We All Need a Little Poison Sometimes

Prologue

Alone, Lonely

Forgotten but not gone

You drink it off your mind

You talk about the world

Like it's someplace that you've been

You see you'd love to run home but you know you ain't got one

Cause you're living in a world that you're best forgotten around here

~Broadway is Dark Tonight, Goo Goo Dolls~

The glasses just kept coming. At first, he had tried to stop them, he really had. But now he went along, downing them over and over. He realized that he must have been trying to drown himself in that endless supply of bourbon and vodka. He wished it could have worked. Oh, how he wished....

"We're closing up." The bartender gave him a cheeky smile that could have meant any number of things. He pushed himself away from the counter, only slightly tipsy, and threw a handful of money at the man. "You need me to call a taxi, boy?"

"I'm fine, damnit." He felt his stomach plunge as he walked toward the door, the smoky haze of the air making his head spin. There was a large amount of cheap alcohol in him, more than he had ever had on any of these nightly bar trips, and he just wanted to curl up and die.

"Fine. Just don't go killing yourself." The man's voice echoed empty in his head. "You're my best customer, these days." A hollow laugh followed him as he stepped out the door, walking out into the cool night that was as intoxicating as the bar had been.

The air smelled sour. The breeze felt heavy against his skin, as if weighed down with a chemical. He licked his chapped lips, tasting the remaining drops of his nightly drinking game, and started off down the street, heading nowhere in particular.

People passed him, their noses wrinkled at the man who reeked of liquor and smoke. Once, no one would have done that to him. But now he was just addicted to the night and what it held. Addicted to everything he had once fought to stay away from.

Before all this, before he had given up on everything but his own sins, he had been respected. He had been a young boy then, not much younger than he was now, though his face had aged considerably since then. Worry lines crossed his skin and his once pure eyes were foggy and lied to the world. When he looked in the mirror, he no longer recognized himself.

But others did. When he would pass 'his kind', they would sneer and toss him dirty glances. They knew what he had become and had forgotten what he had done for them. He had saved them all, then betrayed most.

He once was a wizard. He no longer thought of himself that way, however. Long ago he had snapped his wand and thrown it away down an alley, denouncing himself and his past. He hadn't wanted to keep up the charade of living such a lie. He was no wizard. A fraud, perhaps, but no wizard.

He had been Harry Potter. Now his last name never lingered on his lips, nor on the lips of others. It was forgotten, though not accidentally. His father's last name had been Potter, and he had dropped it soon after he found out the truth. The truth about what had happened on that night. So now he had assumed a new name, one that masked all of him well. Though perhaps with what he had become, such a name would have been proper.

The sky was clear, the stars flashed brightly above him as if they were tiny opals waiting to be stolen. He wouldn't be the one to take them, for he didn't care for beauty or grace anymore. Nor did he ever care for such simple things, if he ever thought of it. Perhaps another soul would see them and smile, taking them for their own. They would deserve them more than he would.

A bottle of clear liquid hung limply at his side and he took a swallow now, letting it burn all the way down his throat. It cleared his mind, though it slowly killed his heart with every drink he took. It made his eyes water, and his dreams dark. This would be the death of him, he hoped. He could only hope now.

His past haunted him, his future scared him and all he could hope for was death. This was what had become of the great, famous, Harry Potter. The boy who lived. The savior of the wizarding world. The betrayer of souls. He spat upon the ground as he thought of his titles, not wanting any.

"Sir, can I interest you in...." The voice of a young boy faded as Harry hurried past him. He had been selling some small trinkets, probably trying to survive. Oh, how he wished that the boy would have a better life, though he had nothing to give. All of his money was for his addictions.

All of his friends were gone now, of course. They had left when he had slipped away. Or was it sooner? Was that the reason he had slipped? He couldn't remember now. His only companions were the colored bottles that held his poisons, and the girls that stood on the streets, waiting for men like him. Was he really a man though? Did this make him that way, or had he always been one? Does being a hero, once, really make you a man?

He turned into an alley and leaned against the brick wall, feeling the rough, cold bricks against his back. His head was swimming. The bar would be there tomorrow, as would he, though he wished he could change that.

Everything had crumbled in his seventh year at school. At Hogwarts. He had still been pure then, still known the joys of life not wasted. There he had had friends, had a dream for the rest of his life. Had everything, but lost it all.

Harry felt his body slide down to the ground, his back still against the wall, but he didn't mind. He sat in the dust and dirt, the filth that rats danced upon, the same dirt that poor, helpless men like himself belonged in. His lips were so dry that they were peeling, bleeding, but he didn't care anymore. Nothing mattered at all.

And then he heard it. Bittersweet, but all too enchanting. "Potter. I thought I'd find you here."

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