Sometime ago I was asked to write "My Lord what a Mornin' from Harrys point of view...well, here it is!

My Lord what a Mornin' II

I

Silently he sat at his broken desk in front of his small window, staring unseeingly into the dark street below.

He was in a way like the desk on which hhis arms lay: like the desk he was broken.

With an inaudible sight his eyes wandere to the blank parchment that lay betweeen his arms. The parchment seemed so innocent, laying there, nothing was written on it – yet in a way it was frightening in its blankness.

Once again he had found something that was like him: like the parchment he was innocent but he was no longer blank, instead his whole being, his whole existence was already planned out, written down by a higher being, leaving only small details to be filled in at the few blank spaces.

This innocent looking roll of parchment would fill one of those spaces, the very last one: it would contain his testament, his last will. For him it was no longer a question if he would die of anything but old age, it was a certanity. No, it was no longer a question. He knew that now. Not even why was a questipon, only when and how. But even those were no longer questions without an answer: How? At Voldemorts hand, it wouldn't mater which curse he would use, the result would be the same. When? His heart told him that it would be while he was still at Hogwarts and as everything so far had happened near the end of the school-year he felt that his …death would also take place at that time.

A joyless smile stole itself over his face, only to vanish immediately: When Hagrid had come for him on his eleventh birthday and had reintroduced him to the wizarding world he had believed to have been finally shown freedom – now he knew that everything came with a price. The price for his freedom, his few years of happiness was his life.

And he would pay it before threee more years had passed.

Someone once said: Better to have known love and lost it than to never have known love at all.

Wasn't it the same with life?

Did he regret reentering the wizarding world, now that he knew it would bring him his death? Did he regret to have learned what it meant to live, knowing that it would soon be taken forever away from him?

That day was his fifteenth birthday, only two more would follow for him, of that he had no doubt. He tried to feel anger or even sadness at that thought, that knowledge, but all he felt was numbness.

Would he die like Cedric had died a few weeks prior? Or would he die like his own parents, like his father, trying to buy time for others to escape to safety or like his mother, giving his own life for someone else? Was one death more worthy than an other, would he be weak when in the end he would plead for his life, when he wasn't ready to let go?

Was he so…accepting…of his own coming death because till the day Hagrid came for him he had never known what it meant to live? Was it the fear that Hogwarts, the whole wizarding world was just a dream induced by lack of food, exhaustion and pain? Or was it because the moment he felt something at the knowledge that he would die he would feel the pain and guilt over Cedrics death?

Slowly the sun was rising, iluminating a boy who was sitting at a desk, a blank roll of parchment between his arms and a small pile of wrapped presents on the bed that stood next to the wall. As the last star faded, its light overshadowed by the overwhelming light of the sun, did the boy dip a quill into an incpot and began to write:

"Last will and testament of Harry James Potter…"

II

Once again he sat at his desk, a desk that was even more broken then the year before – just as he felt more broken. His friends, his teachers, even Sirius and Remus …and even Ginny, sweet beautiful Ginny, would not be able to understand why he was feeling that way.

And how could they?

How could they think, how could they fathom what it was like to know that he had not even two maybe not even one more year left to live?

Finally, when professor Dumbledore had told him of the prophecy that had been made about Voldemort and himself, did he allow himself to feel. In his pain, his anger, his overwhelming sadness had he trashed the headmasters office.

No longer did he know that he would loose his life but also that he had to take a life, Voldemorts life, to allow his family, his friends, the whole world to live.

"…and either must die at the hand of the other…"

Before his death he would be forced to become what he detested most, a murderer.

"…for neither can live while the other survives…"

Both of them could stay alive, both of them could survive – but not live, never live!

The most important thing he had learned during the few years he had spend in freedom, he had spend at Hogwarts, was that it would never again be enough to just survive. Either he was allowed to live…or to die but never, never just to survive.

Before him on the desk lay once again a blank roll of parchment, parchment that would bear wordlessly witness to the cruelty of men.

The year before the list of people he had wanted to leave something had been short, only Sirius, Remus, Hermione, the Weasleys and Hagrid – only his family. But then, sitting hunched over the parchment he found himself thinking of his teachers.

There was so much he wanted to say to the headmaster, so much he had to tell him – and yet none of it could he say. He wanted to scream at him how much he hated him for having placed him with the Dursleys all those years ago. How he could live with the knowledge of never having cheked up on him during all those years of his childhood. How much he hated him for not even looking at him during the last scholl-year.

But most of all he wanted to fall into his arms, to be embraced by him like a grandchild by his grandfather and tell him that most of all he loved him, even though he hated his actions towards him.

As the sun rose she shone once again on unopened presents and a boy that sat at his desk. But different then the year before the desk before the boy was littered with rolls of parchment that were filled with tiny writing, each single one adressed to a different person and speaking of love, hatred, fear and hope. The last one, the one the boy was still writing on, bore once again the headline "The last will and testament of Harry James Potter" but while those few words had the year before spoken of peace these words spoke of anger and rage.

III

Seventeen

A number that brought joy to the hearts of wizards and witches all through England.

Seventeen

A number that meant freedom, freedom to do magic, freedom to apparate, freedom from all age-related restrictions.

Seventeen

A number that chilled him to the bone.

He should feel happiness, joy that he was finnally allowed to do magic outside of Hogwarts, that he was finally free of the Dursleys, that he was free to propose to Ginny.

Yet all he felt was fear, cold raw fear at the knowledge that that would be his last birhtday, the last time that Ginny would wish him a happy birthday. Later that day he would be picked up and be escorted to Grimmauld Place where a birhtday party would be held – his first , at least the first after his parents death and the first he would be able to remember – and his last. That year no presents had arrived at midnight, instead he sat alone awake like he hade done when he was still blessfully unaware of the wizarding world.

He did not, he could not hate the world that would ultimately bring him his death, how could he hate something that had brought him together with Ginny? But he could also no longer love it like he had done when he had been naïve and innocent, when Cedric had still been alive.

He had been forced to learn the hard way that trust was not something freely given – as was forgiveness.

He had forgiven Peter Pettigrew for betraying his parents to their death – which had led to the resurrection of Voldemort and the murder of Cedric.

No longer was he able to see with the innocent eyes of a child, his view of the world was jaded, disoriented, torn from its normal path the moment he had been tortured, no, before that, the moment he had heard the cruelest words manking could offer:

"Kill the spare!"

How many more of these "spare" would fall before his end came, how many more would hear those words as their last?

"Kill the spare!"

Those words haunted him more than the pleading of his mother when she offered her life for his. It were those words that filled his ears, his very being as he raised his hand to cast the first spell in freedom, the first spell as an adult. It was only the first part of a spell, the second part he would cast when the time would have come.

The first spell he cast in freedom – and it was a spell that took any kind of freedom forever away from him.

The moment he would cast the second part of the spell his sould and Voldemorts soul would become one, his death would become Voldemorts.

He felt the wave that ran first through his magic and then through his body till it vibrated in his very soul. His magic that was usually feeling like a wild thunderstorm felt for moments like a tightly formed snowball. Freezing cold, wet and pressed together – but after endless, timeless moments it exploded once again into a raging, hot storm.

It was then that he knw that he ha succeeded: Voldemorts soul was bound to his own. Still, it was not enough, only when he would cast the second part of the spell would he guarantee the death of that monster. Only when his own sould was bound to Voldemorts would their souls join and become one – only then would he take the murderer of his parents with him when he died.

Love had the headmaster told him was the power that would help him defeat Voldemort. He doubted that Albus Dumbledore knew that he had pointed him to the right spell. Only someone with great love could cast this ancient spell, a spell invented as a special tighter form of marriage.

For moments an almost insane smile twisted his face as he thaughtthat Voldemort himself would cast the spell that would kill him. He would greatly enjoy to see the dawning realisation in the monsters eyes. A dry sob escaped his lips as he realised only moments later that he would never see thatlook of dawning horror, he would never see Voldemorts face when he realised that he himself had cast the spell that would end his existence – because he would already be dead.

Why? Why had fate been so cruel to him? What had he done to deserve such a life, such a death?

But than, if not for him Neville would have had to lead his life and he didn't want that. No, better himself than someone else. Even Voldemort would not have deserved such a life if he had not chosen such a dark path, now he deserved everything.

With tears in his eyes that did not fall the boy put down his wand and picked up a quill. If he was right would that be the final time that he would write those letters, his last will. There would be no next birhtday, no next year, no next summer… He would not graduate from Hogwarts, he would not look back from Hogsmead station when the next school-year, his seventh year ended. He would never look for a job or begin Auror-training.

He would never marry and have children.

He would never look down the aisle when Ginny would be led to the altar by her father, he would never hear her say "I do" while looking at him.

A new resolve filled him as he began to write a letter to the girl he loved: he would at least ask her to marry him! Even if, when he would die she would at least have known how much she meant to him. She would know, that she was the most important person for him…and he would die with the knowledge that at least he had given her one happy moment. The next day, on his seventeeth birhtday he would ask her to marry him, for one day he would pretend that they would be able to have a future together – even though they both knew that such a future would not, could not exist as long as Voldemort was alive and that he was the one to kill him.

IV

The wards had fallen, he had felt the tremor through his body, lingering still in his soul. Hogwarts had become defense-less if not for the students and teachers. But they were not enough, nothing would be enough to halt such a wave of hate and destruction.

They would fight till the end.

He would fight till the end, his death would end the war, that he knew. But he also knew that his death would not be the first or the last – or the only one.

Countless would fall and all that would be left for those who survived would be to pick up the pieces and find a way to carry on.

"Do not mourn for me when I am dead"

Those words had he written in all of the letters at his last birthday. There would be no need to cry for his death, no-one had ever cried for his life, so why mourn his death when there would be so many others who would have to be mourned?

He hoped that Ginny would head his words, that Sirius and Remus would listen to him…and that they would be alive to follow them. Ron and Hermione he knew would know him enough to head his words, they knew how he hated pity – so why would he want that others grieved for him?

A few more hours he knew, maybe even only minutes and he would have fulfilled his destiny, would have done what he had been born for. He had been given the task to kill Voldemort and he would fulfill it at the cost of his own life.

For the first time did he allow his eyes to roam the lines of their attacers. He had not said goodbey, he had only wished his friends that they would survive, there was nothing else to say or do for him.

Regret filled him as he heard and saw what Draco Malfoy did, regret that he had never tried to find out who the other boy really was beneath his mask of arrogance. As the proud Slytherin fell he knew that the time had come to ensure the survival of Hogwarts.

Only when an heir of Hogwarts was still alive would the castle stand. He knew that the castle as he knew it would fall that night, it had been long foretold, that should two heirs fight on the castles ground and fall the castle would follow them – but that as long as one heir lived would Hogwarts rise from the ruins.

Both, Voldemort, the heir of Slytherin and he himself, the heir of Gryffindor by birth and the heir of Slytherin through Voldemort would fight and fall that night on the castles grounds but an heir, an heir of both Slytherin and Gryffindor would survive.

As the last lights of the sun faded a single tear rolled down his cheeks, never again would he see the sun rise, for the second time in his life did the night bring not only darkness but also death to him. He did not flee, did not move at all as Voldemort apparated onto the grounds of Hogwarts. For moments he just watched fascinated as Voldemort began to kill without even looking at his victims, all the while searching for someone.

Only two more spells he would cast, only two more before he would await his death, unable to help those he loved. At the moment that Voldemort found whom he had been looking for did he cast the first spell, stumbling as he felt how his sould was bound to an others.

Nothing, nothing could from that moment on be done to stop his death.

As he raised his wand for a last time a second tear ran down his cheeks, he would die but his home, one of the three places he had felt save would survive. The Burrow had been destroyed earlier that year and his home in Godrics Hollow the night his parents had been killed and he had been marked for death.

Yet Hogwarts would remain, Hogwarts would one day again be filled with children and their laughter.

For seconds his eyes met those of professor Snape, for moments he saw the new heir of Hogwarts before their eyes were torn apart by the battle that was raging around them.

"No more pain and grief for me,

I heard from heaven today

Yes my Lord's gonna set me free

I heard from heaven today"

For the first time in his life he felt peace srpread through his whole being as he saw the green light heeding towards him. Not even moments would pass before he was dead but he felt no pain, no regret, no fear…only peace.

Soundless a body hit the already bloody grass, followed not even seconds later by a second.

All those who saw these bodies fall stopped in their movements, their heros had fallen, their leaders were dead. Not a single spell was cast as they stared at those two lifeless bodies, disbelieve etched into all of their faces.

Voldemort was death.

Harry Potter had fallen.