It happened in an instant. If he had really wanted to, he could have seen every joint loosen individually, surrendering to the darkness that was pulling his godfather backward. He had been powerless, then. He hated himself for it, too. Hated. He could have stopped it all, could have fought with all his might, but he hadn't. The Boy Who Lived did not stop time, he did not rescue Sirius Black. He stood, rooted to the spot, rendered immobile by grief. Now, that he thought about it, he wondered why the sheer strength of his rage hadn't been enough. Why all the pain did not make him strong. Why it had made him so weak, so weak that through all the anguish that had erupted inside him, one man, his teacher, his good and gentle friend, had been able to hold him back with two flesh and blood arms.
It was torture. Guilt so strong that it made his heart sink to the ground, made his stomach churn, made him want to lie down, surrender, turn to ash. Any pride in him seemed to have vanished completely. The person he loved most was gone, what was he now? The weakling that had been naïve enough to believe that he was the great, good Harry Potter, capable of saving anyone, his conscience answered. Nothing, Harry Potter. You are nothing at all.
It was unimaginable. Harry could not have comprehended this kind of pain. The piercing, gut-wrenching, tearing, burning. . . .anguish. There had to be an end to it. Grief passes. Wounds heal. . . .Don't they? People gain strength through pain, that's what he had always heard. But if this was supposed to make him stronger, then why was he not (he hated the way it sounded) getting over it? Why didn't he feel invincible, why did he feel as if every second that passed brought him closer to shattering like glass, spilling glistening shards across the floor as his final act?
It felt wrong. It felt wrong to be thinking only of himself. Sirius had experienced this pain before. Surely, he had felt worse than Harry. His friends were suffering, too. They needed him. The whole world needed him. He should have healed immediately and stood back up, ready for another fight. That's what everyone needed, but they would have to wait. All Harry Potter needed was his godfather.
It was harsh of him. He found himself feeling lower than dirt, pushing his friends away like this. He wished that the happy memories with Sirius, few and far between, would bring a smile to his face. He wished that he could feel proud that his godfather had died with honor, fearlessly and selflessly. He wished he were as strong as Sirius had been. He could wish all he wanted, but his desire, the one thing that could fill the burning, aching hole in him was unattainable.
It would be magnificent. That's how they would describe Harry Potter's defeat of Lord Voldemort. They would sing songs about him as children, read about him in school, place him on a pedestal, and call him a hero. And they will forget the pain, the strife, the sacrifice of those who had fought for them.
Because in the end the flashes of light will dim.
The shouting will quiet.
The fighting will stop.
And the heroes who fought for them will be left quite alone.
It was a comfort. It was a simple thought, a single comforting thought. The thought that Sirius had been courageous upon his death, had not been willing to go quietly. He would have told him, Keep fighting, Harry. You are strong. And you are not alone. You are not worthless, you are not weak. You are strong, Harry. And I love you. Do not surrender. Fight, Harry. You will save us all. You are brave. And I love you.
In time, Harry Potter. In time. . . .