Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. If I did, it would be nothing but gay sex, sex and angst.
Warning: Hphmm...you're gonna make me ruin it? Fine, then...angst and suicide.
A/N: Random thought. You'd have to be brave to kill yourself. Therefore, Harry.
They have always called me brave. I have never been able to see why. I just did what I had to.
I was scared, too. I was scared, terrified, when the war began. I was scared before the war. I thought brave people didn't get scared.
Everybody congratulated me after the war ended. They patted my back, thanked me and called me the bravest man who has ever lived. I just wanted to get away from them.
I saw Draco, one day on the street. He looked scared. It was after the war ended.
I was still scared, somehow. Even though Voldemort was dead, I was scared. Everyone seemed happy, even those who had lost someone seemed to move on. Was I the only one who was like this?
Hermione and Ron were happy. They got married, and Hermione is pregnant. She says I should be the godfather. But haven't I fucked up enough lives?
Ginny can't stand being near me anymore. She cries every time she sees me. She moved back to the Burrow, and that was that. It was over.
They don't get why I'm not happy, seeing as Voldemort is dead, most Death Eaters are in Azkaban, and I don't have Lord Voldemort chasing after me all the time.
But I can't. Too many memories. Hermione says I should see a therapist. But they would just treat me like the Boy-Who-Lived, like anybody else.
Even to Hermione and Ron, it seems like I am nothing more than that anymore. They keep talking about it, and praise me for what I did. But I wasn't good enough. Hundreds were killed, how can that be praised?
They always called me brave, even though I wasn't. I'm not brave enough to live through this. I'm not brave enough to handle another day.
I'm not sure if I even am brave enough to kill myself, to actually do it. If I'm brave enough to raise my wand and whisper those two little words.
It's either this or another day full of everything, all that, I tell myself.
I stroke my fingers over the wood of my wand. It's familiar, I have done this so many times before. Luckily, it wasn't this wand that killed him. I wouldn't be able to hold it in my hands if it was. It's ironic, that magic saved my life, when I got away from the Dursleys, only to get me into much worse things. Magic saved my life, then ruined it, and now it's gonna kill me.
I decide to be brave, for once, and raise my wand, pointing it at myself. I know that people will be sad, but no one seemed to acknowledge just how miserable I have become. I've already done what I should. I killed Voldemort, like I was destined to. They can't ask any more of me, now.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. Pointing my wand directly at my heart, I know that's as soon as these two little words are said out loud, I will be gone. Dead, and nothing can bring me back.
It feels like a relief, and tears falls down my cheeks, for the first time in years. I make my lips wet, and swallow, before opening my mouth to finish it all:
'Avada Kedavra'
