I do not own Harry Potter.

Introduction to my Journal;

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 weapons; 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, so I thought.

Now I know. I know, for I am Harry Potter. I'm the Boy who Lived.

Yesterday, I was here. I was considered a hero, surrounded by friends, always willing and eager to help me. I wad popular, well perhaps not with the Slytherins, but then it's their fault. I knew a lot more about my parents, and also about myself. Everyone around me is happy, laughing, joking, and so was 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, so I thought.

Now I see. They were there to make sure I never strayed. They were there to be protected; they were there because I was The Boy-Who-Lived. They felt I was the thing they needed to get rid of the Darkness. To bring them into the light, that is who I am, all I was supposed to be. But when that is done? Who am I? What am I supposed to do with my life when they don't need me anymore? When I am just Harry? I will be forgotten, or thrown in Azkaban.

They thought they were the only ones with a façade. Now they know, I am the biggest player of The Game they will ever see, and never get to know.

Who am I? I am not The Boy-Who-Lived anymore, nor the Golden Boy. To be those you must be an idol, someone who the presses are ready to mark as a hero before the whole world. Not someone who hangs around Slytherins, not someone who cursed out their Headmaster in front of the whole school. Not one who will accuse 'The most powerful Wizard in the world' of doing the 'unthinkable.'

Who am I? I am a Slytherin in Gryffindor's clothing. I am the Game Master. I am the Mask Wearer. I am the Snake in The Lion's den. I am unseen, and marked as a non-threat until I snap at their heels injecting my poison.

Who am I? I am Harold James Potter, The Infamous.

A/N: Word Count: 778 Not a lot, but would you write 3,000 words per journal entry? Well this is just the introduction. AS time goes on he will be sort of insane. This is a re-make The real one was written by (Heir of Darkness) titled (I'm the Boy Who Lived.)