Warnings: Thoughts of suicide and mentions of martyrism, cynicism and regular Harry!angst ('cause regular angst for Harry is too mundane. He gets his own type of it.)


He hid in his room, curled up in a corner, hands over his ears and trying to block out the noise of everything around him. Trying being the operative word here; for, no matter how hard he tried, he could never block them out, never stop them from entering through his ears and staking their place in his mind. Claiming bits and pieces of him, marking him, disfiguring him… scarring him.

He wanted to ignore them all, tell them all to go to hell and leave him the fuck alone. He wanted to be himself, dammit, not some fantasy hero that everyone expected him to be. Was that too much to ask? Was it too much to expect people to treat him like a human-being and not some…godly figure? It was too much, a cynical part of his mind snarked scathingly. After all, the hero must never fail. He must be strong, courageous, and self-sacrificing. He must enjoy being the lamb led to slaughter, for how else was society supposed to survive without its sacrifices?

He knew it was cruel of him to think so, knew it was unjustified, but he couldn't help it! He didn't want to be the hero, he didn't want to be in the spotlight, he didn't want to be courageous or anything of the like! He wanted to be left alone, preferably in a corner curled up around a good book. He wasn't a courageous individual; he really couldn't care less about people who would willingly turn their back on their 'savior' the instant public opinion about him was in the negatives.

Personally, he was half-tempted to send Riddle a letter stating his wishes of being left alone and in return, letting him do whatever the fuck he wanted with the rest of the Wizarding World. 'Course, doing so would just about be the dumbest thing he could probably do; didn't stop the temptation from rising from time to time.

And now they expect him to die for them! Not only that, but at the hands of the man who was the equivalent of the wizard's bogeyman? He didn't want to die! He wanted to live, find his partner (whether they be male or female, he didn't care as long as they saw him, just him) and be left alone.

The thing that hurt the most, though, was that his friends and the people he considered family were convinced that it was the right thing to do. After all, what was one more sacrifice, one more soul for the slaughter so long as the rest of the species survived?

Don't you care about us, Deary?

Don't you care if we die?

Don't you care if you fail your parents?

Don't you care…?

He wanted to snarl and scream; shout his displeasure at them and demand that they die as well. After all, if he had to die, why not them? But he kept it all in; hidden behind the mask of the Gryffindor's Golden Boy. He could be brave; he could be courageous; he could be self-sacrificing; he could be the martyr.

Never mind that most Gryffindor's weren't brave or courageous, but were backstabbers who would sooner turn on one of their own at the drop of a hat.

Just as the Hufflepuffs are only loyal to some and couldn't give two shits about anyone outside their little circle.

Just as Ravenclaw's horded their knowledge, keeping all to themselves and sharing none; shunning the world outside of their reality as, surely, something so painful and harsh could not be reality.

Just as the Slytherin's held no honor and slowly wasted away until such a time when the only thing a pureblood could hold onto was their blood-status with absolutely no power to back it up, and their cunning extended to when they could grab their next cookie without being seen.

Sometimes, he wanted to die. Slit his wrists, his throat and leave it all behind. He'd tried it once, to slit his wrists; the blade snapped off before it could even touch his skin. The stupid, idiotic prophecy at work, no doubt. After all, 'one must fall at the hands of the other, for neither shall live as the other survives', or something similar.

Another thing that stopped him was the thought of her. Wide blue eyes and pale blond-hair pulled back in a ponytail with her wand stuck behind her ear. The wide smile as he told her he would be glad to be her friend. The repressed tears as she hugged him with enough force to make him feel like his spine was about to crack in two.

Even as he thought of her, the voices screeched into his thoughts, demanding, cajoling, whispering sweet-nothings in the hopes that he'd listen to them and give in. He couldn't help the whimpered sob that left his clamped mouth as his hands curled harshly around his ears, trying to block them out, but failing, falling, giving in to the inevitable.

After all, Harry Potter was only a shattered puppet. Who was he to control his own strings?

A/N: Hello, folks! Me again. I wrote this 'cause I felt there aren't enough stories of Harry and how he would handle the pressure, the solitude and whatnot. And for all you people out there who would argue, 'He's Harry Bloody Potter! He can handle anything!' Let me remind you of one simple fact: He was almost 16 when he lost his godfather, one of the last few people who were connected to his parents, and in his mind, to his own stupidity. Then he hears the fact he's gotta become a murderer or a martyr? Folks, speaking from personal experience as a minor dealing with death, it isn't easy! I had three deaths in my family, people very close to me, when I was 14! Sirius was Harry's entire world; he was the father he could have had, even if he made so many mistakes with Harry.

On another note, the fourth chapter of CTBUA is being withheld by two-factors: My mind and you people demanding updates. In every chapter, I tell you people, demanding updates from me is a sure-fire way of getting a slower response. So you truly have no one to blame but yourselves. On a side note, I'm thinking of putting up a sequel to this one shot.