Okay, guys. I don't know what to say about this. I know that the rest of my stories have been...pathetic at best, and this is no better, but I think this is important – our viewing of characters that we love. Lily, Harry...It's important to remember they were both humans, not saints. Just enjoy.
He picked up a Chocolate Frog Card. The face on it was almost as familiar as his own. Thin face, vividly green eyes. And above those eyes, a thin scar in the shape of a lightning bolt.
He slowly turned the Card over, his eyes moving to the description. He read it slowly, only a few, rare words sticking with him.
Harry Potter...Saviour of the Wizarding World...Vanquisher of Lord Voldemort...The Chosen One.
The Card was only one example. One example of how the world regarded his best friend as their saviour, as a hero. How they embellished his good traits and glossed over every flaw. They ignored everything that had made the man Harry James Potter, everything that had made him human.
He had once been jealous. He had once wanted some of that fame for himself. Now he knew. Now he understood. It wasn't a compliment to be regarded as a saint.
It was a deadly insult. It took away from everything good that someone ever did in their lifetime.
He had seen the letters, the magazine articles. He had seen the repetition of the same thing again and again. Selfless Harry Potter, too good to do a single thing for himself.
He remembered as well as Harry himself. The temper, quick to flare; the grudges he had held.
Not even some of his friends seemed to remember his flaws. None, save for the ones closest to him. Time, years filled with nothing but praise for the man they should know, seemed to have rewritten their memories. Memories of laughter, fights, arguments, good times, with a friend who had many talents and good traits, but an equal amount of flaws...They couldn't remember ordinary Harry.
Ron Weasley remembered Colin Creevey. He had died for the man he had once worshipped. But that boy, not yet an adult, had grown out of that phase. He had learned to love Harry the man, not the image of perfection no one could uphold. And it had been the very human Harry Colin had died for.
Had Harry been the martyr everyone made him out to be...none of his many sacrifices would have meant anything. For what could the saint everyone saw do but sacrifice his own life for everyone else, laid down his life for theirs, without a single second's hesitation?
With every word of praise someone awarded Harry without a criticism to balance it, his sacrifice was made a little less remarkable, until it would mean nothing.