If there was one thing Harry James Potter was not, it was a push-over.

He'd told Rufus Scrimgeour off.

He'd insulted Dolores Umbridge.

Been the bane of Severus Snape's existence.

Defeated and escaped the Dark Lord Voldemort several times.

And yet, here he was, finally casting the killing curse people expected from him. The one deed he had been born, raised and prophesied for.

Dumbledore had stressed often enough that if he didn't kill, the boy himself would find a premature death.

The Dursleys had taught him the hard way that if you didn't fight back, things only got worse, never better.

This was apparently his destiny.

Yet his voice lacked strength when he uttered those two terrible words. He lacked the true killing intent.

No matter that this was the most vicious Dark Lord in history he was facing. The murderer of his parents. The terror of Britain.

Harry was no killer.

It showed in the the green beam of light that his wand produced.

It wasn't the right colour; it wasn't the right size - it wasn't powerful enough.

At least not to end a life.

It could start one anew.