Shame. That's the only feeling he could muster at this point.
Sitting in Dumbledore's office, waiting for the Headmaster's return, Harry reflected on the events of the previous hours.
Harry had just watched his godfather fall to his death, and it was all his… Harry's… fault. Hermione had tried to tell him… tried to convince him not to go rushing in on the basis of a dream… when Voldemort obviously knew Harry could read his thoughts and use them to his advantage. But Harry had to interfere like he always did. He was so full of himself that he couldn't listen to anyone else's rational fears.
And Sirius had paid the ultimate price. By trying to protect his godson from the boy's own stupidity.
Harry felt a wave of nausea and despair overwhelm him.
Dumbledore returned from the Ministry, and immediately noticed the ominous silence in his office. Even the portraits on the walls had nothing to say. One a dagger was missing from above the Headmaster's desk, but otherwise, nothing else seemed to be amiss. Then, Dumbledore noticed the trainer-clad feet sticking out from behind the desk. He rushed over, desperately hoping that he wasn't too late.
But Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived, was dead.