If you think about it, Harry is one of the most amazing characters in the entire series, and he’s never given enough credit (strange, isn’t it, given that the entire series is about him).
- He forgave Snape and Dumbledore. I don’t know how he found it in himself to do this, because both of them treated him like shit, and didn’t really deserve his forgiveness.
- His attitude towards Pettigrew is incredible. You never find Harry as furious with Pettigrew as you think he should be. You never find him thinking about him with hatred, although he fully deserves it. Harry despises Bellatrix. He knows the difference between someone like Bellatrix and someone like Peter.
- He tries to pull Peter’s metal hand away from his throat for god’s sake.This is the man that betrayed his parents and was now working for a wizard who wants to murder him.
- He uses ‘expelliarmus’ on a death eater trying to kill him because he didn’t want to knock him off his broom.
- He even manages to find some sympathy for Voldemort. Dumbledore himself is surprised by that.
- He returns the elder wand.
- He is the one who decides to go back for Malfoy when they’re stuck in the burning room of requirement.
- He feels sorry for Malfoy when he sees to what use he’s being put by Voldemort.
And yet he doesn’t come off as an insufferable do-gooder. Rowling makes him so real. He’s jealous of Cedric and of Dean, he has blow ups with Ron, he frequently behaves like a typical obstinate teenager, he laughs at Fred and George’s jokes, he finds Hermione exasperating at times. He is the perfect hero. Moral and ethical, but not so much so that he seems like something out of a Morality Play from Medieval times.
He’s human-a flawed one, but a good one, and that’s what brings him to life, and makes us feel so fond of him.
Don’t tell me I’m beautiful. I have already heard the word rubbed raw across the flesh of so many girls before me. Thrown at them like rocks that beat the skin of those we do not understand.
“You are beautiful,” we yell with such contempt. “God dammit, why won’t you just believe me, you’re beautiful!” It is not a compliment. It is a victory march of your own self sacrifice. “You’re beautiful,” we say through gritted teeth. “You’re beautiful,” we spit out through tears, looking at a reflection we hate. “You’re beautiful,” we say, holding a body that has never felt the arms of another. “You’re beautiful.”
Don’t tell me I’m beautiful. A word like that floats on the surface, give me something with depth. Tell me I’m intelligent. Tell me I’m courageous. Tell me that when I laugh the whole world smiles. Tell me that my voice is sweeter than strawberries. Remind me that my hands have helped flowers grow, painted the ocean, and captured the sky in my phone. Assure me that with a mind like mine, I can change the world.
Don’t tell me I’m beautiful. I don’t really care if it’s true. I’ve spent years trying to convince myself that beauty goes through and through. Don’t tell me I’m beautiful. I’ve felt the word splatter against me enough for a lifetime. I am better than the “beautiful” that slips from your lips. I am the ocean, 36,000 feet deep. There are parts of me you have never seen. I am outer space, infinite in your search. I am not simply “beautiful.” I’m a fucking masterpiece.