Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, not matter how much I truly wish that I did.
Ok, so I'm not actually sure where the inspiration for this one came from, and all I can say for how awful it is is that it is almost 2 o' clock in the morning and I need sleep. Anyways, I hope you enjoy it anyways, and if not then I'm sorry.
Also, I'm sorry for the character death. It's starting to seem like I have a thing for it, isn't it? Oh well!
Harry slowly but surely made his way towards Voldemort's grave. The man, if he was even truly still a man by the time that he died, had been gone for a year. It should have been a year of happiness for Harry, a year of celebration. Perhaps he should have gotten back together with Ginny, or even used the time to find someone else. It could have even been a year of mourning for Harry. Maybe he should have used that time mourning the deaths of Remus and Tonks, or Fred and Moody. Mourn the tremendous amounts of other that had died. But he didn't. That whole year the only thing he seemed to think about was Voldemort. Even in death the man did not leave his thoughts, which perhaps was the real reason that Harry was here now. He wasn't completely sure.
But he did know that every time he thought of Voldemort, in other words every waking moment, an unknown emotion would fill his chest. He wasn't sure exactly what it was, couldn't pinpoint it, but he knew that he didn't like feeling it. It was an awful feeling, a miserable one, and one that he would wish on no one. And it wouldn't go away. It consumed him usually, had gotten him kicked out of Auror training when they determined that he was way to unfocused to ever become a successful Auror. So instead he spent most of his time at home with his thoughts and this unidentified emotion.
Everyone in the Wizarding World seemed to hold him at arms length now, afraid that they would say something wrong as Harry had become very explosive lately. Even Ron and Hermione had grown distant. It probably didn't help matters that his magic had become more potent and spontaneous, never doing what you would expect it to and being two times more powerful than it normally was. It scared people that Harry could accidentally cut off their leg when he was only trying to heal a small cut, as he had done once. He had barely even noticed he'd done it, simply calling someone to fix it and waiting for them to arrive before walking away.
And his magic, these memories, this unceasing pain; maybe that was the reason he was coming to Voldemort's grave now. He knew that it was all connected to him. Everything in Harry's world all seemed to be connected to him in some way. Why should that change now that he was dead?
When he finally did reach the grave, which took a while seeing as it was in the very back of the cemetery, he was reminded exactly how unremarkable it was. It only a small slab of stone, inscribed only with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his time of death. There was insults that others had carved into the stone, slandering the dead man as they would not have done if he was still living. It was an insult to Voldemort's very memory, and it made him angry. Unbelievably so. So angry, in fact, that his magic took affect. Before his very eyes the headstone grew four times bigger, and there were dozens of bouquets of different colored roses resting in front of it. The previous inscriptions all disappeared, and in it's place was the name Voldemort and his time of Birth and Death. But still more was being inscribed. He wasn't actually sure how it was being carved onto the stone, nor did he care. He simply waited until the words quit coming. It was only then that he would read it.
And read it he did. It was surprisingly long, but perhaps the most beautiful thing he had ever read. Not for the conventional reasons, but because of the fact of just how quickly it brought everything to the light and made him realize the truth. Suddenly, the pain in his chest made so much more sense, and he could see the memories through a new perspective. Now, he didn't have to guess why he felt the way he did. He understand now that his subconscious had laid out the truth before him, had shoved it right in front of his eyes so that he could understand.
It may not have made the pain any easier to deal with, but at least now he could understand what the emotion was, could understand why it had seemed so incredibly familiar. The pain he felt was loss. Loss of a loved one. The pain of losing someone held so dear to you that being unable to be with them anymore tore you apart inside.
He wasn't really shocked, he supposed. Maybe he had known for years now that he had loved Voldemort, but had been unable to deal with it. He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything except that now that he had realized the truth it would be even harder to continue on the way he had been. Already he could feel the stress and the pain weighing down on him, heavier than any physical thing could be. It was unbelievable. But it made him realize what it was that he had to do. There really was no other option.
He didn't even have to do it consciously because his magic had already begun the job for him. His right wrist was dripping blood, and soon after his left wrist was also. Sure enough, he could soon feel a slight pressure on his neck, pushing down and slowly going from one ear to the other. And as he began to black out he looked again at what his very own magic had carved into the headstone of Voldemort's grave. It read "How do I say goodbye to someone I never really had? Why do my tears fall so endlessly for someone who was never really mine? Why is it I miss someone I was never really with? And why do I love someone whose love was never really mine?…Harry Potter"
It was the last thing he saw before falling forward into the stone, sitting slumped against it. And when the Aurors came(due to the power surge Harry's magic had caused) a couple of minutes after the young man had died it was the first thing they noticed after getting over the shock of seeing their boy hero sitting, dead, in front of the grave of the darkest wizard ever to have lived.