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A/N: I had a hard time getting this out, so please don't flame? Actually, never mind, do. Flames are funny! Thanks to Didget, who reminded me to get my butt moving, and started me on the next part of First Time (which isn't out yet, and probably won't be for a long time, because I'm lazy, nyah, nyah, nyah, deal with it), and this. But - don't tell Didget please, cuz he/she/hybrid monkey-giraffe/whatever probably doesn't know, hmmm? And to my other reviewers. You rock. If you know why I titled the title the way I did, I'll write a oneshot for you.
If anyone knows good, completed fanfiction, please tell me? Pretty, pretty, please? Specifics on my profile. Please? Just click the little blue button sayingLicorice tears, and I'll love you forever.
Here we go. This is so depressing, sorry. I was listening to One Republic when I edited this. They are awesome.
Edit: Ugh. This sucks. But I'll keep it up anyway, because it's so bad it's hilarious.
Harry Potter had always known he would die. He had even known how he would die.
A red-eyed maniac was going to point a polished stick at him and say Avada Kedavra, la-dee-da-da, then gasp, the world would be saved! Hurrah. Except for the slight fact that Harry would be dead.
But no one seemed to care, did they, he thought bitterly, cynically.
He had always known he would die, since he was eleven, twelve, thirteen. Just not when.
But now he decided, he was going to decide. It was going to be his choice, not some madman's, not some twinkly, blue-eyed, wrinkled, Headmaster. His life was his, his, his. He had used it, and he would take it.
He was rather tired, he thought, of being the Boy-Who-Lived, the hero and god one day, the Voldemort-in-training the next. He was sick, of it, so, so, so, sick of it.
And now, he thought, he would like to die. Dumbledore could go rot for all he cared. The wizarding world should learn how to defend themselves. He was a child, only a child. A child with the right to control his life, control how, when, what, where, why. He had felt responsible for too long, for too long, and he would not stand for anymore.
The weight of the world pressed down on him, crushing him, forcing him to bow under the weight, and finally, he decided to release his burden, a burden that never should have been his to begin with, never should have been one boy's to hold. Down, down, the world fell, falling decades in seconds, landing in uncharted terraing, terra incognita. Up, up, up, rose Harry, to freedom, and his bowed back straightened like it should have always been.
Atlas, throwing the sky from his shoulders.
And then the Wizarding World landed, in a country where there was no Boy-Who-Lived to save them, to coddle them, where Voldemort now had free reign.
He thought he would like to see Sirius again. Perhaps his parents would be waiting for him, on the other side. Perhaps there was only a peaceful, numbing, oblivion. He would like that, he thought. Yes, he would.
Goodbye, Ron, Hermione. He thought silently in his head. I think I may miss you. But then, maybe he wouldn't. How should he know? He had never died before.
He took pen and parchment, wrote, and sent the letters with Hedwig. Don't mourn me, he had written. Do not cry for me. This is my fate, and I am pleased with it. This is what I want. And to Hermione: Keep Hedwig safe?
He pointed his wand at himself, not wavering. Not hesitating, mind blank of all worries.
Avada Kedavra, he spoke
Green light, a flash, a bang, a yell from downstairs, a grumbled "What is the freak doing now?", and the sound of feet clomping up a creaky staircase. They would be shocked when they found his still form on the floor. A last revenge, a last pleasure. Something to tide him over on the other side of the veil. Something to tell and laugh about with Sirius, when he met him.
And Harry fell, down, down, down, a soft smile gracing his lips, happier in death than he ever would have been in life.
Somewhere, a Dark Lord gasped in exultation, somewhere, wards rang, alerting a certain blue-eyed old headmaster and his order of the flaming chicken of something bad,very bad, happening. Somewhere, an owl flew through a window, and somewhere, a red-headed family and a bushy-haired girl cried in horror and pain. But Harry did not know, did not feel any of it. He was released from prison, and the escaped convict had his first taste of freedom, when he had thought he had been sentenced to life in jail.
He was free.
Ya know you want to click on the box. Yes you do, dearies. Go on, click and type. It won't bite. Promise.
Signing off,
Coniferous Bunny Rabbit (yes, I know I don't make sense.)