The place where I live might be familiar to you. Privet Drive, number four. In fact, you probably know it better than me. You've been here before, sometime during your childhood. Perhaps you've never even left. But lucky you, who has left it behind, never to return!
You might want to know what I find so disagreeable about it. True, it's just a typical home. It doesn't stand out from the ones surrounding it. It's got hot water, food, all the amenities of the civilized world. But that's not what I'm talking about. For me, Privet Drive is not merely a physical place. Let me explain.
At the first glance, it all looks very normal. I have my own room, comforting four walls where I can be left alone. Below me, are my legal guardians. And I do hope that they remain there, for them coming up here is what I dread the most.
No, it's not what you think – they don't abuse me, or anything like that. Although, that would perhaps be easier to understand. It would immediately explain my attitude towards them. It would completely exonerate me. However, it's just not true. They've never even spanked me.
I have a bed, a table, and a chair. A few shelves, wardrobes, and so on. But my most prized belongings are all stashed beneath the floorboards (don't even ask me how I crammed them all in there). I've got my spell books, quills, and all other wizard junk that I've managed to secret away.
The Dursleys, who took me in, never understood nor tolerated any of it. I've got my own private world, they've got their mundane world of 'how things should be'. While I'm here, I have to obey their rules. I guess they're just trying to raise me right. The best that they know how. But I wish that they would just leave me alone in my room. That's all that I really ask for: to be left alone.
They're a constant source of anxiety for me. I can always hear them down there. And it's just a matter of time before I'll hear my name. I try to be as quiet as I can, and pray that they will forget about me. But there's always some chore, something I've forgotten to do, something that they've made up. They also have all these little rules: don't touch this, it's not for you; don't use this, you'll break it.
Merely being in their presence irritates me, and so I try to avoid them as much as I can. I eat all my meals alone. Just like a crazed dog, that's the only way I can enjoy them – if nobody's looking. The Dursleys are probably relieved too. I just eat whatever's left, as I've never asked for much. It's made me thin and unmuscular.
The furthest I go out is to mow the front lawn, other than that I spend all my time inside. I'm like a disgusting fly that is trapped in a room. Mindlessly slamming itself into the windows. Not of any use to anyone, annoying to all those around it. Just begging to be swatted away and squashed.
Do you begin to see what Privet Drive really is now? Have you been here before? Or am I the only one who feels like this? I bet that I am. I'm trapped here. The whole place is corrosive, it eats away at my soul. I've been here for far too long. On top of that, I've developed the unhealthiest possible methods of dealing with my situation. It's all slowly turning me insane.
There is something very wrong with me – I can feel it. And it's not just that I have a massive headache right now. No, my disease is chronic and incurable. It's been with me for years, ever since I was born. It's made me different, but not special, oh no. You will soon see how far from special I really am. For once, I will try to show you my true colors.
They're not bad people, really, the Dursleys. They do their best, raising a sick weirdo like me. I'm always disagreeable, always trying to get out of work. I run off to Hogwarts for most of the year. I'm not really that good at anything, I have no work ethic, nothing comes easy to me. I doubt that I'll ever find a proper job, much less keep one.
They have a son, Dudley. He's fat, perhaps even more lazy than me, doesn't do good at school. But I don't doubt that he will do good in life. Unlike me, he's not scared of mundane things. He approaches life how normal people approach it. He eats it by the mouthful, while I'm starving. Dudley belongs. I don't.
I never belonged, not even at Hogwarts. Sometimes, I think that I was destined to die when I was a baby. I'm only alive by accident. Through some horrible violation of the rules of nature. My parents were murdered. If this is all that the Dursleys really know of the Wizarding World – it killing their relatives – then I don't blame them for how they act. I don't blame them at all.
You see, something about magic just sets them off. They're quite unreasonable in this way. And there is no use in arguing, that just makes everything worse. It's best to hide, to never confront them about it, to never show who I really am. To never show anything at all. I'm too scared to do it, too anxious. I'm a coward.
This is why I'm writing all of this down. When you hide for so long, you might start hiding even from yourself. I certainly hide from other people. To speak to anyone as frankly as I write here, would probably leave me a wreck. Insane, my mind broken beyond repair.
Even at the mere thought of it, my heart starts beating faster, my forehead covers itself with sweat. Nobody must know where I live, how I live, or what I do. They must never find out who I really am. These secrets, while mundane to you, are a source of utmost dread to me. It would be a disaster if anyone ever found this journal.
I hide my writings under the floorboards, between the pages of my books. That way the Dursleys would never open them, not even touch them, and just burn it all instead. That is, if they somehow managed to set it on fire faster than I would.
My mind is being gripped by a fever. I can't think straight no matter how hard I try. I jump from an obsession, to an obsession. This time it was Muggle books: I've spent a few days straight just reading on my bed. Next time it will be something else, anything. All I need is a constant assault on my senses.
I have no control over what I do. I need to bring everything to an extreme. I have to see how far down the rabbit hole I can get. I hardly sleep, it's not that I can't – I simply won't. I read under the light until I go cross-eyed, until I see and dream letters. All in the hope that it'll bring me some relief.
It doesn't even feel that good to do it most of the time. But I need the escape, and the hours, the days, weeks even – they just fly by. I have no concept of time. As I'm writing this, it's already dark outside, but for me it was morning just moments ago. Then again, last month feels like it was in a completely different lifetime. It's all wrong.
I always feel like there's not enough time, and so I try to do every task as fast as I can. I wash myself in haste, I put my clothes on in haste, I walk in haste. But when I actually get to my room? I do nothing. I haven't even done my summer homework yet, not even touched it. I'll do it tomorrow. Surely, this time I'll finally get around to it.
Just looking at the calendar fills me with dread. Like a coward, I avoid it. This is why you will see no dates written down here. And every day, it's getting closer to September. And every day, I'm getting closer to my death. That death is going to come awfully soon with Voldemort around. However, I've been this way for far longer than since his resurrection.
This fever that's raging in my mind, it finally gives me the courage to speak freely, as I never could before. Let me disrobe myself before you, perhaps that will reduce my temperature. I hope that you will not recoil in disgust at the pathetic, mortal flesh of mine that you shall see. In the end, it's all that I have.
The Dark Lord is just an excuse for all my failings, he always has been. I was taken in by Muggles, but I was too weird to fit in – Voldemort's fault. I went to Hogwarts, couldn't find a single friend – Voldemort's fault. I've been put in a Tournament against my will – Voldemort's fault. And so it goes.
People would probably find it hard to believe, they'd say that I'm being melodramatic. That I'm exaggerating. The funny thing is, that I'm not. That I really just don't have any friends. I don't even remember the names of most of the students in my year. I hide from them, I sneak away when they come by. I stay away from the common room. It's all quite pathetic, really.
I'm not one of you, I never was, never will be. Those things that come as easily to you as breathing? I've never learned them. For me, they're as alien and incomprehensible as magic is to the Dursleys. And I hate you all for it, and I love myself for being different. No! Forgive me my words, whoever you are. I don't hate you at all, it is actually myself that I hate!
I'm a weak man, a coward. That is the only reason for me being alone. I am too scared to do anything about it, paralyzed by my own insecurities. And so I persist, in this self-imposed isolation, hidden away from all the prying eyes in a dark cave. And just like those fish from the ocean depths: without light I grow ever more twisted and hideous.
When I'm alone there's no one to correct me, no one to set me straight. And as I'm always alone, I've become ugly beyond words. I'm riddled with guilt, my sins and failings weigh heavily on me. Why? It's because I'm self-absorbed like that, to the very core. But let me tell you the rest of my crimes.
There's no end to the depravity of my thoughts. However, I will not divulge them here. While all my sins are through inaction, this time I know that I should remain silent. All that I'll say is that while all orphans grow up fast, I'm still a teenager; a slave to my urges. How shameful and disgusting.
Sometimes, the Dursleys enrage me to no end. I fantasize about their deaths, about letting my anger loose. But I would never do it, I know that I wouldn't. I recoil at the mere thought of something actually happening to them, it would simply be awful beyond words. I am grateful for everything that they've done for me, and love them more than my biological parents.
The Potters have failed me, abandoned me, left me all alone. Perhaps, you'll find these words monstrous. I know that I do. But that's what I think about in the dark of the night. I both hate them and love them for giving me life. I've never known them. The image of them that I have, is one that I've made up. I don't even know how they've looked like. Besides that I look like them.
But my biggest crime, my darkest fear, is that I'm useless. As I've said, I'm not that good at anything. I don't have the courage to apply myself. If I do something, it's for a week or two at the most, then I stop, all burned out. I have no passions, no goals in life; except to survive. And so I simply persist, a parasite on all those who feed me, clothe me, try to teach me.
Those are all the dark secrets of mine, my hideous sins, that nobody can know. I don't think that I can remember anything else. Wait, there's one more: I'm a fraud. My recent victory at the Triwizard Tournament was not through any extraordinary magical skill of my own. The whole thing was rigged from the start.
A Death Eater manipulated the events, helped me through each task, gave me the solutions. If I had faced the real challenges, I would have never made it out alive. The one time when I tried to be somebody, tried to do my best – it all turned out to be a sham. In the end, the Triwizard Cup was a portkey, with Voldemort waiting on the other side. And somehow, I've managed to run away. That is all.
Other than that? Nothing. Throughout all my four years at Hogwarts, I've done nothing noteworthy, nothing out of the ordinary. I haven't done much of the ordinary things either.
I lied when I said that this place was familiar to you. I can only imagine the disgust on your face as you are reading this, perhaps mixed with a good dose of pity. You'll say something like: "He's famous and well off, he'll grow out of it, what a stupid and angsty teen." Then you'll put this down, and go about your day like nothing happened. "What pitiful, boring writing. Nothing special," you'll say.
Go ahead, join the endless crowds of all the people that have ever dismissed me, scorned me, laughed at me and ostracized me. Join the faceless crowds of all the friends that I've never had, of all the lovers that have never kissed me, the parents that have never been proud of me. Go! Join all the students that have ever excluded me, all the bullies that have ever beaten me, all the relatives that have ever mocked me. Go right ahead and join them.
All my life I've been tormented by my fears, my anxieties, my inadequacies. I've been tormented by my shyness, my acne, my baggy clothes, my unruly hair. My bad vision, my weak body, my shortness. My lack of experience, my awkwardness, my ignorance and my strangeness. Betrayed, abandoned, put aside and forgotten. Nowhere to turn to, nowhere to fit in, nobody to confess to, with nobody that knows who I really am.
To you, this is just another story. It's just one of the many stories, that you will flip through today. You don't care that there is a real human being writing it. You don't see me. You don't feel my pain. You don't feel the futility of my efforts. You don't feel my fever. I already told you, who you can join. Go ahead and join them. The world has always been indifferent to my suffering.
Worse, the world has always been offended by me. Who I am is unacceptable, it is wrong and weak. However, I am equally offended by the world. I am deeply disgusted by it. I am disgusted by my relatives, by strangers, by wizards and by muggles. Privet Drive disgusts me, Hogwarts disgusts me, the Ministry disgusts me. And everything else disgusts me as well.
I can't stand other people. Most of all, I can't stand them in groups and in pairs. I hate how they talk to one another. I hate how they play their little social games. Just hearing them laugh fills me with anger, and I always dread that it is me who they are laughing at. No, I know that they are laughing at me; that they have done so at least once in their lives. That I'm just a joke to them.
I do not want to be a part of any of it. I do not want to play their little games. I do not want to become like them. For they are mundane, unfeeling, cruel, and mindless. Just leave me be, leave me alone in my room. This is all that I ask for. To be left alone. I do not need friends, I do not need lovers. I do not need other people at all. Leave me be.
I… don't know what I'm saying. I've been gripped by a strange fever, and my temperature is rising. I've become delirious. This temporary insanity has made me wear all my flaws like badges of honor; my inadequacies have became my sword. I've made a crown out of my misery, and now I wear it like a king. And while it is cutting into my head, I've somehow found a way to take pleasure in the pain that it is causing me.
See, how beautiful and grand I look? Me, a disgusting tick crawling on your boot? Let me crawl onto your leg, pierce your skin, and engorge myself with your blood. I shall try my hardest to wound you with how pathetic I am, try my darndest to make you feel bad. Anything to cause you that little bit of pain. Only then, will I be satisfied. Let me drink your blood!
Why do I even keep writing? My only aim seems to be to wound and destroy. That is my only detestable objective. I am stewing in my own negativity, and I'm trying to drag you in as well. Now, that you know this, you should close these wretched pages and go away. Go, live your life! Go, before you catch whatever it is that I have!
My disease is incurable, and I've had it all my life. No matter what I do, this disreputable sickness does not leave me. No matter how much I discipline and punish myself, I can't become what I want. What I should be. And I don't strive for much: all I want is to be normal. All I want is a tolerable existence. Is that really too much to ask for?
Lies. Again. I would never want to be normal – I'd rather be miserable and alone. I dream of greatness, the Sorting Hat even told me that I would do well in Slytherin. But I'm dreadfully afraid of what I would become. There is a darkness within me, a disregard for authority, a deep hatred for… everything. For all the things that I can't be a part of.
It is just as I have told you: I do not love, I do not have friends. I hardly even speak, I never laugh. I just sit in my cave, and growl at all those that come near. I eat here, I sleep here, and I don't want to come out. I stink from all this sweat. I need a bath, I need a haircut. I am a beast, not a man.
Not unlike Voldemort, I am only in love with myself. And it is a sick love. It is blinding, passionate, turbulent. I only think of myself, only see my own pain, and I despair that I'm not perfect. All I seek is a temporary relief, and I do not think about the future. The fool that I am, I indulge myself. I trust my own lies. Then, I betray myself and become heartbroken.
To have any other lover would be like cheating. Even writing this, sharing all this with you – it feels like a betrayal. These pages are too important to give them away. Selling my memoirs would be like prostitution. It is my very blood that I'm pouring onto these pages. See, how hopelessly in love I am with myself? How disgustingly self-important I've become?
I want to rid myself of this sick love. I want to give it all away, to throw it all to the wind. It is worthless, I am worthless. These writings are worthless. No! They are priceless to me! I can't let them go. Once again, I've proven to myself that I'm a coward. I'm too afraid, and tears are falling down my cheek. I can't write anymore.
I have bared my soul before you and…. nothing. I feel exactly the same. Once again, I have failed to satisfy the bottomless abyss that resides within my heart. Nothing ever seems to change, no matter how hard I try. I feel burned out, tired beyond words. It is pointless to even try.
My narcissistic dreams of writing something remarkable will quickly perish, just like all my dreams. I know that what I've made is eccentric at best, but pathetic in all actuality. It is all poisoned by the same sickness that I suffer from. And so, I will lay it to rest in an unmarked grave beneath my floorboards, with all my other mediocrities.