He wasn't stupid. No, he wasn't stupid at all. He didn't receive so many OWLs, and NEWTs for nothing. As a matter of fact, many could say he was brilliant. After all, who else can boast that they dare pranked Dumbledore or become an animagus at only fifteen? He had no false illusions that they were all going to survive the war unscathed and happy. No, that dream was for dreamers and stories-not for someone practical like him.
They say your life flashes in front of you as you die. He was curious to know if that was true, not that he had a death wish. He just wanted to know, so he imagined his death.
He always thought that he would be the first or second to die. That way, he wouldn't have to miss anyone-less pain. And, he would die a hero. He would be missed, but he would rather be missed that be missing someone. At first, in his Hogwarts years, he dreamed of a heroic fight between Voldemort and himself. There would be flashes of light; everyone would be in awe of his skill. He would die a hero and take Voldemort with him.
Sometimes, when life was less gloomy, he would imagine dieing of intense pleasure and that dream wasn't so far-fetched at times. Or, he would dream of dieing from being full, or having a prank gone wrong. But he quickly discarded that idea, as well.
When his brother and his adopted sister died on that fateful Halloween night, a part of him died too. For a fleeting second, he imagined dieing at the hands of revenge and vengeance, at the hands of Peter. As laughable as that thought was, he embraced it, knowing that if he did die, he would die a hero, just like he imagined, and be able to look into his brother's eyes without shame.
That thought never came true either.
Sitting inside his cell day after day, he thought he would die there. He would die of despair and of boredom as morbid and morose of a thought it was. He didn't like it, for he wouldn't die a hero. So, he ran.
Sometimes, when he was on the run, eating rats, and scraps, and often, road kill, he would wonder if he just died one day of food poisoning. It was probably considering what he ate really wasn't first-class gourmet Italian food.
He didn't.
Looking back, he would have welcomed any of those ideas of death as he sat in his new prison-his home. He just knew it. He was going to die…of boredom. That thought, did not sit well with him. He was always the action guy, the ones who did everything. Not just sit back and watch everyone else do something!
He would admit it, too. He was jealous of his godson, in the middle of action no matter where he went, not that he wanted his godson in the middle. He would gladly take his godson's place as a matter of fact. When the dementer came after his godson, he imagined himself wrestling for his soul against the dementer.
Would have broken the monotony, he thought morosely.
Unlikely as it was, he didn't die of boredom either.
His relief from the prison came soon. His godson was in trouble at the Department of Mysteries. He jumped out of his seat as his long time nemesis delivered the news ready to go. Snivellus commanded him not to go-he ignored him like he always did. And he went, to save his godson and to save himself.
When he burst through the door, he was proud-oh so very proud- of his godson, standing tall and proud there like his father fighting of hordes of Death Eaters, single-handedly.
He fought, too.
But, now, watching as the red light came to him, he could do nothing but continue to laugh. Laugh as he did when he was captured, laugh like he pulled a good prank, laugh like his best mate, his brother, was back again. He wouldn't die a hero to the world like he imagined.
No, he didn't want that either.
They were right, he thought numbly. Your life did flash in front of you as you die.
But he was satisfied. After all, he was already living on borrowed time.
He would die, instead, as a hero to his godson, to his last remaining friend. And perhaps, that would be enough.