A/N: This may seem a bit angsty, and it probably is, but that's what I love about it. I've been in a writing slump for a few weeks, and this just kind of came to me after seeing Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire for the second time. The scene where he's crying over Cedric's body somehow hit me harder than it ever had, and the idea of what Harry really has to deal with finally got to me. For some reason, I had to keep listening to the song "Swing Life Away" by Rise Against. Just a random trivia fact there for ya. So, here is the result. Enjoy.

This Is What Matters

Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy.
--F. Scott Fitzgerald

You are eleven years old when you're told. You are the one, the only one. The Boy Who Lived. You are the savior of not only the Wizarding world, but the Muggle world as well. Because, let's face it, your arch nemesis (because you have one now) isn't going to stop at taking over his own realm. Once he's done with the wizards and witches, he'll attempt to reach farther, to gain more. Even though it's quite possible that he'll never have enough, because nothing will ever be enough to fill the void.

You know this because you've met him before. You've seen how he operates, how he demands absolute loyalty. Not only that, but because, in a way, you are like him. You have voids of your own that need filling; empty pockets of emotion that you're not quite sure how to fix. It makes you awkward and, at times, ambivalent. It made him greedy and cruel. Sometimes you wonder how you didn't just end up like him. You hated your life growing up, and you hated the world. You were angry at your parents for not being there, and missed them so much it hurt. And then you remember your friends. Ron and Hermione have always been there for you, no matter what little tiffs or squabbles you all may have had. You remember that there was good that came with the bad. There was good.

But still, it's a lot of weight to put on just one person. Especially when that person is fairly young yet. All the difficult decisions, and the heart wrenching mistakes, and the doubt. The price that one must pay when they are a hero. Walking alone, because that's the heroic thing to do. And these antiquated ideas take root in your head, because you know that if you don't walk alone, and if you lose, then others will lose with you. And you figure that one is payment enough for winning.

You hear them talking in the halls. 'He hasn't been the same since the Tri-Wizard Tournament…' You don't know how they would know, or why they would even care. But that doesn't change the fact that it's true. Everybody kept telling you afterward that it wasn't your fault. That Voldemort killed Cedric, and he was the one at fault. But you know in your heart it was you. You brought him there. It's true, you didn't know the Cup was a portkey. You didn't know Voldemort would be waiting for you in the graveyard of your nightmares. But you should've. You've had dreams come true before, and you should've known. But you didn't. And then Cedric was dead. No, you haven't been the same since, because you've seen the light go out in someone's eyes. A piece of you died with him that day.

But you are The Boy Who Lived. This is your life, your destiny, your future. This is your path to tread, and yours alone. You have choices to make, and so you make them. You have bridges to cross, and so you cross them, hoping every step of the way that they don't give way beneath your feet. And when they do you get up, brush yourself off, and keep on going. You dance around your fate, each time circling closer. And you don't know how it will turn out. You don't know if you'll win, or lose; and even if you do win, will you still fall? It would be easy enough to crack up under all this pressure. Nobody would blame you. Some of them are surprised you've even lasted this long. But you know that you can't. You look at Ron and Hermione. You look at Hagrid. You see people in the halls smiling, and laughing. These are the good things. And this is what matters.

And each man stands with his face in the light of his own drawn sword. Ready to do what a hero can.
--Elizabeth Barrett Browning