The Act of Murder
by Bil!
.PG - Angst - HP, (SS) - Complete
Summary: In the end, Harry was no better than his foe. Heroes are only human.
A/N: Final battle, pre-HBP. Thanks to Riffinton for looking this over for me.
He'd killed a man. In war, but not as an act of war. He hadn't lashed out in self-defence, hadn't faced the man down on a battlefield - rather he had woken that morning and said to himself that today would be the day it ended, today would be the day he killed him. Today would be the day he set himself free. He had gotten up and dressed without thinking about it, mind intent on the hows and whens of murder. He had it all planned out by lunchtime, and by dinnertime he had been out and deliberately killed a man. No remorse, no shame, no pity, just pure murder. Murder in his heart and his soul and his eyes and his hand.
He had watched the man's last breath, had watched every last twitch and gasp and sigh, until he saw the moment that the soul fled. He had felt Death's wings brush achingly sharp across his shoulders and had seen the man who thought to defy Death gone and taken and empty. Had seen hollow eyes bereft of life glaring at him accusingly as his weapon dropped from numb fingers.
No one knew that he had thrown up then, shaking and heaving and spewing his lunch onto the ground before the body of the man he had knowingly, willingly, intentionally murdered. No one knew that his scar had bled so heavily that he thought it would kill him, blood and vomit shaping grotesque patterns on the ground. No one knew that he had wept, vast gulping sobs, for the boy who had become a man who had to die, for the loss of the last of his own tattered shreds of innocence. No one knew, because he was the hero. No one wanted to know that he was as weak as they.
When he had finished retching and bleeding and crying he had returned to the school. He had taken the body and he had gone back and walked up the stone steps and into the great hall where they laughed and chattered as they ate their dinner, and he had stood unnoticed in the doorway and stared at them and envied them, because they were not murderers, they had not killed a man and thrown his soul free of his flesh and watched their own souls go with it because they were murderers and what does a murderer need with a soul? And then they had seen him and they had stared and he had walked in, like a dog retrieving its master's game, dirty and tired and blown forward like a birch leaf - light and slender and dying - on the wind.
And then Dumbledore was there, taking Voldemort's body, lifting it with magic, not touching it with his clean white hands, turning to the watching faces and proclaiming Voldemort is dead as if he had the right, as if he had done the murdering, as if he had killed his soul for these people, so innocent and free and cheering as Harry could not. And Harry hated him, for being so clean and good and pure and never dirtying his hands but leaving that to the pawns, the damned like him and Snape and the others who fell - willingly sometimes, other times unwillingly - who fell into the darkness just so that Dumbledore could work his master plans and stay free and clean and good and...
And they cheered him and congratulated him, crowding around him and smothering him in their perfect, unstained innocence until they were so caught up in celebration that he could slip away unnoticed and stand in the shadows by the lake and stare out over the water at the lights of Hogsmeade and wonder - wonder if he was free now, wonder if he was allowed to slip away into the night and never show his face again, wonder if it would ever be over, if he could flee this place and never ever come back. If any of it mattered at all. But he was the hero and he knew that, knew that in this life he would never have choices, his path would always be put before him, never mind that he didn't want it, didn't want any of this... He was the hero, and so he would stay here and he would be the hero, and he would give them pride and hope and strength and safety and freedom. Because he was all they had, and he couldn't take that away from them.
You were not kidnapped, one of the shadows said. He didn't turn.
No. Voldemort hadn't kidnapped him. Voldemort hadn't brought this on himself, Voldemort had done nothing to make this his last day. They believed that, though, those cheering people, believed that Harry had been kidnapped and had killed in self-defence. It was better, better than telling them he had gone out with the intent to murder, because he would not be able to handle it if they approved. It was nothing to approve of.
You are a murderer.
Yes. Yes, he was a murderer. He was a tainted, blasphemous saviour, clay from feet to head. He was no hero. But because he was all that they had, he would be their hero for them, even though he knew the truth of what he was. There was no justification for murder; no defence for cutting a man down as though he had been a rabid dog. Yes, it had been necessary, yes, it had saved lives, yes, he would do it again if he had to live it over again, yes, yes, YES! But it was still murder. It was still wrong. There was no justifying it, no rationalising it, no soothing his conscience. He wasn't Dumbledore, he couldn't ignore the price simply because it was outweighed by the gain. If he had been anyone else, if he had murdered anyone else, he would be on his way to Azkaban. He deserved Azkaban.
You do not regret it.
No. He would do it again and again and again if he had to, kill to keep those innocents in there safe, bend his knee to Dumbledore and allow himself to be destroyed if it keep them well and whole and innocent. Because he wished someone had done the same for him.
We understand one another, Mr Potter.
The shadow left, robes billowing.
The damned. The damned, who will bend their knee to anyone as long as it will keep the innocents safe. Who will kill and harm and destroy because they have no soul left to guard. Who cannot be saved. Never saved.
Yes, he and Snape understood each other very well.
Fin
2005