The liquid that gives life and is shared by every human and creature alike, crimson in color, tick and potent, flooded the ground, seeping into the ancient dirt where two bodies lay. One cold, limp, and immobile, the other weak, young, and gasping through blood that was coming up to flood his mouth much as it did from his side where the dagger had been impaled through him. The only difference between the two now was one was holding on to life, barley, afraid of what he feared most would be fulfilled.
Dying alone.
With noting to do but dwell on the pain and life flowing helplessly from his body, his mind wanders.
He had done what was distend for him, but with a different ending than he'd wanted. Dying alone, with no one. His two best friend were alive, for that he could be thankful, but not by his side. The person who he felt pushed him into this war would have been a comfort, something that would seem real, solid, strong. He hated Dumbledore, yes, always pushing him for things he was not capable of, pushing him to grow up before he had ever started being young, pushing him to live a unloved life with people who would and could not being to understand him, even if he did not hate them for it. They were pushed just as much as he when he was left on their doorstep. Dumbledore had proceeded to gain and break his trust time and time aging.
He now wonder, what is time? For what purpose does it serve, what good has it ever done?
He thought of what his parents would think. Would they be proud for him for defeating the so called evil wizard, or think of him as he thought of himself, a murder?
What was so evil about him? Maybe he was right, maybe there is only power. He himself had seen how quickly someone's love could turn to hate, trust to betrayal. He thought that it was odd how all your ideals, all his thoughts seemed to have new meaning to it. Was it because he would never have the chance to think of it again, never have a chance to rewind, talk, walk, listen to the simple things that had brought him joy?
When a stab of pain had him dragging in a weak gasp his thoughts turned to more faces in his mind. Remus had always been there for him when he could, taught him things he could not have lured anywhere else. But like Sirius, Remus had always deep down seen him as his fathers son, or the boy-who-lived, just like everyone else. He'd grieve, for he would never see him or everyone else again, but he could not say he would thank any of them if he had the chance, he thought looking over at the dead body not ten feet away. What had they all taught him? To be a murderer.
He was so deep in thought he didn't hear the rustling of the leaves behind him.
There was only one person he would thank if given the chance, and he was also be the one person he would apologize to, even if it was for something he didn't do. Despite all the man's hatred toward him from the moment he set eyes on him, he had never treated him like he was the boy-who-lived, like some kind of redeemer, even if he did act like he was worthless. He also judged him by his father but in a different way. He had truthfully learned more from him than he had from any of the other people he knew, and what he wouldn't give for one of his pain reliving potions right now.
Harry was being shaken and slowly he opened his eyes despite his bodies protest, only to see the face of his thoughts.
"Potter?" he stammered out looking at the limp body that lay across from Harry. "Did you…" Harry only nodded faintly.
Snape, looking at the boys state started rushed around searching for a healing potion in his robe. That damn fool Dumbledore had been wrong to hold off the search for the boy. Did the man think Voldemort was the kind of person who goes around waiting for something else when an opportunity came around? The monster used to jump form body to body to survive, so he would naturally jump at any opportunity that is offered.
Harry suddenly realized, with hope, that he would not die alone, and felt a peaceful calm beckoning him to close his eyes for the last time, but since he had the chance to do one last thing he wanted, something he was not forced to do, he was not going to let it slip.
Snape pulled the potion out and uncorked it, honestly not thinking it would do the boy any good, but he had to try. "Drink this," he lifted the vile to the pail dead lips but the boy shook his head looked at him and mumbled in a soft, raspy, struggling whisper. "I'm sorry for what my father did," some of the words that fallowed were drown out by new spurts of blood that he was choking on but his last word was heard, "thanks."
Harry felt peaceful and complete so when his eyes begged to close this time he let them. The words that rang in his head, even if it was from the hated Dumbledore, seemed to fit. 'Death is but the next great adventure,' and he knew no more.
Snape sat in shock. The boy was dying and he had apologized for something he now knew was not his fault, and that he was not his father, and he had thanked him.
Snapping out of his trance he noticed that the boy was no longer gasping for air and his eyes had closed. He reached out and gabbed on to the boy's torn robe and shook him as if it would bring him back. "Wake up, Potter! Damn you! You can't do this," but he already had he realized. "I don't think you were able to see it, but you saved more than you know tonight. Maybe you were just stupid like I thought, a person seeking attention… or maybe you really did care about what would happen to the people you try to save and really were a hero."