The necessity of sacrifice – one shot

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Well, I own stuff, but I certainly don't own Harry Potter etc etc. I use several quotes from the books.

Warnings: If you haven't read Deathly Hollows, GET OUT NOW! And read the book already. Mostly reflection- mentions death, but no fight scenes. Gotta love the ambiguous cliffhanger ending, though. Maybe I'll play around with that some day. 'Spose it kinda veers off canon a little towards the end. Shrugs So? That's fanfiction for you… Oh, and most of this is rambling. Was anyone else surprised by how Rowling introduced and used the Hallows?

Rating: M (way to high, probably, but I really don't get the rating system.)

Spoilers: Spoilers for the seventh book.

"Whether they met Death on a lonely road…I think it more likely that the Peverell were simply gifted, dangerous wizards who succeeded in creating those powerful objects."

Harry lifted his face to the dawn, closing his eyes for a moment before staring out over the grounds of Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Despite the hour, the castle was not silent- although that eerie post battle quiet had touched areas of the school, the Great Hall was still alive with activity.

Alive with activity. Merlin, what a terrible joke. The Great Hall was full of the bodies of the dead, full of weeping survivors. People mourned and celebrated, screaming and crying their grief and their joy.

Voldemort was gone at last, truly, and every person in that hall had worked for his death, had stood up and chosen to fight. They had made their sacrifices. They deserved this time. Harry was both too full and too empty to rejoin them. He was beyond tired, and had come to Gryffindor tower to sleep. He had fulfilled his task, he had defeated- killed- Voldemort.

He should have been able to sleep. Certainly he was tired enough- beyond tired. The events leading up to Voldemort's death had been both physically and emotionally terrible, and Harry hovered on the point of collapse.

But just as he had hovered between life and death for pretty much all of his Hogwart's years, now Harry hovered between asleep and awake. Was this real? Was he dreaming? He blinked away the vision of the mutilated grounds below him, and leant against the cold stone of the windowsill. Behind him, he could hear soft snoring- Ron and an equally exhausted Hermione had collapsed together on one of the beds, and Harry knew that nothing short of an explosion, if that, would wake them. He envied them. There was no way to avoid the terrible drama being played below, but Harry felt that if he could just sleep, maybe, just maybe, he would be able to face the world again.

Was he supposed to feel this old? He had the right to be tired, surely, but Harry argued firmly with himself that it was the blood loss alone that made him feel so ancient. Like he had never left the comforting touch of death behind, the whistle of the train coming to take him home.

To his parents. Sirius, Cedric, Tonks and Remus. Hedwig, Fred, Colin…Snape…Far too many names. Was it weak to wish he was with them now? Free of the beautiful, terrible burden of living?

He had not wanted to die. He had walked into the Forest willingly, but with a heavy heart, aware of the terrible beauty of the world he was about to leave behind.

"Will it hurt?"

Harry closed his eyes again. For a moment there, Harry had been dead. Avada Kedavra had come, and whirled him away on a green wind, and Harry had been…gone. Elsewhere. He had not truly feared death, because he was willing, just as his mother had been, to relinquish it for those he loved.

What was it about magic that whispered of the necessity of sacrifice? His parents had died for him. Dumbledore had fallen in such a way as to ensure victory. And himself? He had thought of Ginny and her warmth as death had pulled him away.

He could admit to himself that he loved her. But his death had not been for her alone. His death had been for a great many people- for Hogwarts. For Mrs. Cattermole and all the others like her, the muggleborn witches and wizards who had suffered so badly under Voldemort's short reign. His death had been for them all- but also for the dead, where so many beloved people waited. Harry could well understand the lure of the Resurrection Stone, and it's terrible, beautiful power.

"No magic can resurrect the dead, Harry."

True. But sometimes the memory was enough. Harry had spoken to Dumbledore's portrait truthfully- he would never seek out the place where the stone had fallen. And as for the power of the three Hollows?

Harry had never desired immortality. Not as an eleven year old with the philosopher's stone in his hand, nor now. He had wanted to win, but he had never wanted to be forever, always apart from those waiting for him.

"Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love."

Harry uttered a raspy laugh, and slid down to the floor.

"Pity the living."

He kept his eyes shut for a long time, then Harry slowly climbed to his feet. Still in his pocket, he could feel his wand, and his Cloak. As well as the Elder wand. He reached slowly into his pocket, and withdrew the two wands, balanced them on opposite palms. He wrapped his fingers around his phoenix wand, and warmth shot through him. He gloried in it, even managed a smile. Slowly, he wrapped his fingers around the Elder Wand.

Power swamped his senses.

He dropped it, and stepped back as though it had bitten him.

Was that what the famed wand really was? All it was? Power? Power without judgement or mercy or pity? Passing from wizard to wizard- or witch- through death or defeat, never changing…Cold swept over him, and he tightened his grip on his wand, still sending tendrils of warmth through his heart.

"How can such a thing as you exist?" He murmured to the wand, bending over and picking it up very, very carefully.

"I've used other people's wands before- some worked and other's didn't. But you…you simply are." Because the wand picks the wizard, and over time there was a definite bond. But the Elder wand had existed for ages, changing hands and never, it seemed, learning a thing.

Power without purpose. Was that really so surprising? Harry rubbed his eyes and told himself that this was hardly the time for philosophical debates.

"I don't want you and I don't need you," Harry said suddenly, firmly, and he stuffed the wand back into his pocket, for now. He could take care of it later. Harry held his own wand for a moment longer before he put it away as well. Harry wobbled over to his bed, and collapsed across it. His head spun and his entire body ached, but Harry knew that this time he could sleep. He hadn't answered all of his questions, not at all, but Harry could work on them later. Tomorrow, or later today, he could talk with Professor McGonagall, he could see his godson, and the world could continue to rebuild itself. Tomorrow, he could dispose of the terrible, beautiful weapon in his pocket, and tomorrow, he could begin again.

At long last, Harry drifted into sleep, bruised and bloodied but most definitely alive.

….if only…

….it was left right there…

…between triumph and tragedy…

…but always still, the necessity of sacrifice…

And as Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived-Died-And-Lived-Again, slept, slept so deeply only an explosion, if that, would have woken him, the Phoenix wand and the Elder wand began to glow, and when that glow subsided, their was only one wand left. A long, slender, reddish wand.

Because when you're Harry Potter, nothing is ever easy. And he well understood the necessity of sacrifice. He just wasn't willing to let any one else pay it if he could.

A.N: Finite! For now, anyway. Thanks for reading, if you did. See ya all around…