The Waiting Place
When he was five, Harry waited for his grandma, grandpa, aunty, uncle, fairy godmother, anyone really, to come and rescue him from the mean old Dursleys. He was sure someone would, so long as he believed hard enough.
No one ever came and Harry dumped all the letters in the bin on collection day.
When he was eight, Harry waited for Derek, the most popular boy at school, to pick him for his soccer team. He never did. So Harry waited for Greg, the second most popular boy at school to pick him. But Greg conveniently overlooked him too.
In the end, Harry sat with Tommy, who had broken his leg earlier in the week, and played with tanbark.
On his eleventh birthday, Harry waited for dreams. Dreams of fairy godmothers and long lost relatives and scoring goals for Manchester United. But then Hagrid came with his squashed birthday cake and letter to Hogwarts and Harry had new dreams. Dreams about magic and wands, and broomsticks and flying, and happiness and friends. Harry waited for these dreams to come true.
They did. As did the nightmares.
Harry waited for these to stop. But they never did.
When Harry was thirteen, he waited for peace and family and the freedom of his godfather. He hoped and believed with all his being, and that was what made it hurt so much.
When he was sixteen, he waited for something more. Something more than friendship and knowledge and family and defeating evil. He waited for that emotion that dared not speak its name, that consumed his whole being. He needed it, he yearned it, he hurt for it. He stared, and he wanted and he silently begged. But he was kept waiting and waiting, and he knew with absolute certainty that it will be this way to the very end.
When Harry was nineteen, he waited for the end. He waited for it all to be over because he was tired and cranky and he had finished what he was born to do, but most of all he wanted to end the never getting. Because there was no way now, and he felt slightly smug at being right -- he had waited until the very end. So he lay there among the mud and the blood and the dead bodies, with his left cheek pressed against the cold cold ground and his glasses cracked and askew, staring at the pair of hollow grey depth in front of him.
They stared back, unfocused and lifeless, and it seemed fitting somehow that it will all end, with him drowning in these eyes.