He laid on the floor of his room- his cousin's old toy room- and stared morosely at the ceiling. His eyes were half-lidded, his normally bright emerald pupils dark and far away. His messy hair was strewn about, splayed across the floor by his head, dirty and grimy. He was still wearing the clothes he had been wearing the day before, the week before, as a matter of fact.
He arrived back at his relatives' house a week ago, and when he did he just went right up here, collapsed on the floor and remained comatose. He was perfectly conscious, no doubt about that, but the fact that he hadn't moved an inch in seven days was unreal. Nothing in Harry's mind was real though. Not since she died.
If only he had listened to her… if only he believed that it was indeed a trap… if only the cut was just a few inches lower…
Antonin Dolohov had hit Hermione with a silent, unknown dark cutting spell. At that precise moment, Hermione had been tripped up by rubble that had been uprooted by the battle. She went forward and the end of the curse line had split her throat. If she hadn't tripped, the cut would be across her chest, still fatal but with a chance of survival. But no, it was a few inches too high. By inches she had died.
And Harry knew that it was his fault. In his stubbornness he forced Hermione to go with him, because in his heart he knew that she would never willingly leave him behind. He sentenced her to her death simply because he didn't listen to her.
She was always there for him, no matter what had happened, and would follow him to the ends of the earth and back. She was devoted to him and him alone, regardless of her unnatural authority worship. She cared about him as well. And in turn, he cared for her as well.
After the troll incident in their first year, they were friends. The best of friends, even. He knew that she was a better friend than Ron. That fourth year when he left the both of them, she was still there for him, she alone was by his side. No matter what the rest of those traitorous lions believed, she was loyal to him.
Second year, she was right by his side. And he was devastated when she was petrified. If it wasn't for the knowledge that it was possible to bring her back, Harry would be completely numb. Like he is now, and like he was after the adrenaline was over.
After seeing Hermione fall, Harry went into a rage. He cut off Dolohov's head with his own cutter and ran into the Veil Room. He saw Sirius fall to Bellatrix, and cursed her. He held her under the Cruciatus curse for over three minutes before releasing her. Voldemort had witnessed it and whispered thoughts of going Dark; with his abilities anything was possible. Harry lost his surge at those words. No matter how powerful you were, it was impossible to bring back the dead. He went numb, and felt nothing else. Everything just went by him.
He watched as Voldemort and Dumbledore dueled.
He barely acknowledged the prophecy made by Trelawney.
He stared listlessly out the window of the train during the ride back to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
He didn't acknowledge the threat made to his relatives.
He was blank during the car ride home.
He has been numb for the entire week he's been in the house. The week he's been on the floor.
It came to him. Hermione would follow him anywhere, he would follow her anywhere. One could not be in one place for too long before being reunited. He was going to follow her where she went, even if it meant his own death.
He picked up his wand and stood for the first time in seven days. Turning it so the point of the wand was pointed towards him, he put it in between his eyes. Then he shook his head and put it just a few inches lower. Right over his throat. Right where she had been hit…
"Avada Kedavra."
And he never felt again, on his way to meet her in the next adventure.