Self-Worth

What is self-worth?

It was a question he pondered often. What defined it? What measures it? How do you know when you've got it? Sometimes, when he would find himself alone, without the one he would call his best friend, he would find his thoughts turning back toward this question.

It was something he'd read in a book, to start with.

'Do you define your self-worth by the value others place in you?'

That was what he'd read, on a cold winter morning, in the attic of the family tree farm. Hiding from the rest of the family because he didn't want to participate in the tedious and back breaking farming process. The book had gone into detail about the value one places in themselves, and what people could do to find their own value in life.

Of course, at the time, he'd not thought much about it. It was just another piece of knowledge, one of the millions that went into his head during the countless hours he spent reading.

He found himself thinking of that cold morning a lot. Of the feeling of that worn, paper book in his hands. One of the few Muggle possessions his family owned. Given their prolific status as wand wood suppliers the world over, they were rather entrenched in the Wizarding world.

It was a difficult question to tackle. What was his self-worth?

When he was alone, his mind would begin to wonder. It would always start simple, with those lingering doubts in the back of his mind. The world would twist around him, leaving him trapped, isolated and constricted.

It was in these times that he would think of his best friend. He would think of all his friends, of the large group of people he had come to know over his time at Hogwarts. And he would wonder what they really thought.

His mind would return to the question in the book.

Were they his friends? Had they formed genuine emotional bonds with him?

Or were they simply his friend's friends? If he were to cut himself off from his best friend, would the others still come to him? Would they continue to be his friends, if he were no longer friends with the one that brought them together in the first place?

Did he only consider his life to have value if he wasn't alone?

He would spend hours in the library. Reading, searching for clues about anything that his friend needed. Clues about the vaults. Spells, history, potions, he would search for them all. Anything for his friend.

But why? Why would he go that far?

During those times of silence, those infinitely stretching minutes where the only sounds were deafening silence and the insidious hiss of self-doubts in his ears, he would find himself thinking deeply upon his relationships.

Was it, perhaps, that he'd only go that far out of some desire to be valued? Did he tirelessly search for anything that was required from him for that reason? He would say that he loved studying, reading, drawing up lists and making notes. And that was true. He did enjoy doing that. But...was that the only reason? Did he do it to be helpful? Just to help his friend? Or were there deeper, more selfish reasons hiding beneath the surface?

'Do you define your self-worth by the value others place in you?'

Were others nice to him? Yes, he thought. They were nice, they would speak to him, they would appreciate him. But was that because of him? Or was that because of who he was friends with? When he they were searching for the vaults, he had value to them. That was when they would engage with him. If that value was gone, would they still be there?

He'd been hospitalised, once. After a poorly thought out plan to investigate a vault, he'd been struck down, and he'd been taken to the hospital wing. His best friend had visited him, and so had others. But it didn't stop him from wondering if they'd visited him because they genuinely cared for his well-being, or if it was out of some sense of obligation, that they'd be letting down his best friend if they didn't.

Perhaps there was some reason for those thoughts and feelings. Perhaps it stemmed from his own childhood. One thing he remembered was his first conversation with his best friend. He'd said that people thought he was weird, and his friend had responded that they thought he was weird too. In that moment, he'd felt a connection, and known they would get along well.

Of course, not everyone was like him, and that had left him floundering. He had grown closer to his best friend, but outside of that, he struggled. Acquaintances, sure. But friends? He could talk to them during lessons, and he could greet them in the halls, but would they visit him for him? Or would they visit him for his best friend?

He pulled another book toward him, beginning to scan it for any clues pertaining to the vaults. It was certainly possible that he only worked as hard as he did for their approval. When he searched for clues and helped them out, they involved him. They found him useful.

'The value others place in you.'

Was that it? Was it as simple as that? That he only felt like he had justification for his existence when other people found him useful? But isn't that how it's meant to be? Isn't being appreciated by others the end goal? Aren't you supposed to live for others?

Emotions and thoughts were very separate things. His mind was quite capable of recognizing that he was trapped within his own head. That all his doubts were just manifestations of his own mind, but emotions took control easily. And once emotions took over, taking control back from them was easier said than done.

Did people think about him? Was he someone who people's thoughts turned to, even when he wasn't around? Of course, his best friend certainly was. Everyone knew his best friend, for good and bad reasons. That cheery Hufflepuff brought him up a lot when he wasn't around. That angry Slytherin did the same, but for a different reason. She insulted them both, but no one would pretend they needed to figure out whether it was him or his best friend she cared about more.

He remembered another quote, although the exact wording had become lost to him over the years. He only remembered the general idea, that a person dies two deaths. Once, when their body dies, and again, when their name is spoken for the last time.

If he was someone faceless, someone only known as 'that guy whose friends with the cursed student', then why did he exist at all? If he were to disappear, how many people would remember his name? Was there anyone that would do for him what his best friend had done for his brother?

What could he contribute to society, to Hogwarts, to the world, that would allow him to be remembered? How was he supposed to compete with the other students? How was he supposed to compete with his best friend, who mastered everything thrown at him almost immediately?

Maybe he was broken inside. Maybe the only time he could feel like he had his own worth was when there weren't others to compete with. But was that fair? That felt selfish and cowardly, like being unable to own up to stealing from the cookie jar...or hiding because he didn't want to work on the farm.

Before Hogwarts, he had never had these kinds of thoughts. He had thought everything was simple. He had simply been a kid growing up on a farm who loved to read.

Now, he sat alone in a dim room, surrounded by piles of books, and tried to justify his own existence.