A/N – I read Deathly Hallows again this week and this came to me. It's a bit depressing, which is a change for me, but I hope you like xx
p.s It's about Harry's scar
The Scar
It started with a scar. A thin white lightning bolt shaped scar, no one thought anymore of it from then on. To the boy it was a talisman, he wore it not with pride, but with a sadness, the scar to him shown him only the death of his parents. To the rest of the world the scar was a trademark, something identifiable, everyone knew who he was. But the most significant thing about the scar was not how it was created, but what it would go on to create. Some believed that the scar would make him millions, others believed that it would make miracles, but the only thing that the scar did, was make thousands more.
The scar had caused him to hurt and scar the people who he loved the most. The people whom he considered family, his best friends, his girlfriend, and his peers had all been scared as a result of the lightning bolt on his forehead. But to him these were the most insignificant, they could be easily healed, he would nurse then personally. No, to him the scars that cut him the deepest were the scars that are left on the people he didn't know, the people that had risked their lives to help him. Those scars, their scars, were also his; it was because of him that their children would ask why their parents had long white cuts on their bodies. It was because of him that children would grow up, as he did, with no mother to hold them when they made scars of their own, no father to guide them and teach them to ride their first broomstick. It was these scars that he knew cut the deepest, and from experience, he knew that those were the scars that hurt the most. And there were there because of him.