I loath hiding.
It makes me feel useless, you know? I've always been the type to go out there and make things happen.
I guess that's the Gryffindor in me…
It's hard, sitting here day after day, just waiting for something to happen…or, hopefully, for nothing to happen.
Lily, Lily's been so calm throughout this, from the point that Dumbledore told us the prophecy with Harry still just a few days old, to now, when we're prisoners in our own home out of fear that the monster who's hunting us might find Harry.
I really admire my wife; she just takes everything in stride, shrugs her shoulders and works to make the best of it.
Harry's been wonderfully tolerant over the fact that we're having trouble letting him out of our sight…but you know, when a madman is hunting for your 15-month-old, it's hard to help the terror that fills you when he's out of sight for even a moment.
I'd give anything to be out there doing something.
She'd be mad at me if she knew I was writing this, she says we need to keep in good spirits for Harry.
But…I'm scared; scared that maybe none of us will survive this. Scared, most of all, that Harry might not survive this. Oh yeah, I'm scared for Lily and me, but…Harry hasn't even had a chance to live yet. He's never had a chance to do anything.
If Dumbledore is right, and by Merlin, I hope he isn't, Harry could be the only thing really able to stop Voldemort…
What kind of life is that for a child? Growing up, knowing that you're nothing but a tool for the good guys to use to take out the bad guys? Who does that, I mean, what higher power looks down, causally points to an infant and decides that he's supposed to be a hero!
I don't want that for my son.
I want him to grow up, go to Hogwarts, fall in love, have his uncles and his parents make fun of him at his wedding…and know he's loved, that he's nobody's weapon. I want him to grow up with no greater weight around his shoulders than that of what every other kid worries about.
I don't want my son to be the hero.
But, truthfully, I think he is.
I've spoken to Frank, about Neville; he says Neville has been as normal as can be, your average 15-month-old, wizard baby.
I hated Frank, at that moment, looking at his tiny son and realizing that it would be mine that had to fulfill this stupid prophecy, and why? Because some woman said a few words and by some chance roll of the dice my son was chosen.
It's easier to be angry than scared.
It was easier to be mad that Frank and Alice drew the lucky lot that gave them a child with no grand destiny.
Than to be scared over the fact that someday Harry is going to have to kill or be killed.
I look at my son, my perfect little boy, his mother's eyes gazing back at me, and I want to fall down and beg some higher power to take away this axe that is hanging over our heads and just let him be Harry.
Nothing more than Harry.
And Merlin, if somebody up there is listening, I don't care if it costs me my life, just so long as my son gets to live his.
James Potter, October 31.
