I pace around the room. The sun is setting, and the room is alight with a golden color. Gold, like Gryffindor. Sirius was a Gryffindor… No, I tell myself. I will not think of him. I refuse to think of him. Mourning cannot bring Sirius back; it cannot bring any of the others back. No, I will not mourn.

When I was younger, I used to imagine what life would have been like if I had been raised by my mom and dad. I have so many dreams about them, and I wonder if that's what life truly would have been like with them. But I'll never know. I never really knew them. All I have of them are echoes. That's it. Reflections in a mirror and voices in the dark.

I wonder what she looked like. I have pictures, but pictures can lie. What did her hair look like in the sun? What was her scent? The sound of her voice, in a low, pleasant lullaby? What about my father? Exactly how messy was his hair in the morning? Did his voice sound like Sirius's? No, I promised myself I would not think of Sirius…

Damn him. Sirius, why did you have to die? You can't die; you were all I had left. Sirius, did you know how much you meant to me? You were the closest thing to a parent I had. I know Mrs. Weasley likes to fancy herself my mum, but sometimes, I wish she would just leave me alone. You, you understood. You knew what to say and do. I could see why my father and you were best friends.

The sun has set now, and a gray twilight lights the room. I sit down on my bed.

What does it feel like, to die? When you've been Avada Kedevraed? Sure, it looks painless, but when that light hits your chest, what is it like? To feel a spell weave through your skin and veins, through your chest and into your heart. Does it hurt, in that instant between death and life? Does what seems to be an instant to us stretch to an eternity of never-ending pain? Is one awash in a sea of broken glass and knives, like in the cruciatus?

Maybe it's like freezing to death. It's so cold, it burns and burns, until it doesn't hurt anymore, and you're just tired and want some sleep. And then you lay down to rest… It could be like fire. Conscious throughout, you can feel yourself liquefy in the intense heat, feel the agony of a burn throughout your whole body, a feeling you can never escape, no matter how long you wait.

Do they have any last thoughts when they're hit? Was my father thinking of my mother and me? If so, what was he thinking? Was he thinking of her coppery red hair, of my green eyes? Or was he thinking Damn, I left the stove on again.

And my mother. I know she was thinking of me. But did she think of my father? How did she feel, hearing him die? Was she distraught? Or was she at peace, knowing she would be with him soon, and so had to worry about me for now.

Why? Why me, mom? It's always about me, isn't it? You and dad died to save me, and look at me now. I just got your best friend killed, not to mention an innocent boy. I'm a murderer, aren't I? Accidental manslaughter… or would it be intentional, in the case of Cedric? After all, I did want him to take the Cup with me.

You know what I hate, mom, dad, Sirius? How everyone seems to envy me. Even Ron. I've seen it, in his eyes. Even when he's laughing, it's there. I know Ron would never intentionally betray or hurt me, but he must die a little inside each time he's reminded of how famous I am. Hermione, she's just worried about Ron, and me. But she's worried about Ron in a different way; I've known it since the Yule Ball in fourth year. She's a wonderful girl, though a bit mental. Luna and Neville, oh, they're a pair. Both outcasts pretending they're happy. And Ginny. Well, what can I say about Ginny? She's a mystery. I never really knew her before this year. I suppose I'll find out about her soon enough.

But they all have one thing in common: they all look up to me as the leader. And I hate that. I can't do this. But you know what? I have to. Because no one else will.

But why won't they? Divination's just a bunch of crap, right? If so, it could just as easily be Hermione, or Ron who could do this. Or maybe not. Perhaps prophecies come true for no other reason than that the right person with the right abilities was born at the right place at the right time. If so, then I'm not really "fated" to destroy Voldemort. After all, if Voldemort had chosen Neville, it would be he in this place and not me.

But would he have done the same things I have done so far? Would he have tried to figure out the Philosopher's Stone, the Chamber of Secrets? What about Pettigrew, and the Triwizard Tournament? What about the Department of Mysteries?

Somehow, I doubt he would have made the same choices as me. He's valiant; the Department fiasco proved that beyond a doubt, but there's still the simple reason that he's not me. Voldemort simply made a random choice, and here I am, the Chosen One, the Savior. I have to kill him because I am the only person with the right skills right now. How ironic, that Voldemort helped to seal his own defeat…

But what if I don't win. What if I lose? Well, I suppose I'd learn the answer to my questions about death. That's something. I wouldn't have to worry about saving everyone anymore. I could just rest, sleep, and dream a dream of forgetfulness.

But I'd also be a murderer. If I lose, I would be condemning thousands to torture and death. They would curse my name, and die without hope. If I die, I'd condemn the world to hearing only the echoes of what might-have-been. And soon, even those echoes would fade away, until the gray light of misery surrounded everything, and permeated every memory. And only the dead would know true happiness.

I lay down on my bed and stared up at the sky. Through my window, I could see the stars. In the winter, I'd also be able to see the Dog Star. Sirius. Shining in the black sky. Thank heaven I'd be at Hogwarts then.

I roll away from the window, unwilling to face thoughts of Sirius. If I just didn't think, it would all just go away, back into a place where it wouldn't torment me. Unfortunately, I could feel it. No matter how many layers I wrapped it up in, it would still be there. It would always be there. The only escape from it was sleep and death.

Death was, for now, denied to me. But I could fall asleep. It was the only way to forget. And so I began to let my mind go blank, my thoughts scatter, as I drifted away to blessed sleep. I was safe. For now.