The pain was a constant. He knew he was dying. He wouldn't last long. But how could he tell the boy? The young man really. He is an adult in the wizarding world. And he had been through so much. He was no boy. Hadn't been one in a long time.
He heard someone shuffling near him. He looked slightly up and was mesmerized. The eyes. Emerald green. Lily's eyes. Was he already dead? But no, he was still in the shrieking shack. I girl with bushy hair came in to view too and he thought he noticed someone with red hair further back. Weasley-red hair. No, he wasn't dead… yet. It was the golden trio. Ronald Weasley, the youngest boy in the Weasley clan. Hermione Granger, the brightest witch since Minerva McGonagall, and Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived, son of his old school-nemesis. The son of his only love, Lily.
He took a moment to look at him. The messy dark hair was even messier at the moment. I was covered in dust, and other things. Clothes looked haggard and he had cuts and bruises. He looked paler and thinner, tired and sorrowful. His eyes, Lily's eyes that once had sparkled with joy, mischief and lots of other different emotions over the years were somewhat dulled and hardened. They looked sad, pained and held wisdom and experience beyond his years. Beyond what most people would ever hold or see. He had been through too much, and he had still more to do. He had to tell him. He had always deemed him arrogant, spoiled, and annoying – just like his father. He had always judged him as being his father's son, but as he sat there he was more Lily, than he had ever dared to look for. He would hate if Dumbledore had been right. But it mattered not anymore. He had always counted on himself not to survive the war. He just had to let the boy know what he had to do. He never was told why. He didn't like it, but Dumbledore had said so, so it must be so.
He felt Harry's hand hold on to the wound in his neck, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to offer comfort? He looked him in the eyes. The boy hated him, did he not? He ought to – he had killed Dumbledore, he had acted his part as being loyal to the Dark Lord all too well. Harry did not know he was still a servant to the light. He couldn't know. But still he tried to show him mercy, pity and comfort. So much like Lily. He felt a tear escape him. He hadn't cried for years. He had to hold his image of being the evil greasy bat from the dungeons. But did it really matter now. He gestures weakly toward the tear, while he still looked at the boy. He had to know…had to know everything.
"Take it" He rasped out. Yes, take the memories, understand everything, even the part that He himself did not. He did not understand why the boy had to be killed by the Dark Lord himself. He did not want it so, even if he never really liked the boy… perhaps until now. After all, this was Lily's son, not James'. Hermione found a vial and had handed it to Harry. He held the vial to his cheek, to catch the tear, to catch the memories. Once that was done, the boy still held on to his neck and looked him in the eyes once more. The shone with unshed tears. Was that also for him? He couldn't fathom this boy would have that much compassion for him, the traitor, the murderer, the coward. Not that it would matter, he could feel his life slipping away. The eyes would soon disappear from his view. If he ever saw those eyes again, it would be in the afterlife, if such a thing even existed. If he was even allowed to go there. Oh, then he could see Lily again. Lily… The boy would join her soon too. It wasn't right. He couldn't get enough of those eyes.
"You –you have your mother's eyes.." He whispered out. He was slipping away fast now. The pain the coldness would soon be gone. All those hateful looks he had gotten over the last year from all he had considered colleagues would be gone too. It would all end. He couldn't see the boy well anymore, but he could still sense the eyes…
'Hold on Lily, I'm coming' He thought.
He couldn't see anything anymore, but he could still hear their breathing. They would not leave him, they wouldn't leave him, let him die alone. Now though the company was not what he expected, then it wasn't such an unwelcome thought at all. He had feared he would die alone –especially since he had killed the headmaster.
He couldn't hear them anymore. He was alone in the darkness. How fitting for him. He waited for his consciousness to completely leave him, or for the darkness to leave him and open up to either a heaven or a hell. He thought perhaps he sensed something like a bird song, but he couldn't be sure. But no new world open up for him, only darkness and a bird song – though, didn't he know the song? It didn't matter anymore. The darkness was absolute. If this was what awaited him, he didn't need to hold on to his consciousness anymore. What would be the point? So bird song or not, he let himself slip away. He would die in the place he always hated. In the Shrieking Shack. Believed to belong to the Dark Lord that he hated. No one ever understood him fully. Perhaps Dumbledore, but he was gone too – maybe the boy would, once he saw the memories, but then it would not matter anymore. He would be gone; Severus Snape, the greasy git would be dead.
Harry casted the expelliarmus. The wand flew to him, and Voldemort fell dull to the ground dead. There was a moment of silence. Harry held his breath. The cheers of joys exploded around him and people started to clap him on the back and on his shoulders. Harry became aware of the exhaustion, the soreness and a pain at his chest. He felt wrong and weird. His legs started to shake, and his hands trembled. He felt both clammy and cold at the same time and his chest hurt. Was it a side effect to being hit by the Killing Curse again… perhaps because the horcrux wasn't attached to him anymore? He had ringing in his ears, his head pounded away.
As professor McGonagall approached Harry with Hermione and Ron trailing behind, Harry's vision started to blur. Maybe he had lived on borrow time after sacrificing himself to Voldemort. When professor McGonagall was close enough he could sense her worry, when she asked him, if he was alright. Harry tried to answer, but his mouth and throat wouldn't cooperate. He couldn't control his legs and hands anymore, and he couldn't catch his breath at all. Merlin, his chest hurt! He slumped forward and McGonagall's arms around his shoulders were the last thing he felt. He managed to think of Snape, and thought that maybe he stuttered the name out as he fell. Was none of those who had sacrificed a lot meant to survive the war? Harry guessed it didn't matter anymore. The darkness was absolute. He couldn't see or hear anything. He couldn't feel anything. It sort of reminded him of his cupboard under the stairs back at Privet Dr. He guessed he wasn't allowed to be with Sirius, Lupin, Tonks, Fred or his parents. With that in mind, then why bother to try and hold on to his thoughts, his consciousness. His last thoughts were however on Snape. He had misjudged him and wronged him. He hoped the man would catch his thoughts from wherever his afterlife was. He was sorry and apologized to the man, forever in his dept.
Minerva McGonagall saw from a distance, when Harry Potter killed Voldemort – with a simple Disarming Charm. A short pause of silence and then the Great Hall erupted in cheers of joy. McGonagall herself felt as if a weight was lifted from her shoulders. She felt tired and every one of her years sneaking up on her. She caught sight of Potter again, and saw his exhausted state. He didn't look well. What the poor boy must have been through. Her heart clenched as she thought of how he had looked dead, when Voldemort and his entourage came out from the Forbidden Forest, a sobbing Hagrid carrying the body. A cold shiver went up the elderly woman's spine and it brought her back to the present. She made her way towards the boy. She nodded to Miss Granger and Mr Weasley as they flanked her through the crowd. The girl eyed her concerned and McGonagall had no doubt in her mind, that she probably looked as fragile and old as she felt. She took a moment to eye the both of them.
Hermione Granger had a tired and haunted look in her eyes. She had bruises and her clothes looked haggard and dirty. She looked slimmer and older. Her eyes looked dulled and made her look like she was at least fifty in knowledge.
Ronald Weasley looked similar that way, though his eyes also carried great sorrow – McGonagall thought of one of the twins lying dead in another room. Poor child, and poor family. To many had lost too much.
She had almost reached Potter, when she saw how he lost his grip on the wands, lost control of his legs and started dipping forwards. She rushed the last few steps, trying to hold the boy up, but couldn't and fell to her knees along with the boy.
"Mr. Potter, are you alright?" Stupid question really, of course he was not alright. She could see his mouth moving, but nothing more than ragged gasps and muffled whimpers slipped past his lips. He was clammy and cold at the same time. As she leaned forward to put him gently on the floor, Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley pale and slightly panicked by her side, they all heard a whisper of a familiar name: Snape.
'Oh Severus, how wrong I've been; how wrong we've all been' She had heard all that Harry told Voldemort, and she knew the words to be true. She also knew he was dead. He died while everyone believed him a traitor, a follower of the evil dark wizard. She sent off her patronus to Madam Pomfrey, as Harry's eyes dulled and his breathing became even more troubled. She feared the worst. At the same time, she kept thinking of Severus. She looked to Miss Granger who appeared to have composed herself enough to understand.
"We know where he is. We – we saw him die. Ron and I will fetch him. Just –just save him, please!" Ronald Weasley looked ready to argue. He didn't want to leave Harry, but one telling look from Hermione, and he clamped shut and staggered after Hermione towards the main doors. All for the better, McGonagall thought. They couldn't help Harry more than she could, and certainly not more than what Madam Pomfrey could.
People around her and the boy started to realize that the boy-who-lived wasn't getting up again. McGonagall noticed some from the DA-club and Mr. Weasley trying to make their way to them. She also spotted Madam Pomfrey coming into view. It was at that moment, she noticed something else too. Potter drew out one more haggard breath, and then… nothing.
She was trembling as she tried to open his ragged and dirty shirt. Clammy and disgusting as it was, the buttons just didn't want to cooperate. She spelled an air buble around his nose and mouth to help with his breathing and oxygen levels. realizing that the boy-who-lived struggled to live again, people started to whisper in panicked murmurs He wasn't done fighting.
Just then Madam Pomfrey nearly shoved McGonagall out of her way, waving her wand, so that the shirt flew open. Gasps and more whimpers were heard. Someone was outright crying. A big ugly wound, though not bleeding, could be seen at his chest. Going from his left shoulder to his right hipbone, and it was wide and deep and looked more like someone had thrown lightning at him. It looked like painful threads jolting. But even though it was shocking and scary, the most horrifying of it, was that it glowed slightly green. It was same color green of the killing curse. Dear Merlin! Had Voldemort really tried to kill him. And looking past the wound, McGonagall noticed that he also was thinner and bruised. He was most certainly too thin.
"Come on, Potter – don't give up now!" Madam Pomfrey almost growled out through clenched teeth as she used every lifesaving spell she knew. Mr. Weasley knelt down next to the boy, grapping one of his hands, stroking it and looked to the boy with tears in his eyes.
"Harry, don't do this. Fred will prank you right out of heaven, you hear. He wouldn't want you to give up. Neither would your parents, Sirius, Lupin… Come on, Harry. I cannot lose another son". The last part was whispered in pain.
He started to breathe again, but Madam Pomfrey's expression clearly stated that it might only be temporary. It was too unstable. She conjured a stretcher and people automatically moved for them, as they hurried of towards the hospital wing where most of the wounded and dead was. Was this the price of victory and was it worth it' McGonagall couldn't help but think.
On the way to the hospital wing, Harry's breathing and heart stopped.