Beautiful Savior
A long, long time ago, before the war and before his world shattered, he had been happy. It seemed hard to remember that time now; perhaps it had been an illusion, his mind playing tricks on him, deceiving him into believing what could not have been. Maybe it would be a cycle, of happiness and tragedy in turn. When he was born, he was fortunate just to be alive, and then he had the misfortune of living with the Dursleys', who treated him like rubbish, and then there was the sheer happiness of just being able to get away from them, into a world with the likes that he could not have imagined in his wildest dreams, and then unhappiness once again, from Voldemorte and Riddle and Wormtail and Snape and of course, of course from Malfoy, who caused him so much pain and misery and bitter resentment. He could not really say that he truly hated any of them, not now at least, because they were all dead, and it would be pointless unburying the past that he had worked so hard at to forget.
He was unhappy again. Maybe if he waited long enough, the balance would shift, and then the cycle would spin so fast that it would make him dizzy. He just wanted to be happy, that's all. Just a little longer. He could afford to wait for it.
And it was okay that he didn't belong, and stood apart from the rest of them; it was okay that he was different because he was Harry, wasn't he, and that's what they expected of him and that's what he expected of himself anyways, and he was fine with that. It didn't upset him anymore. They were just meaningless people, blank faces with no name or history, and they didn't matter to him. Or at least he could pretend so.
Maybe, maybe if he closed his eyes he could disappear into nothing and then he wouldn't have to hear them anymore, those meaningless people who whispered that Harry Potter had gone mad, and that it was because of him that they had all died, because of him that they all suffered so, and why, oh why hadn't he been the hero that they had all thought him to be? Why couldn't he just have killed him when he had the chance to, why hadn't he saved them?
It was Dumbledore who had, brave, noble Dumbledore in the end, not Harry, who saved them from Voldemorte. Harry would never forget his face when he fell, because of course Dumbledore had to die, and of course Harry could do nothing but watch helplessly and let him fall. And they all blamed him for it, and Harry was silent because he knew it was true.
He remembered all their faces as their lives ended. He remembered Hermione, who sobbed and wept and was struck down; Ron, whose face was etched in disbelief- how could Harry let him die? And Malfoy, Malfoy who died laughing even as he kissed Harry with scarlet staining his aristocratic hands.
Harry clenched his teeth. How could they have done that to him? Why had they risked themselves-didn't they know what they meant to him? It wasn't bloody fair, but he had only himself to blame. Why hadn't he- oh, if only… But he could not think about it. It was over now, and he could change nothing.
So he did the only thing he could do, and it was because he was so desperately wretched and guilty and bitter and shamed, and he killed himself. But at least the cycle had shifted, and he could finally be happy now.
Fin