He was the Boy Who Lived.
He laughed at the simple irony of that title. The Boy Who Lived wishing for death. Wanting it all to be over.
But he couldn't do that. He had people to satisfy. And he hated it. Hated that it was expected of him to vanquish He Who Must Not Be Named. Hogwash. Dumbledore wasn't expected to do so, was he? Nope. Harry was the 'special' boy. He was the destined one.
Not the boy.
Not the boy who felt loss too early. They thought he was too young to remember. That he wouldn't remember losing his father-"James!""It's okay dear, our….son..."- his mother-"Mommy! Mommy! MOMMY!"- to Voldemort. He wanted to feel frustrated. He wanted to scream "You don't understand!" at all those useless apologies and condolences.
He wishes they suffer too.
He wanted to show them what he felt. 'Look at what I lost' he wanted to say 'look dammit, LOOK!" And they will look. But the worst part? They won't see. They can't see. No matter what he does, they won't understand. For there can only be one Boy Who Lived. No one else.
He looks at Neville. Even he doesn't understand. He's drowning, drowning in every expectation that's ever been forced unto him. Bah. They don't even think he can beat Voldemort. They look at him and see a scrawny boy, someone unsuitable for the role. Blimey, even he felt he was unsuitable. He looks into the mirror, and sees someone too cracked to help, too broken.
They don't do anything about it. Nope. They think the good will always win. After all, that's how it's supposed to be, right? Good fights evil? Good will win. Always. It's a principle that has existed since forever. Harry's good, right? Oh, he is? Great! Even if he's scrawny and weak and crazy we will win! Ladies and Gentlemen, this war is guaranteed!
Except he isn't sure if he's good anymore. He doesn't feel good. He doesn't feel righteous or self-sacrificing. He just wants to run away. As far as he possibly can. And he couldn't. He was trapped. Trapped in a fate he wished desperately for it to be someone else's. But he couldn't. He got the short end of the stick.
Kill me. He pleads. Do it to Neville. And he doesn't care that he's dooming Neville. He doesn't. Once upon a time, yes. No more. He was done. He was scared. He wanted to run home to 'Mum' and have her soothe his 'booboos'. But he couldn't.
Despite knowing he can't die before the fated day, a little bit of him dies when he thinks that.
Every time.