Depressed Decisions

**~**Prologue**~**

Sixteen-year-old Harry Potter sat on his bed at twelve Grimmauld Place, staring out the windows as the sun rose. It was his sixteenth birthday. Not that he felt much like celebrating. Just being in this house, and looking at the rooms, made him feel like he was going to break down. Everything reminded him of how Sirius had suffered here, in his childhood, and later on again during adulthood. He felt as trapped as Sirius had. It did not help that he blamed himself for his godfather's death. If he had only asked Snape... or practiced Occlumency harder... or listened to Hermione's warnings, maybe Sirius would still be alive and safe....

No no no nonononononoNONONONONO! He was not going to think about that again, he was not going to torment himself with his love for Sirius. Love. That's what all this was about. If he never loved, he would never have to go through all of this pain, no one would. Maybe Voldemort was right about love being a weakness. Whoa! Where did that come from? he asked himself, although he did have a point.

Deciding he would rather wallow in self pity than think about how Voldemort had proved him wrong, he slid off of the bed and walked down the hall to Sirius's room. Inside was a bed, a dresser, and a nightstand. Harry began to explore the contents of the drawers, finding them all empty, except for the one in the nightstand, which seemed to hold a journal.

Opening the journal, Harry began to flip through it. He looked at random entries, until he fond one dated three days before his godfather's death. In the entry, Sirius stated the same things that had just been going through Harry's mind. He told how he sometimes wished that he could forget about love because the things he loved seemed to be the only things giving him problems. He also went on about how angry he was at Dumbledore for keeping him trapped in this old, decaying house for so long with nothing useful to do.

The thought of Dumbledore still made anger boil in Harry's stomach. He had seen the Headmaster only a handful of times stopping by headquarters and each time he did he locked himself in his room and threw things about. Dumbledore was convinced that the fact that Harry was so upset about his godfather's death was a good thing. This apparently meant that he was 'still a man' and capable of strong emotions. In a nutshell, it made him better that Voldemort. Dumbledore had obviously never lost someone very close to him.

Harry lay himself down on the bed and thought about what he'd read. From now on, he wasn't going to love again. Loving was too strong and powerful, too painful to be endured by one person alone. Love was something for couples that had nothing better to do and people with small children, and he probably wouldn't live long enough to have either of those things.

Harry went back up to his room with the journal. When he got there, he tossed the book into the fire. He didn't need to be reminded of Sirius and the pain he'd experienced during his second stay at Grimmauld Place ever again.

The only good that came from the journal was Harry's next idea. Maybe he could cope better if he wrote his own journal. He picked up some parchment from the dresser and wrote 'Journal-PRIVATE' on the top sheet. Then he flipped the page and started his first entry.

Along with him not loving anyone, if he could get no one to love him, no one would be upset when he died. He didn't want to cause the same pain to his friends that Sirius had caused him, of course it hadn't really been his fault, it had been Harry's-no! I will not let myself believe that. And here I go with my stupid hero-complex again. Being all noble and giving up love. My life sucks. I should just go find Voldemort and tell him to kill me.

The rest of the summer holidays went the same way.