Harry belongs to JKR. Don't sue me.

I have the sort of name that people speak in all-caps. You can hear it on their tongues, if you care to listen. The Boy Who Lived. The Hero-Who-Defeated-Voldemort. They call me a hero. They say that I saved the world when I was a child.

I don't even remember it.

That sort of thing is hard to live up to, you know?

I've heard my friends, the few that I still have, talking about how great it would be to be rich and famous.

I guess I'm rich. I'm certainly famous enough.

Ron will never understand why I'm jealous of him. It took me a while to figure that out--I thought it was so obvious. I guess it's not; I don't think he even knows how much I envy him.

I don't miss the resentful looks he gives me whenever we go to Gringotts. I just ignore them. I'd give him every last Knut I own if it would change things, but he would only hate me.

He doesn't understand. He grew up poor, so he thinks money is the answer to everything, and he doesn't even see the treasure he's held in his hands since before he was born, that wonderful, magical shield that guards him from the worst that this world has to offer.

I was twelve when I realized that I understood him better than he could ever understand me. I grew up without money.

Ron can't imagine growing up without love.

Even if I told him that, he wouldn't get it. He'd just grin and shake his head. "You don't want a family like mine, Harry. Nutters, all of them."

I do want his family. I want a father who's gentle and kind, who shows me things and would never dream of hitting me, a mother who yells at me when I do something stupid and coddles me when I'm sick. I want half a dozen rowdy brothers who keep me up in the middle of the night by blowing things up in their rooms. I want them all. I remember nights, long ago now, when I stared up at the dusty slats that made up my cupboard ceiling and wanted that so badly that it hurt.

Isn't that pathetic?

Sometimes I want to get mad, to scream and rage at this whole crazy world for putting me in this position. I'm furious with the Dursleys for how they treated me, furious with Dumbledore for putting me with them--sometimes I even get mad at my parents for dying. It's crazy, I guess, but the world's crazy. Why shouldn't I be, too?

This whole situation's funny. My life is funny. Sad, but funny at the same time. There are so many people who dream of meeting me. I didn't believe Hermione until she showed me that article in Teenaged Witch, but it's true, and let me tell you, that can be heady stuff when you're sixteen. If you're sixteen and you're not me, anyway.

I was flattered by the attention for about a month. Then it started to get annoying, having every little thing I did scrutinized. Now, the idea of it makes me sick.

I wish I could be famous for something I've actually done. If you think about it, it's really kind of demented: I'm famous because some psychopath tried to murder me when I was a baby. My parents died defending me, and I just sat there, but no one pays attention to them. They're like set pieces, props. People use them to set up the story, then ignore them.

You know what's even funnier? They sort of ignore me, too. To them, I'm a Hero, a Savior--a Thing. A great, wonderful, even beloved Thing, but a thing nonetheless. The people who actually know I'm a person could probably be counted on one hand, no problem.

Life is different when you're a Thing. You become public property. You can't have your own fears, joys, sorrows--in fact, it's better if you just don't have emotions at all. You have to be tall and handsome and charming. It's like that Muggle show. James Bond. You know how to handle everything.

I can't tell you how many people are disappointed by me. It's really one of the few pleasures I get out of dealing with the public. I don't look like a hero. You can always see it in their eyes.

"That's Harry Potter? The Boy Who Lived? That scrawny kid with the messy hair and broken glasses? Look at his jeans! They must be about four sizes too big for him!"

And I smile, and shake their hand, while inside I snicker. Ron thinks it's funny, too. Luna would, if she were able to tune into this planet often enough to notice. Ginny got so hysterical the last time it happened that we had to leave the building before she collapsed from laughter.

It's my revenge. My one small revenge for this thing that the wizarding world has made me into. I'll play this part; for all of Dumbledore's prattle about choices, it doesn't look like I've got one. Choices are for people, I guess.

I'll be their pawn, defeat their monster, and if I survive, if I'm lucky, maybe I'll get to ride off into the sunset with the girl. I'll be a hero if I have to.

But there's no way in Hell I'm going to act like one.