Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter ... or Dean Winchester, who inspired Harry's little burst of ... whatever you want to call this. :)
"You will make it out alive, God willing; I remember times when you were holding on by a thread of a chance." - Mayday Parade
Not one person could say they knew Harry Potter like the back of their hand. Certainly not his parents, who'd been dead for fifteen years. His two best friends came pretty close, but He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named came even closer. Harry knew this, and knew it well; it was one of the reasons he stayed awake for hours, staring at the top of his four-poster, listing to Ron's snoring to keep him rooted in reality. He knew that when this whole thing came to a head, he'd be the one standing on the front line, the weight of everyone's lives on his shoulders. A weight he'd been testing recently; a weight that made his shoulders droop forward and his heart fall into his stomach, where it stayed, thrumming out an unsteady beat.
No, no one understood Harry Potter. People claimed to, people sympathized with him, but no one understood how heavy his heart was or how the guilt crashed upon him in waves every night until he drowned. Harry did not necessarily want people to understand; he did not wish this horrible weight upon anyone. Of course, he was a sixteen-year-old boy and he wanted someone to come and relieve him of it, but he was resigned to the fact that this was his to see to the end.
Harry turned over onto his side, his eyes drifting towards the form of his best friend. He saw Ron and Hermione's face was in his mind's eye. The two most important people in his world. The two who were willing to follow him to the end of the earth and back. Before Harry registered what he was doing he was out of bed and on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. His desperation brought words to his lips, words he meant with every ounce of feeling left in him.
"They don't deserve this," he said softly, but the conviction and the anger were noticeable in the hardness of his voice. "Maybe I do, but I don't care about myself. If you are up there, whoever you are, you will let them go. You have no -" Harry stopped, taking a deep breath through his nose before continuing. "Just let them go. You can keep me here as your little pawn in whatever game you're playing, but I swear I will not rest if you play with them too. I will find you."
Harry rested his head on his clasped hands, and he stayed like that for a long time; the anger he felt rushing through him gradually calming into something he could push to the back of his mind and lock away. Then he got back underneath his crimson covers, a new and different determination steeling his heart in his chest. He whispered, "Amen."