It was impossible.

Terrible.

Unthinkable.

Unimaginable.

Yet, it was true.

He was dead. It was as simple as that. It was as unbelievable as that.

The Dark Lord was dead. He had been dead for two years. Harry Potter had killed him, like they knew he could.

Then the unthinkable had happened.

Harry Potter, aged nineteen, was killed. No, he wasn't killed. He just… died.

He disappeared.

He kicked the bucket.

Poof.

He was a hero, and as with any hero, one would expect a big death, a dramatic death. Harry would fall off the highest tower or drown in a lake full of Inferi.

He would fall, defiant as always, strong as always, stunning as always. History would have it no other way; fate would have it no other way.

One could imagine his hair gleaming on his face, black – midnight black – and messy. His scar would be hidden beneath it – he was the reluctant hero, after all. His eyes, the same color as the fateful curse that had changed his entire life – would slowly fade, and the sparkle would disappear.

But that hadn't happened.

No, it was something much worse.

Harry Potter had died… from a muggle disease.

He had been killed by a bacteria so common in that world… but so deadly. It was called E. Coli.

No Purebloods, hardly any Halfbloods, and not quite half of the Muggleborns knew what it was. That was due to the fact that no wizard had ever got it.

Apparently, House Elves could detect it, and they could destroy it.

Harry had never liked using House Elves.

He had been at a muggle restaurant with Ginny. She had eaten a salad. He had a burger.

Apparently, it hadn't been cooked correctly.

Harry had proposed to Ginny there.

And then – he had died.

The Boy-Who-Lived had died young. Nineteen. He was still a teenager. They had all expected a storybook ending for their hero.

He was supposed to grow up, marry, and have kids. They were supposed to attend Hogwarts, and Harry would make speeches to the DADA classes there.

None of that would ever happen.

It was hard to believe. The Wizarding World couldn't believe it. After all, he was Harry bloody Potter.

And he was dead.

The healer – a Muggle, because no healer that studied magical maladies knew of what had caused his death – said that it was the bacteria - Shiga toxin-producing E. coli.

The disease had caused to lose water quickly.

Alone, in Grimmauld Place, accompanied only by House Elf heads, Harry Potter had become so weak that he couldn't even get water for himself.

His kidney's had failed.

So he had died.

It wasn't a fitting end for the Saviour of the Wizarding World.

Or perhaps it was.

In the end, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, He-Who-Killed-Voldemort, He-Who-Survived-Dating-A-Girl-With-Six-Older-Broth ers, and the Wizarding World's Saviour died of something that nearly no wizards ever had.

He proved that no one was infallible.

That no one was immortal.

And that no one was more powerful than death.

In the end, that touched more people than anything he could have ever said.

Trapped, trapped

Held again

Eyes staring, strength sapped,

Can they escape?

Call them once, and they follow

Come again, those with hollow

Hearts that cry out with fear

Hearts that refuse to leak a tear

Immortal and forever

All ties can sever

Grief consumes all

None remain tall

No matter who

Or when

Or why

All

F

A

L

L

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This just randomly popped in my head.

Please review! They make my day!

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter!