*
To whom it may concern, I never 'asked' to be famous. I never wanted the most desired limelight. I didn't ask for my parents to die at the hands of Voldemort, and that I would inherit this ugly, grotesque, lightening bolt scar. I didn't ask for people to gawk at me like I was some uncommon, rare zoo animal. Although, Ron would just die for what I have I consider it a curse. It is a curse that I cannot go to Hogsmeade and eat enormous amounts of butterscotch icecream without someone saying, "Is that Harry Potter?" Because that will never happen. I will never be normal, and I will never be complex. I will be simple, pitied Potter. I would give up everything to have one day of normalcy. Just to have parents who love you and hug you and say, "Darling-be careful. We know you have to fight Voldemort, but be careful. Promise us, Harry." It isn't much to ask is it? I just want to be like you, unnoticed, part of the crowd, liked purely on merit and not some scar. The scar is foul to me, it is boring and pointless. It has made the problems.
To whom it may concern, I remember what it was like when I was young. I remember, just like I remember what colour the sky is, I remember asking Petunia Dursley "Where did my Mummy go?" And do you know what she said? She said, "She's dead." In this flat tone, as flat as soda that has been left out all day. I remember going into the cupboard and crying my bloody eyes out. I was only seven, but it struck a chord with me. All my life I grew up never remembering my parents (except for my very vague recollections of my Dad telling me about 'quidditch' and my Mum telling me how when she was pregnant with me she craved pumpkin pie) but then when I heard someone actually say the word 'dead' in relation to my parents-that really hurt. I cried so much that day that my eyes stung whenever a new tear would come out of them. My head began to hurt and it felt like the world was about ready to give 'way. I was curled up in a little ball in my cupboard and the Dursleys' never checked up on me. They never cared. Mummy was gone, and Daddy was gone too. I've never cried so much in my life, it hurts too much. And once you start crying, you can't stop; it's such a lack of control.
To whom it may concern, I've always wondered what it would be like to be in Slytherin. Of course, I'm oh so 'noble' (as Molly Weasley would put it-) but Slytherin, now that's interesting. What you do in Gryffindor is dictated by what you (or your superiors for that matter) think is right. Right or wrong. Good or evil. Black or white. Doing what you think is 'right' is a nice thing to live by (no doubt) but sometimes doing what is right has its own special consequences. Sometimes being right hurts more than being wrong. When you are in Gryffindor you can't get mad, and you mustn't yell or say bad things. You have to keep your cool. Always. For no one expects anything but. You hold all the anger and "monsters" inside until you almost burst. Just almost. You aren't allowed to be selfish and think about what 'you' want. Contrasted with Gryffindor, Slytherin sounds almost fantastic. Sometimes I wish my fate would have been sealed in Slytherin. Power is a beautiful thing, and everyone knows who has it and who doesn't. Being cunning is certainly a gift fit for the Gods. You know what? If I was set on Knockturn Alley, I couldn't fend for myself, no way. But if Malfoy (or any other Slytherin) were to be set on Knockturn Alley he could get out of there in one piece. Being Gryffindor means being nice- and sometimes being nice hurts even more. The 'evil' are very cruel, but at least they make 'one' person happy.
To whom it may concern, I could careless what you or anyone else thinks of me. You stop caring, in this morbid way. After being told so many times what you "are" and "are not." It gets old, and you tire of hearing about how great (or lack thereof) you are. And you form your own twisted opinion of what you are. No matter how much this contradicts with what other people think, and no matter how little you seriously care what they say. Or what they don't say. When you're younger you have this awesome idea that you're going to be the next world ruler, and that everyone will worship you. And then you get older and realize that people will one day jump on your gravestone, and then laugh. Sick but true. Right but wrong. Disagreeing with this would mean disagreeing with human nature.
To whom it may concern, I am not conceited. On the contrary I have a rather 'low' opinion of myself. When you hear people constantly talking about how great you are you begin to compare (and question) yourself to how great you really are not. And you find that there's a difference. When I look in the mirror I see a scar. A scar that has made my life miserable in every way you (or I) could imagine. A scar that kept me from being all that could be. A scar that throughout the good, and the bad, was there for me. A scar that hurts like searing pain when Voldemort is near. A scar that follows me around and is the cause of my abnormality. A scar that gets in the way of having real friendships with real people. A scar that keeps me isolated and yet involved. A scar that you know is a blessing and a curse in one big bundle.
To whom it may concern, I do talk to my parents. Every night I sit up in my cherry oak bed, with scarlet comforter and look up at the bland gray wall. And I talk to them, as if they were really here. Although in the back of my mind, I know they aren't. But they seem so real. They seem as though they are listening and saying, 'go on Harry' and I do go on. I tell them about everything. But since they aren't people, they can't talk back. And that's the most painful thing, they can't say: "We're really proud of what you've become, Harry." Or "You're really special." Or anything, they can't talk to me and tell me how much they love me and how proud of me they are. And they never will be able to either. It feels so 'lonely' talking to them, like I'm talking to something and nothing all in one. I don't mind, an awful lot. It's always been this way. It will always be this way.
To whom it may concern, I really like Potions. The simple art of mixing ingredients and making them into a potion. And if you miss just one ingredient, the whole potion messes up. Not to mention your grade in Potions turns to an "F-" and you don't really care, because why would you? Potions is a gift, one which I do not posses. I am not good at mixing things to exact measure with little wooden potion spoons, and partnering up with geniuses. And all they do is laugh at your feeble attempt of adding in basil root, and you smile back at them and say: "What are you talking about? This potion is absolutely fantastic-" then they laugh. But you don't mind, really. You're used to people laughing at you. Professor Snape no doubt-hates me-with every bone in his body. I don't mind, really, why would I? He's a smart man, and he knows I'm wickedly stupid at Potions. I've never been good at things like stirring a mixture in a cauldron. I've never been good at simple things. We have Potions with the Slytherins, and they no doubt, kiss up to Snape with every bone in their bodies. Not like I mind though, if I knew I had it 'that' easy, I'd use that to my every advantage too. The funny thing is though, I like Potions, although I'm awful at it, always have been, always will be. And a weird way, that makes me like it even more. Because, I don't worry about trying to be good at it. For I am already naturally terrible at it. And that gives me some sort of sick pleasure, because I'm allowed (for once in my life) to be bad at something and not care in the slightest.
To whom it may concern, without my friends I would be a lost cause. A total lost cause. Ron is probably one of the stupidest, coolest people I've ever met. I wish I had his temper for the sheer fact that it's nice to have an outlet for all your emotions. And I'd like to have a family, and siblings. Ron's always been jealous of me, and I've never cared much because he's actually really lucky. His family is really poor, but everyone loves each other. Or, perhaps they love the way that they annoy each other. For the Weasleys' are a heck of a lot of people (nine people in all) and Ron has told me of all the tussles they get in. I just laugh and he gives me that 'evil' eye of his, "Harry-" he hisses "that isn't funny. Fred really does put fake spiders in my cereal!" He's really lucky. And then there's me, everything at my bloody beck and call. And I wish things were a bit harder for me, just to make me feel more human. Ron's a funny character though. Persistent, harsh, and incredibly brilliant. In his own way of course. Then there's Hermione. She's always done this weird thing with her nose. I mean 'really' weird. It's always a tad upturned and she always stalks away with this maddening glint in her eyes. Not officially "stuck up" she is but not officially kind either. Talk about harsh! There's so much genius in Hermione it's really unbelievable. She's muggle, and that makes things hard for her, I know. She's resilient, and mad. And has this incredibly keen sense of what is right and what is wrong. You know, I think I've never seen her hair perfectly combed. Ever. And it's been six years.
To whom it may concern, you may judge. But you'll never know. Because you don't know what makes me tick. You don't know what takes my cake; you don't know how much it hurts to feel so utterly alone that you think that you are slowly going mad. You don't know what it feels like to wonder if people want you to be their hero, and then they want you to go away because you are a nuisance. You don't know what it feels like to try so hard to live up to what being a "good" Gryffindor means, and in doing so feel as though you are rejecting your need to be an individual. You don't know what it feels like for things to be so utterly simple and so utterly tough all in one. You don't know what it feels like to lose all hope in the world at only sixteen. You don't know what it feels like to be crying out in your sleep, even today: "Mummy didn't deserve to die-" You don't know what it feels like to be eating pumpkin pasties till your gut hurts, and never feel full all in one.
*
To whom it may concern, I never 'asked' to be famous. I never wanted the most desired limelight. I didn't ask for my parents to die at the hands of Voldemort, and that I would inherit this ugly, grotesque, lightening bolt scar. I didn't ask for people to gawk at me like I was some uncommon, rare zoo animal. Although, Ron would just die for what I have I consider it a curse. It is a curse that I cannot go to Hogsmeade and eat enormous amounts of butterscotch icecream without someone saying, "Is that Harry Potter?" Because that will never happen. I will never be normal, and I will never be complex. I will be simple, pitied Potter. I would give up everything to have one day of normalcy. Just to have parents who love you and hug you and say, "Darling-be careful. We know you have to fight Voldemort, but be careful. Promise us, Harry." It isn't much to ask is it? I just want to be like you, unnoticed, part of the crowd, liked purely on merit and not some scar. The scar is foul to me, it is boring and pointless. It has made the problems.
To whom it may concern, I remember what it was like when I was young. I remember, just like I remember what colour the sky is, I remember asking Petunia Dursley "Where did my Mummy go?" And do you know what she said? She said, "She's dead." In this flat tone, as flat as soda that has been left out all day. I remember going into the cupboard and crying my bloody eyes out. I was only seven, but it struck a chord with me. All my life I grew up never remembering my parents (except for my very vague recollections of my Dad telling me about 'quidditch' and my Mum telling me how when she was pregnant with me she craved pumpkin pie) but then when I heard someone actually say the word 'dead' in relation to my parents-that really hurt. I cried so much that day that my eyes stung whenever a new tear would come out of them. My head began to hurt and it felt like the world was about ready to give 'way. I was curled up in a little ball in my cupboard and the Dursleys' never checked up on me. They never cared. Mummy was gone, and Daddy was gone too. I've never cried so much in my life, it hurts too much. And once you start crying, you can't stop; it's such a lack of control.
To whom it may concern, I've always wondered what it would be like to be in Slytherin. Of course, I'm oh so 'noble' (as Molly Weasley would put it-) but Slytherin, now that's interesting. What you do in Gryffindor is dictated by what you (or your superiors for that matter) think is right. Right or wrong. Good or evil. Black or white. Doing what you think is 'right' is a nice thing to live by (no doubt) but sometimes doing what is right has its own special consequences. Sometimes being right hurts more than being wrong. When you are in Gryffindor you can't get mad, and you mustn't yell or say bad things. You have to keep your cool. Always. For no one expects anything but. You hold all the anger and "monsters" inside until you almost burst. Just almost. You aren't allowed to be selfish and think about what 'you' want. Contrasted with Gryffindor, Slytherin sounds almost fantastic. Sometimes I wish my fate would have been sealed in Slytherin. Power is a beautiful thing, and everyone knows who has it and who doesn't. Being cunning is certainly a gift fit for the Gods. You know what? If I was set on Knockturn Alley, I couldn't fend for myself, no way. But if Malfoy (or any other Slytherin) were to be set on Knockturn Alley he could get out of there in one piece. Being Gryffindor means being nice- and sometimes being nice hurts even more. The 'evil' are very cruel, but at least they make 'one' person happy.
To whom it may concern, I could careless what you or anyone else thinks of me. You stop caring, in this morbid way. After being told so many times what you "are" and "are not." It gets old, and you tire of hearing about how great (or lack thereof) you are. And you form your own twisted opinion of what you are. No matter how much this contradicts with what other people think, and no matter how little you seriously care what they say. Or what they don't say. When you're younger you have this awesome idea that you're going to be the next world ruler, and that everyone will worship you. And then you get older and realize that people will one day jump on your gravestone, and then laugh. Sick but true. Right but wrong. Disagreeing with this would mean disagreeing with human nature.
To whom it may concern, I am not conceited. On the contrary I have a rather 'low' opinion of myself. When you hear people constantly talking about how great you are you begin to compare (and question) yourself to how great you really are not. And you find that there's a difference. When I look in the mirror I see a scar. A scar that has made my life miserable in every way you (or I) could imagine. A scar that kept me from being all that could be. A scar that throughout the good, and the bad, was there for me. A scar that hurts like searing pain when Voldemort is near. A scar that follows me around and is the cause of my abnormality. A scar that gets in the way of having real friendships with real people. A scar that keeps me isolated and yet involved. A scar that you know is a blessing and a curse in one big bundle.
To whom it may concern, I do talk to my parents. Every night I sit up in my cherry oak bed, with scarlet comforter and look up at the bland gray wall. And I talk to them, as if they were really here. Although in the back of my mind, I know they aren't. But they seem so real. They seem as though they are listening and saying, 'go on Harry' and I do go on. I tell them about everything. But since they aren't people, they can't talk back. And that's the most painful thing, they can't say: "We're really proud of what you've become, Harry." Or "You're really special." Or anything, they can't talk to me and tell me how much they love me and how proud of me they are. And they never will be able to either. It feels so 'lonely' talking to them, like I'm talking to something and nothing all in one. I don't mind, an awful lot. It's always been this way. It will always be this way.
To whom it may concern, I really like Potions. The simple art of mixing ingredients and making them into a potion. And if you miss just one ingredient, the whole potion messes up. Not to mention your grade in Potions turns to an "F-" and you don't really care, because why would you? Potions is a gift, one which I do not posses. I am not good at mixing things to exact measure with little wooden potion spoons, and partnering up with geniuses. And all they do is laugh at your feeble attempt of adding in basil root, and you smile back at them and say: "What are you talking about? This potion is absolutely fantastic-" then they laugh. But you don't mind, really. You're used to people laughing at you. Professor Snape no doubt-hates me-with every bone in his body. I don't mind, really, why would I? He's a smart man, and he knows I'm wickedly stupid at Potions. I've never been good at things like stirring a mixture in a cauldron. I've never been good at simple things. We have Potions with the Slytherins, and they no doubt, kiss up to Snape with every bone in their bodies. Not like I mind though, if I knew I had it 'that' easy, I'd use that to my every advantage too. The funny thing is though, I like Potions, although I'm awful at it, always have been, always will be. And a weird way, that makes me like it even more. Because, I don't worry about trying to be good at it. For I am already naturally terrible at it. And that gives me some sort of sick pleasure, because I'm allowed (for once in my life) to be bad at something and not care in the slightest.
To whom it may concern, without my friends I would be a lost cause. A total lost cause. Ron is probably one of the stupidest, coolest people I've ever met. I wish I had his temper for the sheer fact that it's nice to have an outlet for all your emotions. And I'd like to have a family, and siblings. Ron's always been jealous of me, and I've never cared much because he's actually really lucky. His family is really poor, but everyone loves each other. Or, perhaps they love the way that they annoy each other. For the Weasleys' are a heck of a lot of people (nine people in all) and Ron has told me of all the tussles they get in. I just laugh and he gives me that 'evil' eye of his, "Harry-" he hisses "that isn't funny. Fred really does put fake spiders in my cereal!" He's really lucky. And then there's me, everything at my bloody beck and call. And I wish things were a bit harder for me, just to make me feel more human. Ron's a funny character though. Persistent, harsh, and incredibly brilliant. In his own way of course. Then there's Hermione. She's always done this weird thing with her nose. I mean 'really' weird. It's always a tad upturned and she always stalks away with this maddening glint in her eyes. Not officially "stuck up" she is but not officially kind either. Talk about harsh! There's so much genius in Hermione it's really unbelievable. She's muggle, and that makes things hard for her, I know. She's resilient, and mad. And has this incredibly keen sense of what is right and what is wrong. You know, I think I've never seen her hair perfectly combed. Ever. And it's been six years.
To whom it may concern, you may judge. But you'll never know. Because you don't know what makes me tick. You don't know what takes my cake; you don't know how much it hurts to feel so utterly alone that you think that you are slowly going mad. You don't know what it feels like to wonder if people want you to be their hero, and then they want you to go away because you are a nuisance. You don't know what it feels like to try so hard to live up to what being a "good" Gryffindor means, and in doing so feel as though you are rejecting your need to be an individual. You don't know what it feels like for things to be so utterly simple and so utterly tough all in one. You don't know what it feels like to lose all hope in the world at only sixteen. You don't know what it feels like to be crying out in your sleep, even today: "Mummy didn't deserve to die-" You don't know what it feels like to be eating pumpkin pasties till your gut hurts, and never feel full all in one.
*