Summary: The death of Harry Potter's godfather has left him shaken and feeling like he is alone. Life at Hogwarts has gone back to normal for his sixth year, even with the trouble going on in the wizarding world with Voldemort, but he doesn't feel like he's really there; instead it is as though the Gryffindor is just a ghost, completely invisible and stubbornly refusing to move on as he stands back and watches the world go by. But then a potion goes horribly wrong and sends his already tumultuous relationship with Draco Malfoy into a seemingly neverending circle of intense love and hate. But which of those will win over and is the potion really to blame?
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything associated with it, nor do I profit from my fanfiction. Unfortunately.
Two more days. Just two more days before he would be released from his prison in Privet Drive. Harry Potter was eagerly awaiting his return to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, perhaps more so than ever before in his time at the school. He would be starting his sixth year, though it still seemed like only yesterday he had nervously approached King's Cross for the first time, and he really couldn't wait to get back to what was, for a wizard like him at least, something like normality.
He had been stuck inside the Dursley's house for far too long with nothing to do but dwell on the events of the previous year. It was agonising just lying on his bed night after night, watching his godfather fall through the veil over and over in his head. His sixteenth birthday had come and gone without any acknowledgment from the muggles he lived with (unsurprisingly, of course) although he'd received a few gifts from friends. Ron had sent a selection of sweets from Honeydukes and a few items from Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes—the non-explodeable luminous balloons he'd accidentally set off in the middle of the night hadn't gone down too well in the Dursley household, as they let out a terrible noise that nearly woke the neighbours and all. Hermione's present was a small model Firebolt that was enchanted to fly around of its own accord like a real broomstick… Hedwig hadn't been a fan of that when it kept zooming around her cage. Hagrid had sent a special birthday cake that he had made himself—Harry hadn't touched that—and… and nothing. The one thing that he wished he could have gotten wasn't there. His godfather was still dead.
The Gryffindor felt sick just thinking about it so he had tried to plan a trip to Diagon Alley to pick up his supplies for the next year at Hogwarts but Mr and Mrs Weasley had decided it would be better for him to stay at home while they picked up his things for him. Ron had sent an owl with the supplies and a letter of apology for his parent's paranoia but other than that, the letters he received were few and far between. It felt just like last summer; he was completely detached from the wizarding world, and this year more than ever he wanted news on Voldemort now that he was an open threat.
More than anything, Harry wanted to go back so that he could walk around without people glaring at him and showing their obvious dislike. The people at Hogwarts who disliked him felt that way not because he was a wizard but because he was Harry Potter. The famous boy, the image of his father, the git who just would not die. In Little Whinging, they didn't like him because they thought he was a freak of nature.
Sometimes, it was incredibly tough being him. Not even because of the constant battles he faced with the Dark Lord. No, it was for the sole reason that everyone expected great things from Harry. Even if they didn't know him and even if there was no way for him to live up to their high expectations. He was The Boy Who Lived, after all, and that meant everyone had their opinion of him before they'd met him. People often saw the scar rather than the boy and made their assumptions without even considering the fact that he was just an ordinary, or as ordinary as a wizard can ever be, teenager.
Harry had been putting up with the stares and hushed whispers for five years now and he considered himself quite expert at ignoring them and getting on with his life as best as he could. But it wasn't easy. Wherever the Gryffindor went, trouble seemed to follow. It made people thing that he was always trying to play the hero—which he normally did end up doing but definitely not by choice. Really, who would willingly involve themselves in such a mess? Giant snakes and dark arts and evil wizards, oh my.
Yes, it wasn't easy being Harry Potter. But he didn't really have a choice in these matters so he just did what he could with what he had.