By Heir of Darkness
For eleven years, I've been nothing but the skinny little boy who was Dudley's gang's favorite punching-ball. The vulnerable one, the youngest in my class, the odd one around whom strange things kept happening. The social reject. The friendless one.
And they teased me, about my oddness, my loneliness, my built, my hair, my eyes, my scar, my self … and they hit me, they hurt me, and they left me alone, in a dark corner of the playground, alone, alone, alone … Not crying, just staring, staring at them retreating, at their laughing faces and answering them, taunting them back, cruel, harsh words, meant to hurt and wound, and I wasn't sorry, and they hated me, and I hated them back, and they enjoyed themselves with my helpless fury, they despised me for my inability to fight back, for the lack of love in my heart, the lack of love it received. And I hated them, and my eyes showed it, and they laughed. My classmates. And nobody cared.
For eleven years, I sat back and let them do, let them beat me to the ground, but they never got the last word. That's why. When they could not find any comeback, that's when they'll start hitting. And I knew it. And I kept mocking them coldly, heartlessly, as if wanting to get thrown down, taunting the pain. And I struggled everyday to surface. Then I had to fight with my own weapon. Hatred, cynicism, sarcasm and scorn.
And I felt the power rushing through my veins, the heat inside my fingertips, a strange feeling of bliss, forgetting everything else, just the power, the power behind my eyes, in my forehead, in my hands, rising in my body, asking to get unleashed, to be set free, wanting to show, meant to be used, changing me, and I felt it for a second and then I was back to being the little boy nobody wanted. And I knew not what to do with it.
And there were those people, dressed in strange outfits, really. Pointed hats, and long robes of different colors. Queerest of all, I seemed to be the only one to see them. The others didn't even wink. Those people, they never talked. They smiled at me, they sometimes shook my hand, patted my hand, always smiling. And then they vanished. And I was not afraid, for I didn't know who they were, I knew what they were. They were friends.
Now I know. I know, for I am Harry Potter. I'm the Boy who Lived.
Today, I'm here. I'm considered a hero, surrounded by friends, always willing and eager to help me. I'm popular, well perhaps not with the Slytherins, but then it's their fault. I know a lot more about my parents, and also about myself. Everyone around me is happy, laughing, joking, ad so am I. I am well protected, I am special, even among those of my own kind. Perhaps I'd rather not be, and just be normal, but there always are people here to support me. I've got a purpose in life, and things to live for. And I'm enjoying myself.
And among this joyful crowd, I see one face that's not smiling. I see Draco Malfoy, a boy that has got great potential, but does not know how to control it. A boy hated by everybody, even by his own housemates. An arrogant person, but I can see it's only a mask of confidence to hide a heart hungry for love, a weak personality.
And I despise him along with the others.