Death.
Death isn't supposed to happen to people like us. It haunts us, especially him, but it doesn't happen. We defeat it. We escape it. We trick it, and run away into the light again, free and happy and alive, so intensely alive.
He'd been born with death. Parents dead before he was a year old. But still, though their death was a terrible loss, he'd never seen it. Never seen the life drift out of eyes, the limbs crumple and fall, the body rot.
So he was safe, and by extension, so were all of us. Happy children, secure and happy and protected by Harry's magic gift of life.
We never saw Death come closer. Never saw it step gently through our friends. We saw Cedric die, Percy, Hagrid, Neville and step by step, Death came closer, until we should have felt its fetid breath on our necks.
But we didn't. Not us.
Only him.
"Harry?" I whisper, gazing down at him. We'd won. We'd defeated Voldemort, the three of us, Ron and Harry and I, Voldemort had died, and in that brilliant, glittering final moment, I never even noticed the green fire shoot past me, never even heard the thud of the body falling. I only saw Voldemort, Tom Riddle, finally disappear, for good, into the darkness, and I span round to face my friends, laughing and shouting for joy.
But they were silent. Ron knelt on the ground, and Harry....Harry's head was in his lap. Harry's green eyes had lost their brilliance. Even Harry's scar had faded.
"Harry?" I asked again but only Ron answered.
"Hermione.." he choked.
"Harry!" I called, falling to my knees, frantically pushing the black hair out of the eyes, I knew a spell, I must know a spell, to bring the fire back to his eyes, the smile back to his face, I'd say a few words and in a moment he smile, and turn to me, and praise me and be there, alive, so alive. This isn't fair, to have come so far, to have done so much! We were heroes, we deserved a happy ending, a life after the story, a future to look back at our past! This wasn't how it was supposed to end!
But I realise now it wasn't my spell that killed Voldemort. It was Harry's death. For Voldemort and Harry were inextricably bound together their whole lives. And finally Harry had realised that for Voldemort to die, Harry had to die too, and drag Voldemort out of this life, this world.
I'd never seen Death creeping up on us. But he had. He watched it approach, every step of the way, and in the end, as the rest fought against it, he met it, and welcomed it, knowing it would free the rest of us.
That was why Harry Potter was a hero. Not because he was The Boy That Lived, but because he was The Man That Died.
THE END
Death isn't supposed to happen to people like us. It haunts us, especially him, but it doesn't happen. We defeat it. We escape it. We trick it, and run away into the light again, free and happy and alive, so intensely alive.
He'd been born with death. Parents dead before he was a year old. But still, though their death was a terrible loss, he'd never seen it. Never seen the life drift out of eyes, the limbs crumple and fall, the body rot.
So he was safe, and by extension, so were all of us. Happy children, secure and happy and protected by Harry's magic gift of life.
We never saw Death come closer. Never saw it step gently through our friends. We saw Cedric die, Percy, Hagrid, Neville and step by step, Death came closer, until we should have felt its fetid breath on our necks.
But we didn't. Not us.
Only him.
"Harry?" I whisper, gazing down at him. We'd won. We'd defeated Voldemort, the three of us, Ron and Harry and I, Voldemort had died, and in that brilliant, glittering final moment, I never even noticed the green fire shoot past me, never even heard the thud of the body falling. I only saw Voldemort, Tom Riddle, finally disappear, for good, into the darkness, and I span round to face my friends, laughing and shouting for joy.
But they were silent. Ron knelt on the ground, and Harry....Harry's head was in his lap. Harry's green eyes had lost their brilliance. Even Harry's scar had faded.
"Harry?" I asked again but only Ron answered.
"Hermione.." he choked.
"Harry!" I called, falling to my knees, frantically pushing the black hair out of the eyes, I knew a spell, I must know a spell, to bring the fire back to his eyes, the smile back to his face, I'd say a few words and in a moment he smile, and turn to me, and praise me and be there, alive, so alive. This isn't fair, to have come so far, to have done so much! We were heroes, we deserved a happy ending, a life after the story, a future to look back at our past! This wasn't how it was supposed to end!
But I realise now it wasn't my spell that killed Voldemort. It was Harry's death. For Voldemort and Harry were inextricably bound together their whole lives. And finally Harry had realised that for Voldemort to die, Harry had to die too, and drag Voldemort out of this life, this world.
I'd never seen Death creeping up on us. But he had. He watched it approach, every step of the way, and in the end, as the rest fought against it, he met it, and welcomed it, knowing it would free the rest of us.
That was why Harry Potter was a hero. Not because he was The Boy That Lived, but because he was The Man That Died.
THE END