Blood Stained and Lettered

Chapter 1: Page by Page

To whoever obtains this letter,

Maybe this was a stupid idea. Maybe I'm just being an impulsive teenager… I don't know. But Hedwig does; my girl will always get my letters to who they're meant for. So I'm trusting her with this—whatever this is.

I know I'm going to die eventually. A lot earlier than the rest of my classmates. I just don't know how.

It's strange, isn't it? The Boy-Who-Lived, destined to die, whether it be at the hand of the person he destroyed or the very people who "raised" him. I just don't know anymore. Nothing makes sense. If I'm going to die, why can't I just be a Gryffindor about it…?

My name is Harry James Potter. I was born on the thirty first of July, 1980, and I am going to die.

You probably know me. If you don't, you don't. Hell if I know where Hedwig is sending this…

If I make it through this summer, and through the next school year, I'll most likely be dead the next. My uncle—he—… These days, he's always so angry at me. Well, he's always been, really, but recently… I just… I thought things would get less violent as I grew older—as the Order began to try and protect me more.

I was wrong. I should've been used to being wrong, but still…

You know what, this is a stupid idea. I should've never written anything—and I shouldn't send this either—but Hedwig's here looking insistent that I give her something to send off, and I've always been a sucker for my owl…

Nothing will change, even if you're Lord-bloody-Voldemort who gets this.

I… I… I'm sorry for burdening you with this, whoever you are.

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I promised I wasn't going to write again. Promised. Swore to myself—but apparently that doesn't mean anything because here I am. Trying to write with a broken wrist and a few broken ribs. Am I failing miserably yet?

I probably already have. No one's cared enough to tell me.

So… I'm not really sure how this works. Is Hedwig going to send this to a different person? Did my first letter actually go anywhere at all? It must've, since my girl didn't come back with anything, but who knows. I certainly don't. I never got a reply either, from you or whoever got my first letter, which means a) they think that I'm a freak or impersonator or that it was a prank, or b) that it fell off along the way.

I personally think a) is more likely; Hedwig never fails a delivery.

So… uh… here I am. Harry bloody Potter—literally. Don't know what I've been doing and never have, but oh well.

Say, do you think you've ever lived? If anyone asked me that, I probably wouldn't know how to reply. Funny huh? The Boy-Who-Lived, not even sure if he'd ever lived… how ironic. But true, really. I'm not sure, not certain, don't even know what the hell living is. Is it to live with a family? To be happy? To love someone? To be loved?

I feel like a crumpled up piece of paper. Tossed in some dark corner and'll be forgotten for the next several months… and when they find me, they'll probably smooth me out and look over barely legible writing, take one glance, frown, and crumple me back up again. Throw me out. Put me in the trash. I don't know.

I never know anymore. What kind of Gryffindor am I, pathetic and cowardly here? I don't have any confidence, don't have any courage… I've always just been Harry. Who've I been kidding when I say I'm a Gryffindor? That person who slew a basilisk, that person who got the Stone, that person who valiantly fought a Hungarian Horntail…