He has seen it all.
Felt it all.
Lost it all.
He felt like he'd lived a hundred years, and died a thousand times.
But in reality it's only been seventeen... And a half.
He's not a child anymore, and he knows what pain is, but he can't help but think what if it were different.
He knows he is not incredibly skilled in combat, or spells, or potion brewing, or healing, or anything. Except maybe Quidditch he's pretty damn good at that. But what kind of life skill is that?
But he didn't have to be practically perfect in every way, no one ever asked him to be some kind of genius-type-wunderkind who could do everything. Because he wasn't alone and they all offered to give him a bit of a helping hand.
So he didn't need to be insanely intelligent (he wasn't a Ravenclaw)
He didn't need to be exceptionally kind or hardworking (Hufflepuff didn't fit him either).
And he didn't need to be impossibly ambitious (though he was pretty close to a Slytherin)
But he did need to be brave
Even just a little bit
But bravery. Yes, bravery.
Bravery always befuddled him, it was very forgiving. You could cry, and still be brave, you could run away, and still be brave. You could live...or die, and still be brave.
Bravery was a riddle, wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a word in which seven letters were too weak to hold.
He still didn't understand it, but this was the time he really needed it the most.
He had to be strong, for everyone, they were counting on him just to make it through this one war. Sometimes he wondered if it was actually worth it. Maybe if Voldemort won it couldn't be that bad... Could it?
He thought of Ron and Hermione and Ginny and Luna and Neville and Dean and Seamus and Bill and Fleur and Charlie and Percy and (Fred) and George and Angelina and Molly and Arthur and Hagrid and Hannah and Ernie and Aberforth and Cho and Mungdungus and Demelza and Justin and Marietta and Myrtle and Pravati and Padma and Lee and Katie and Lavender and everyone else he was leaving behind.
But he knew what that man was capable of, the man he was going to meet now. He could give himself up for there sake... Couldn't he?
There was too many questions and not enough answers and not enough time or Dumbledores to answer them all. But for now he knew that his one sacrifice would have to suffice.
Deep inside he knew he was taking the easy way out. But he was sick of fighting and running and hiding and he was tired, so very very tired.
And he knew now that his choice made him Harry Potter: The-Boy-Who-Died, eventually forgotten amongst the ink and quills and ancient parchment, forever to remain just seventeen and a half.
