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Summary: They only saw him as their hero. They saw him as perfect, as flawless. All they saw was their hero, the hero he wasn't and didn't want to be. He was incomplete and couldn't go on living beneath false smiles and fake laughs. Harry Potter's last letter to the world.
Dear friends, family…dear world,
I am the hero, your hero. I am the savior, your savior. I am the reason you are alive today, the reason evil exists only in our memories. That's who you think I am. That's who I'm not.
You cannot truly see me if I can't even see myself. I am buried under pretences, under fake smiles and under modesty. I am dying inside and you can't see me. Perhaps if I were dying on the outside you would notice, understand that I am not immortal.
I blame you as I blame myself. For it was all there to see for those who were willing to look. In my silence I was begging for a hand to help me onto my feet. For I had fallen many years ago and no one was there to pick me back up. And you call me your hero…
I lost my life as my enemy lost his. And yet I continue to survive. Anyone who ever saw me for what I was died in that war. And that is my torture. To live whilst they are gone. To put a smile on my face when they are not here to enjoy it with me. In short, to be stuck with people who consider me their hero.
If I am a hero, I am a reluctant one. As Hermi-…someone once told me, I have a "saving people thing". But I don't want to be the hero anymore…all I want is to be free.
All I want is to escape those people who think that they know what I am going through. Those people who pat me on the back saying, "You must be so proud of yourself". What am I to be proud of? Living whilst my friends died? Lying to myself and everyone else pretending that I'm okay? I'm not okay…I will never be okay.
There is a hollow emptiness inside me that is never to be filled, for its pieces have been lost. If you had taken the time to see me, to look into my eyes you would have seen this hollowness. You would have seen that all is not as it seems. You would have seen that my life was not perfect, that it was not something to aspire for. I am not your hero.
If you had taken the time to know me, to know the real me, you would have seen that I didn't want the fame, the glory. You would have seen that I don't need the riches. You would have seen that life is not measured by success…for I am a living example of that.
You would call my life successful. I admit, I have accomplished a rather lot. But I am not successful, just the opposite. My life means nothing. It is incomplete and so I am incomplete.
For without understanding I am nothing. Without guidance I cannot function. I am no hero, I have my flaws. That is why I cannot go on, because none of you saw me as being human. You saw me as perfect. You didn't see the negative.
And now, because of you, the negative is all I see. You focused long and hard on why I was to be honored and so I cannot concentrate on anything except why I shouldn't be. You focused on the good and so it is my duty to focus on the bad. If only you had accepted me for all I was. If only…
If only I was truly a hero, if only I still belonged in Gryffindor. It was my house, my pride and I used to deserve to be there. But now I possess none of its qualities. For here I am, taking the coward's way out just to satisfy my need for understanding.
And perhaps if you had noticed me, I would not be holding this knife to my heart. And perhaps if you had seen me, I would not be writing this letter at all, for I would be happy…or at least as happy as could be expected. And perhaps if you had understood my pain and accepted me for human I would accept you. But how can I accept those who do not accept me?
For who are you? Do you even know? I know who you are. You are someone reading this letter and not understanding anything I have just put down on this page. You still think that none of it is true, that I am happy. You are someone that has re-built their life after the terror was gone and you looked to me to be your hero. I cannot be everyone's hero…I can't even be my own.
Perhaps my dead body will give you some idea of what it is like to be me. Perhaps you will finally understand me. Or perhaps this letter was written in vain. Is it possible for someone to read what I have written and disregard it? To misunderstand it? I should hope not…but my experiences have made me lose faith in most of the wizarding race. Perhaps you will never understand what I went through. But that's your fault not mine.
This whole letter is filled with "what if's". But there is no changing the past, just as there is no stopping what is to come. I died long before tonight when this knife will spill my blood once and for all.
And so here I am, pouring what is left of my soul on to this piece of parchment. I was never one for writing, but some things just need to be said. For I have never been truly understood and now the pain has all become too much. I live everyday hoping for a friend to understand what I went through, but no one comes. And I am alone…all alone.
The first true happiness that has come into my heart for years is the knowledge that this day will be my last. And this letter is my good-bye. It is my good-bye to everyone who thought that they knew who I was. But I'm sorry I can't be perfect…I can't be your hero.
I blame you…I blame me, but I will be happy where I am going. I will be complete. I will be their hero…the hero I want to be.
Remember to forget Harry Potter.
With his final thoughts written on the page, he took his last moment to appreciate the beauty of the world. He saw the rolling hills and the blue sky. He heard the soft twitter of the birds and the gentle whistle of the wind. He took his last breaths and turned his attention once more to the knife in his hand.
In one swift motion, he brought the knife down and into his stomach. He gasped as pain struck. He had felt pain before, and never enjoyed it, but this…this was different. It was excruciating, yes, but he felt an odd sense of satisfaction in seeing his blood run all over the table and floor, watching it soak into the parchment lying in front of him, leaving it bloodstained, but readable.
"I'm coming home," he muttered his last words before drifting into blackness.