People always said that he was famous, that everyone knew his name, and that he was legendary for defeating Voldemort even if he didn’t remember it or understand properly. Whether they loved or feared him, people always looked at him with something resembling awe in their eyes while some backed away and bowered their heads in respectful fear of what he was capable of. He was only a mere schoolboy, and yet he was surrounded by the myth of who other people had decided he was meant to be.
But that is the thing with myths. They don’t always truly exist.
Harry had grown up knowing the myths about Merlin, and now he realised those myths were true, so it was near impossible for him to think of himself as the hero, the saviour, the last hope that people had. Blood fills his cheeks when he hears of the way children were rocked to sleep with tales of his heroics and the promise that he would protect him. It was embarrassing, and incomprehensible for a child that would have given anything for a bedtime story of his own.
They were looking for a hero and he was just looking for a home.
He had no unique power of his own, no mythical sword or legendary creature at his side to make him stand out from his fellow classmates. Love was not something he saw as a tangible weapon, nothing that people could have hope in, or that his friends could have faith in when standing by his side. He was short, skinny, all taped trainers and worn shirts, average marks in class and a less than flawless disciplinary record. He was certainly not the sort of person that people told stories about. Not in his mind anyway. Standing in front of the mirror, he would try and see what they saw, feel what they felt, and understand why. No epiphany ever came.
He quickly realises that the stuff of myths and legends can’t be trusted, because they are not the true stories, but what people want to see and believe and hope for out of their own desperate needs. Nothing more.