The sun falling over his hair (the color of burnt wood and lacquer) was breathtaking (casting a halo on him so he looked like an angel, a saint, a martyr).
The twinkle in his eyes was unmistakable; anyone could recognize him by the way they glittered (like stars, as they were, heralds of the moon).
His laugh was sweet and natural and did not come from a legendary hero with a life of fighting evil wizards and saving the world (tired of the praises, the fawning, the false hopes they were putting in him).
What raised questions though, was the way he never protested. Never once refused the burden, the responsibility they piled upon his shoulders. He did not try to escape the suffocating attention, try to fight the prophecy, change his fate at all. Never, even when he died.
He passed the worn halls with their quaint stained-glass windows and polished floors. Awed whispers followed him where he went (fawning and adoration and stories of what once was), but he ignored them anyway. He found no reason why he should waste time listening. He knew what they were saying.
"He's the best friend."
"Was with him when he died, right?"
"Bless the boy. He saved us all. He's a hero."
"He's a hero." How he longed to scream (tear his voice out of himself), tell them to stop saying that, as if they knew him. They did not. They were told he died in a final attempt to purge the world of terror, sacrificed himself for others. This wasn't true. But that, none of them would ever know (Blessed silence, speak naught of my distress or of the secrets that shroud us).
"Ron." he stopped dead in his tracks.
"You came as well?" he was obliged to turn around and face the owner of the soft but demanding voice. The young woman he saw had a gaze as sharp as they had always been, a thin-lipped look and tear-filled eyes that he could never forget, even if he tried. He could not recognize the man beside her, who watched the exchange between them with a empathic look. He swallowed and sighed.
"Yes." He answered, after a moment's hesitation, "Yes, Hermione, I came too."
The dam seemed to break when he said her name, and she rushed to him, her arms thrown around him and the tears falling and seeping into his cloak. The man at her side was forgotten as he stood silent, with a simple bouquet in his hand and eyes cast down.
"Hermione, I didn't come here to mourn." He whispered, looking over her curls at the man he finally recognized as Neville. Neville Longbottom.
"You came here to grieve." She answered him back. He was silent, closing his eyes and breathing again her scent. It was different now, not of musty books or a distinct smell of lavender. She smelled sweet but not a suffocating saccharine that was overwhelming. He held her tighter. "To grieve and wonder why this happened to us." She whispered.
He knew she was right.
There it was, in the very middle of the Great Hall, a glass coffin with a sleek surface that reflected the gaze of every eye that was upon it. Family, friends, colleagues, rivals, fans, and even those who did not know him crowded around the center of the Hall, gazing in silence at the Boy-Who-Lived (the Boy-Who-Should-Have-Lived).
He looks on in disgust as tears are spilt by people he could not recognize. People he knew the boy would not recognize. (He's not crying) so what right did they have to cry for the boy they never knew? They did not see him with eyes closed and looking like he was dead more than once. They did not hear him screaming and shouting out spells and curses (and his wishes and dreams) every time he had to fight. The boy never wanted to fight.
He never asked for any of it. He did not ask for the responsibility; ask for a prophecy to be made about him. He did not dream of becoming a hero.(but he did not refuse it)As his best friend, he knew what the boy was like. He remembered every part of that distant figure.
He remembered how he smiled and wanted to be happy.
That was all.
He wanted to be happy.
Instead his childhood was taken from him. In the few years that he lived, the Boy lived longer and endured much more than anyone else. And through it all, no one truly saw him for who he was, what kind of person, what of kind of child, what sort of things he could have been. All those other things he could have done.
A hand slipped softly into his, fingers intertwining with his as her head rested on his shoulder. She knew too. She knew what kind of pain he was feeling. If partly. She did not how it felt to be the one they branded hero. The one they were idolizing when he was the one who lived while the Boy had to die.
It would have been so much easier if his death had been quick. Flitting through his eyes, momentary and painless. But it hadn't. He was reduced to something not even close to human. He became a ghost in itself, misunderstood and alone. Only one person had been able to help him, support him through those final years. He sought comfort in her silvery hair and found promises in her kind eyes. He was calmed in her presence, and with her they looked like something out of a storybook, a hero and the goddess of the moon. She did all she could, stayed with him and never gave up hope. But in the end, of course, none of it had been enough.
On a dreary, October day, the rain came and took him away. He stood up for the first time in years and passed the woman (the one he named Goddess of the moon). She did not try to stop him. She wept and said goodbye. Of course she knew this would happen. She'd been wondering why it didn't come sooner. He was so strong, so stubborn. Not willing to give in when the pain tried to kill him.
When the trials had all passed, when nothing, no threat, no pain, no sorrow would claim him, he had to take himself. Destroy himself in order to find himself in his own entirety. He died in the rain, in one last stand, one last effort to cleanse himself of everything. The pain, the sadness, the history. Along with it went his identity. His existence fell away under the falling water, and with it went the brokenness.
As he set himself free, he bound others in their promise, how they were to bury him like a hero, make a funeral fit for a king, a prince that was never crowned. They made sure everyone cried, made sure everyone would feel the loss.
They made sure he looked beautiful.
For that he had to thank them. The boy looked like himself now. Pale skin and dark hair with eyes that were partly open. The emerald in them gleamed a dull, unchanging, unflickering green, matching his dimmed, paved splendor and making him immortal.
Unblinkingly he scanned the splendid scene before him, like a waxen statue of a deity in his temple, his burdens washed away in the tears and his tired bones soothed in the knowledge it would all be over soon. Dumbledore stepped up to the podium, and he flashed a painful look at the ethereal monument. His speech rang clear, his low voice washing over the tears and the sorrow. At the end everyone raised their candles, shining like tiny stars in the darkened Hall.
"To Harry Potter. To Boy Who Lived, and will continue to Live."
He lived, he died. They took no part in his life; did not support him through those times or tried to help in his time of need. They were at least part fo the crowd assembled there that day. They didn't do anything to let him live he should. But he died like he was supposed to, wept over and buried like he was supposed to.
He died like a hero.
A/N : This story was originally an epilogue for another story. If you like it, please review and tell me if you would like me to upload the story. I'm just lookign for some response here. The story is currently in draft, and if it turns out real good, I'd upload it anyway. I just want to know what my readers like - Please remember to review, because it's part of my New Year's resolution (getting reviews). Thank you for reading. I hope you liked it!