First fic. Hope you enjoy. please post any questions or reviews.

I own a guinea pig...thats about it

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Harry sat on the floor of the washroom he shared with his roommates in a dazed yet very deep contemplation. It had been a week since the dark haired potions professor had broken off…whatever the hell it was that was going on between them before disappearing altogether. Now here he was feeling more alone then ever.

Day was slowly fading, but if Harry tried to make it up to the rooftops now, he surely be spotted by someone. It's not like he was going to jump, he just liked to toy with fate. Something that had been toying with Harry since the day he was born and apparently still enjoyed doing so. He finally found someone who understood him and who was going through the same things he had. Until fate came back to rear its ugly head and took it away.

It had all started a few months ago...

SSSSSSS Flashback SSSSSSS

One can only lie awake at night and stare at the top of one's four poster bed for so long before one goes insane and murder's everyone in the dormitory. Harry discovered this soon after getting less than a weeks worth of sleep over a month long period. The constant disillusioned state of mind combined with the normal creepy shit that wandered around the castle after dark was slowly eating away what was left of Harry's sanity and ability to cope with the world.

Voldemort was dead. However, there was no great battle of good and evil, hell, there was barely bloodshed period, minus the bullet wounds. Yes, you heard Harry's subconscious correctly. Voldemort was shot, twice, in the head. Apparently, he and some high status Death Eaters, like Lucious Malfoy and Lestrange, decided to fuck around with a muggle family. Since said muggles were so beneath pure bloods, they never bothered to pay attention to the fact that there's many ways to kill people without magic. Hence, the distraught muggle family shooting all of them. The rest of the death eaters either committed ritual suicide or were caught soon after. Needless to say, no one saw that coming, especially Harry.

The war was over. Sure, there would always be discrimination between pure and half bloods, just like their will always be racism, classism, and homophobia. There were high hopes on both sides that the tension would ease over time, but if humans hadn't figured out a way to live together by now… Well, it didn't really matter. Magical or not, they'd be destroying the planet soon anyway.

So why did Harry still feel as though he was fighting a losing battle with a dagger twisting in his gut that only plunged deeper with every step he took? Why did he feel the urge to break every mirror he walked by?

His whole life, he had been either put down and pushed around by muggles or given the weight of the world to carry by wizards. There was never any in between. His life was ruled by extremes that he had no control over. A destiny he was born into by sheer luck of the draw that brought him years of solitude and pain that even his closest friends could not assuage.

Then, all the sudden, it was gone, and the world was happy, and wizards and witches everywhere could sleep at night, no questions asked. Yeah, that's great and all, but what was Harry supposed to do now? Enjoy life? Find another unwanted purpose? He was a puppet whose puppeteer got bored and went to go hire some hookers instead, cutting his strings and leaving his mangled body on the cold hard floor. He couldn't eat, couldn't sleep and couldn't say much to the people around him who were busy loving life and all its passionate glory.

And now here he was, once again, staring at the photographs taped to the roof of his four-poster bed. Not the wizard kind, the kind that was still and silent, the way photographs were meant to be. The grayscale photographs were of objects scenes, or people, mostly people interacting. Something Harry himself no longer had the power to do.

At the time Harry was contemplating whether or not he should risk roaming the halls of Hogwarts again. The last few times really confused the hell out of people. Once, he had snuck into the girl's dormitory and stolen a tube of Harlot red lipstick and designer perfume that was probably made by a child in a third world country. He proceeded to write "Love is Dead" on each of the tables in the great hall, including staff, with the lipstick then dumped the sickly sweet perfume (fun fact: perfume is actually made from a mineral deposit found in sperm whale intestines) on the doorway thresh holds and benches. There was a huge commotion the next day but since there was no magic involved, the staff had no way of knowing who the culprit was, except that he or she was a student. They assumed it was someone's scorned ex-girlfriend because of the content and substance from which the message was made.

Another time he re-arranged all of the shared textbooks in the Gryphindor common room by subject and then alphabetical order of each author. It only took a few hours, though it would have been much briefer had he not read the chapter overviews in each book. While it was appreciated, no one knew who the hell did it, or why and were left even more confused then before.

The worst time was probably when he brought twenty tubes of multiple colored acrylic paint and hid it behind a gargoyle statue. That night, he used various synthetic brushes to depict things such as the anti-Nazi symbol, anti-death eater symbol, which is like the anti-Nazi only with a dark mark instead of a swastika, and "Rise Against the Ministry" along with several other poster-esque protests for putting an end to the ridiculous antics of the Ministry of Magic. While acrylic paint is not quite as difficult to wash off as oil, it's still pretty fucking hard. The house elves were scrubbing at it for weeks even with the use of magic, and Dumbledore was furious. He gave a two-hour lecture on how, while freedom of speech and expression was encouraged, it should be done on paper or canvas or some surface other then school property.

There were a few other insomnia induced phenomenon's in Hogwarts caused by Harry, but he soon grew tired of constantly battling himself when he knew it would bring him no solace. He resorted to wandering around the castle grounds and hallways at night instead.

He sighed, finally getting up and putting on his glasses, while brushing his dark, mop-like hair out of his line of vision, and pulling on yesterday's hand-me-down muggle clothing over his nude form. The halls were empty, as usual, although there were usually a few rodents or ghosts out and about at this hour. Never any witches or wizards though, they were all to busy in dreamland.

As his bare feet padded up the various stone hallways and stair to the roof balcony, a million and one thoughts were going through Harry's head. Both Ginny and Cho had tried to get him to talk. To open up and express his feelings, but he stead-fastly assured them that he was content.

Ron and Hermione weren't fooled; they knew Harry far too well. In fact, they knew him so well, that they knew Harry would not open up about anything until he was either A) on his deathbed, B) on a friends deathbed, or C) until he was damn good and ready to connect and communicate with them.

Ron and Hermione had enough going on between their family lives as well as their own ever developing relationship was time-consuming enough. So, they resolved to let Harry come and go as he pleased as long as they knew he was stable enough for the time being. This meant that they clearly knew nothing of his nightly escapades, since insomnia, destruction of school property, theft, and a strange new obsession with photographs would probably give a little insight to his mental instability. They knew him well, but Ron and Hermione were only human and had no way of understanding Harry's strange forms of communication and would continue to be oblivious unless he left more personal messages.

It wasn't until about a week later that Harry realized that he had to stop. He got bored and snuck into the restricted muggle section of the library to read books on psychological theory to try and analyze himself. It was at that moment that he realized that he had secretly wanted to be caught. Maybe not by the whole school, but at least by his close friends. He wanted someone to reach out to him in such a way that he couldn't easily brush off or act his way out of it.

He also realized quickly that, not only would his actions be viewed as a desperate, juvenile attempt at affection, but that he was actually desperately and juvenilely attempting to get affection from others. It had to stop for the better good of both him and those around him. Now Harry had nothing better to do then wander the dingy castle hallways to the rooftop where he would stand at the edge for hours, just daring fate to blow a gust of wind his way and knock him down to the cold hard ground for the last time.