trailed off, unsure of what more he could say in his defense. Why did they doubt him all of a sudden?

"Yeah, well Dumbledore would say just about anything in defense of his precious, little 'savior of the world.' And that's the sad part—I think he actually believes you. I can't really blame him, though; after all, I believed you for all of these years," Ron spoke up loathingly, sneering at me with a look of utter disgust twisting his features.

"We all did, Ron. But not any more," Hermione intoned, seeming almost disappointed in me and, ironically, betrayed.

With that said, they turned and left the compartment, sliding the door shut with a resounding thud, leaving me there all alone save for Neville and Hedwig. And Neville was probably only here because he had deemed me his own personal savior; he probably thinks I can save him from anything and everything—just like the rest of the bloody wizarding world, when the need suits them. But not anymore. They've abandoned me; everyone's abandoned me; nobody cares. Except for maybe Hedwig. Isn't that a sad truth? When the only friend you have in the world is an owl...that's when you know that you've really hit rock bottom.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I know it's been done before, the whole Harry getting ditched by his friends and finding himself all alone. I hope that my fic will be somewhat different than the rest, though. As stated in the summery, this will be a dark Harry fic. That doesn't mean that Harry will all of a sudden be getting all buddy-buddy with any of the Slytherins, though. I'm still not sure exactly where I'm going with this, but I do know that it is going to be dark and angsty. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. The second chapter will be interesting, though I'm not sure how soon it will be out.