Let them dance
They're so pathetic.
Yes, I, The-Boy-Who-Lived, think that the majority of the people on the planet is pathetic.
They only think about foolish little things. They think that they're safe from all the evil in this goddamn world. But they're not.
They don't see it. They refuse to see it. But, he's back.
And they think I'm who has to destroy him.
At least, the wizarding world does. They think of me as an unbreakable hero, and they refuse to see the truth. They refuse to see a scared child who's shaking like a leaf.
They refuse to see the real me.
Even the teachers, the teachers who have seen me worry about things normal teenagers worry about, refuse to.
And I don't even think I still care.
I think - no, I know - that they're using me as a pawn, as a mindless doll they can shape like they want, use like they want and then throw away. It would be easier that way.
But I'm not. Not at all.
Since the beginning of the school year, they train me every night, trying to make me the perfect soldier. They sometimes send me to fight with the Aurors, fights during which I see the deep part of human cruelty.
And I can't even seek comfort about what I saw with my friends. Or anyone, for that matter.
Let them sing, let them dance, they say. Don't tell them what you saw, you will hurt them, confuse them, they say.
And I will. I gladly will.
But when he attacks, it won't be my fault if they die because of their ignorance. It will be the teachers'.
Only the teachers'.
They're so pathetic.
Yes, I, The-Boy-Who-Lived, think that the majority of the people on the planet is pathetic.
They only think about foolish little things. They think that they're safe from all the evil in this goddamn world. But they're not.
They don't see it. They refuse to see it. But, he's back.
And they think I'm who has to destroy him.
At least, the wizarding world does. They think of me as an unbreakable hero, and they refuse to see the truth. They refuse to see a scared child who's shaking like a leaf.
They refuse to see the real me.
Even the teachers, the teachers who have seen me worry about things normal teenagers worry about, refuse to.
And I don't even think I still care.
I think - no, I know - that they're using me as a pawn, as a mindless doll they can shape like they want, use like they want and then throw away. It would be easier that way.
But I'm not. Not at all.
Since the beginning of the school year, they train me every night, trying to make me the perfect soldier. They sometimes send me to fight with the Aurors, fights during which I see the deep part of human cruelty.
And I can't even seek comfort about what I saw with my friends. Or anyone, for that matter.
Let them sing, let them dance, they say. Don't tell them what you saw, you will hurt them, confuse them, they say.
And I will. I gladly will.
But when he attacks, it won't be my fault if they die because of their ignorance. It will be the teachers'.
Only the teachers'.