Farewell, For This is My Goodbye - In the end, Harry Potter had no regrets. (One-shot)
One day, I was in the mood for some angsty death fics but after reading some and having my need fulfilled, I noticed there wasn't a lot that focuses on Harry's POV. So I decided to change that.
(As a reminder, I do not own the Harry Potter series nor anything closely relating to it, J.K Rowling does and I am pretty sure I am not her.)
When he was younger, he'd imagined his death as a peaceful affair, just the cheapest coffin they could find, with several wilted dandelions that the Dursley's plucked straight from the ground laying on top of the casket, accompanied by fake tears and sobs. Nobody would be there, for his family would leave after five minutes, stuttering that they just couldn't bear to see his lifeless body. It would be plain and simple, just the way Harry liked it.
When he was older, he knew that the peaceful death that'd he'd wished for would never become a reality. There would be a crowd, his final resting place turned into a memorial for people to visit, a reminder of his legend. The masses would mourn, but never weep, and life would go on, as usual, the Boy-Who-Lived becoming only a bedtime story that mothers would tell with fondness and a glimmer in their eyes. The true Harry Potter would be forgotten, only a glorified version of the man his friends admired and held dear.
And now, as he stared down Voldemort with a glare filled with simmering rage, Harry Potter realized, that his death would be a sacrifice, just as his mother's had been. (Like mother like son, he thought almost bitterly, an image of Snape flashing through before he could stop the thought from forming.)
Strangely, enough he did not fear the end. He accepted the hand that fate had dealt. There were no tears or heart-filled sobs, or even blinding rage, just an understanding that it needed to be done so his friends, (oh god, his friends) could live in a world where Voldemort was nothing but a distant memory.
Perhaps that was why he was so accepting. Because inwardly, he knew he could never survive in a place where his family, (not just friends, they were so much more than that,) were buried six feet under. He would be the sacrifice, not them. He would let no other person die in vain, (like Sirius, his mind supplied in a traitorous whisper,) nor would he let them lay down their lives for him, a man who was barely holding on to the ledge.
So when the green curse hit him straight on the back (from a vengeful Death Eater, the fool), he smiled. When he faintly heard the thump of another body (Voldemort's, who else could it be but the madman,) his smile widened. When the world tinted black as he fell over, he closed his eyes and welcomed death with a hand outstretched, the faces of his parents echoing through his mind.
(He never did open his eyes again. If he did, he would've seen the tear-stained faces of his comrades in arms and the offending Death Eater being struck down. He didn't hear the piercing cry of Hermione or the panicked voice of Ron, telling him to "Hold on Harry, please!" or the grief struck face of Ginny.
He would never know how much they really cared for him.)
Harry Potter died on that day, and unlike all the other times when he was on the verge of death, he did not get up.
(In the end, Harry Potter had no regrets.)
