Less Like Them, More Like Me

Less Like Them, More Like Me

"I've

Become so numb

I can't feel you there

Become so tired

So much more aware

I'm becoming this

All I want to do

Is be more like me

And be less like you..."

~Numb, Linkin Park

Chapter One:

I'm lonely. I don't know what to do anymore. I feel so dead all the time. I'm a hero. I battled, and I won. I saved the world. Yet people don't want Harry Potter, they want the Boy Who Lived. And I lived again, I didn't disappoint them. My audience. And I'm their starring role. I'm their golden boy.

But I couldn't save him. I couldn't save Draco Malfoy from himself. He's torn up inside, I can feel it. And I shouldn't care, I shouldn't care for the feelings of a boy who put me through hell every day. But I can't help it.

Because he brings me back to life. He fills a void that I never knew was there. He's saving me, and I can't save him. He won't let me.

He won't let me inside.

***

The sun peeked through the windows of the Slytherin Common Room, winking gently through the trees. Draco Malfoy groaned and rolled over.

A mistake.

He fell off the couch that he had been sleeping on with a loud "thump." Draco muffled his cry; it would be inappropriate for a Slytherin to acknowledge pain.

I thought you wanted to feel pain?

Shut up. Leave me alone.

It's not in my nature to leave you alone.

What are you?

Your conscience. What did you think?

Draco groaned, picking himself up off the ground. He was going mad, he knew it. Talking to himself? Not acceptable for a Malfoy. Not right. Not...

He shook his head, trying to clear it. Settling back on the couch, he let his eyes close and tried to go back to sleep, but it was no use. His mind wouldn't go back into a dormant state. Draco sighed, rising to his feet. He looked at the large, black grandfather clock. It's silver hands pointed to the shimmering, green numbers. Nine o'clock.

He was late for breakfast.

***

Look. There he is, sitting with his friends. His worshippers. Everyone loves him. Who loves you?

***

Rivalry: the act of competing as for profit or a prize

Shame: a state of dishonor

Conscience: A feeling of shame when you do something immoral

Secrecy: the condition of being concealed or hidden

***

I hate sitting here. Everyone pretends they like me, but I know they're just afraid of me. Or they want to be on my good side. I hate it when they pretend. They think I'm too stupid to realize their games. They treat me like a child. I hate it. I hate it.

***

Harry sat at the long, Gryffindor table, staring into space while he idly stirred his coffee. It had long ago gone cold, and his friends had left a while ago, making awkward excuses and apologies. He had waved them off absentmindedly. He was lucky it was Saturday: he'd be missing his classes if it were a weekday.

He knew Ron and Hermione were worried about him. He knew that they talked to each other when they thought he wasn't listening. They talked about him, about how he was so quiet.

Almost never happy.

Hardly ever laughing.

That's what they always said. And as much as Harry didn't want to admit it, he knew they were right. He felt alone, even when he was surrounded by his friends. They didn't know anything. He had seen so much death...they were so lucky, they didn't know how lucky they were, so many deaths...

He didn't want to laugh. He didn't deserve to laugh anymore. He didn't deserve to be happy, either. Harry felt like he hadn't accomplished anything by defeating Voldemort. So he lived.

So what?

So many others didn't.

So what?

He should've died with the rest.

So why not fix it?

Harry laid his head on his arms, swallowing the lump that threatened to choke him. He felt so cold. He pulled his robes closer together, shivering. Harry had thought about suicide many times, but he didn't want to go through the effort of trying to explain in a letter to his friends why he had to do it, why he had to end everything. He might not have wanted to talk to them anymore, but that didn't mean he didn't love them any less.

And that's what hurt so much. Harry wanted to leave, he wanted to lay down and give up and make it all go away, but he didn't like to think about what that would do to Ron and Hermione. He knew that there was the possibility that they would follow him into death; that they, too, would kill themselves. He would have been at fault then, and he couldn't do that to his friends.

A sob hitched in the back of his throat. He fought it down angrily, shuddering. A cold voice came from behind him.

"Crying again, Potter? How very weak of you."

Instantly hot anger flowed through Harry. He stood quickly, staring directly into Malfoy's blank, grey eyes.

He makes you alive.

I'm so fucking alive...