Quick note:
Excuse the lack of quality in my oneshots as of late. I just get urges to write stuff, and I want to get the ideas out more than I want it to be the most incredible story you'll ever read. Kay, story time.

Niche.

A place or position suitable or appropriate for a person or thing.

He had even looked it up, three days before. While Aunt Petunia was out in the yard gardening, he had snuck into the study and found the dictionary on the shelf near the computer. It was one rare time where his whale of a cousin wasn't stuck with his bottom glued to the chair, playing every computer game created thus far. Harry had chosen to take advantage of such a moment, and had decided to look up the one word that had haunted his mind for days now.

It had started off as a dream, like things always seem to, for him. The first half of the dream was the usual random sequence of events, like dancing chinchillas and man-eating carrots, and the like. But because sleep never came peacefully to the Boy-Who-Lived, his dreams shifted, and his thoughts were invaded by less pleasant images. At first, they seemed alright and realistic; Ron was the first to appear, looking not a day younger than twenty-five, working as a dragon tamer like his older brother. Hermione came up next, a young child in her arms as she leaned over to kiss Ron on the cheek. A moment later, she left for the Ministry, where she apparently worked as an Unspeakable, or some sort of researcher. Neville followed after, an arm painfully (to Harry, at least) wrapped around the waist of Ginny Weasley, who was holding two toddlers in her arms. She had, Harry inferred from the scene, gone to work as an Auror, while Neville became a Mediwizard, working in the more permanent of wards, presumably to be with his parents. Luna Lovegood was somehow married to Draco Malfoy, and while he became the owner of a very successful wizarding antique store, she had elevated her status to Editor of the Quibbler, taking her deceased father's place.

Harry presumed, after waking up hours later, that he would be happy for his friends (even Neville, who seemed a little too comfortable with Ginny for Harry's own personal liking), after visualizing how successful each one could become. But a lump in his throat prevented any excitement or happiness.

Harry hadn't seen himself.

And since that dream, his mind feasted unpleasantly on the idea that perhaps everyone he loved had a niche, that one place or situation in life where they truly belonged. Everyone, other than himself.

Sure, he was the Boy-Who-Lived, and the one who was destined to defeat Voldemort, or at least be defeated in the process. But was that why he was alive? What other motive was there to keep him alive, other than to kill off the most evil wizard around? That couldn't have been why his parents birthed him. Yet, he seemed to have no other purpose in life. What about when Voldemort was gone, assuming Harry succeeded without dying? What, was he just going to disappear into some white box with no doors or windows and become a hermit? The thoughts got more unpleasant the longer he dwelled on them, and he scoffed with self-pity as he reminisced on his past.

His friends deserved to be happy, after all, especially since Harry had taken so much from them. While he knew, understood, and agreed with this, he couldn't help one selfish thought from creeping across his mind: What about me?

Hermione had her knowledge, had her books, had her loving parents and loving friends and loving Ron. Ron had his protective family, his happiness despite his lack of wealth, and his loyalty. All his friends had lived, because they had a motivation to. They all had their special memories, special moments with their special things and special people.

And Harry?

He was never the Boy-Who-Lived. No, he was the Boy-Who's-Been-Dead-All-Along. After all, you can't be alive if you've lived nothing but death.

That night, Harry fell asleep more peacefully than he could ever remember, feeling as though he could stay in his dreams forever, not awaking even as the sun rose over the horizon the following morning.