Harry was scared.
Well, actually, he wasn't scared. He was absolutely, completely, and totally frightened.
He was staring out a window to the grounds, contemplating how he was going to deal with Voldemort. That was the problem. He didn't know. He was only a seventeen-year-old, up against someone with decades of experience. Someone who had no qualms about the dark arts. Someone who tortured, maimed, and killed daily.
He had to say, the odds were stacked against him.
He was stuck in a hole that'd been dug deeper each time he defied Voldemort. Maybe in his early years he could've run and made it, but now it'd take a miracle for him to disappear.
It didn't help that no one would help him. He was expected to stumble through it all on his own. With love. What was he supposed to do with love? Hug him? Likely.
Really, he was going off to die. Which, actually, would fulfil the prophecy.
Really, death kind of seemed welcome. He'd see his mum and dad, his family, Sirius, and all the others that had died.
Though, they might blame him for their deaths.
Not looking so welcome now.
Really, he didn't know what was going to happen. He made it through before due to luck and his mother's protection, although that was void now.
He was also wondering why the wizarding world didn't save themselves. In all honesty, putting the fate of society on a teenager's shoulders seemed like a recipe for disaster, not the smartest move.
Then again, they elected Fudge, who stood in their 'Saviour's' way at every turn. Not the smartest society.
So, in all, he felt he was set up for failure. He didn't know what to do, no one would help him, and the odds weren't good.
Thus, he was scared.
A/N: Just my insight into how Harry must've felt before facing old Volde... Who wouldn't be petrified?