He's the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, the Gryffindor hero, the Slytherin heir-who-wasn't-supposed-to-be. He's a wizard, a Parselmouth, a son, a godson, a friend, a boyfriend, a little boy forced to grow up too fast because of a prophecy he knew nothing about.
He's soil and sweat and pain and loneliness and tears (don'tletthemsee). He's the protector of muggles and muggle-borns, the pureblood-halfblood-Merlin knows what. He's the special child, the gifted one, the rich one with more than money, the one who didn't grow up to be a psychotic dark lord despite a horrible childhood.
He's the blood on the Chamber floor, the phoenix tears flowing through the wound, the snake's venom working its way to his heart. He's the hands of love that destroyed another man when he was young, so young, too young. He's the patronus between his newly discovered godfather and a dozen dementors.
He's the little boy in a man's body asking where his parents are and why he is scarred. He's the grown man in a boy's body, standing in a musty graveyard, surrounded by demons from the past. He's the hero that stares into red eyes, casts a harmless spell and triumphs.
He's the shy boy on a train, talking with a redhead and rescuing a wild-haired brunette. He's the best friend that dies for his friends, drags them through the woods on a hopeless/helpless/awful quest. He's the son, standing in front of his parents' graves for the first time, with nothing to give them, yet everything to show for it.
He's the godson screaming in pain as his closest father figure disappears right in front of him, killed by a member of his own family. He's the Cruciatus curse that can't even inflict pain on those who deserve it; he's the pure heart that is able to banish the mind of a monster he's been connected with for 14 years.
He's the student, watching hidden and restrained, as his mentor is murdered by the grayest man he knows. He watches, horrified, as blood spills on white skin, contrasting with blond hair, ohmygodwhatdidIdo.
He's a mother's eyes and a father's hair and a legacy born from a destiny he never wanted and would trade away for the simple feel of a loving embrace. He's the brave warrior, casting spells on a battlefield, praying they all make it out alive. He watches the deaths, one by one, of students he knew and didn't, knowing it was because of him they died.
He defeats his greatest enemy, the red-eyed snake that was his double in all but moral, not with a bang or a boom, but with a quietness born from a life of servitude. He's the nightmare, waking up in the middle of the night with red eyes and a darker wand, a legion of followers branded with death.
He's the master of the Elder Wand, Master of Death, master of everything but himself.
He's a hero of a fate he didn't want.
He's Harry Potter, just Harry.