A/N: Originally posted on ao3 under the pen name youngjusticewriter. Part three of the "The advantages of foreknowledge and the disadvantages." series.
Fixed points. Hermione had once told him about them when she had explained the different time travel theories, paradoxes during their fourth year when Harry had asked her to get his mind off his problems. The tournament, Ron ignoring him, the school hating him, bullying him yet again. (He was either the savior of the wizarding world or the next dark lord. There, sadly was no in between for him.)
He recalls that moment as of now. He's watching history unfold (a history he already knows) despite everything he had done to try to prevent this. This moment. This turning point in history. He runs out of the Dumbledore household despite how tired he feels, his exhaustion in his very bones (Because he's tired but he can't stop, can't rest because if he does who would stand up and fight "the good fight?" Never mind he had been a kid, an abused kid that only wanted to be loved, wanted, not to be useless or a freak when he was forced to play the role of savior.), because if nothing he did didn't matter - because of bloody fixed points - than all that mattered was what he did.
When Harry first arrived he complianted what he was going to do about this moment. Letting Ariana (who reminded him so much of his friend Luna that it hurt), letting an innocent child die for the greater good of the wizarding world.
It had never been a option.
Harry couldn't just let abuse or death of an innocent child happen for the "for the greater good of the wizarding world" when he had been abused. He wouldn't turn a blind eye or ignore it because he was told too. Greater good could kiss his buttock.
Never again.
That was his promise. That was his last thought as pushes Ariana (who had been watching the duel, the colors of the curses with wide but, for the first time since Harry's known her, not vacant eyes) out of the way of a familiar green shade (the shade of his eyes).
Maybe this time he'll be allowed to rest.
A hour later Harry wakes up.
He gasps.
He gulps in breath in his starved lungs. His vision is blurry, blurrier than normal, and the first thing that comes to focus is red. Red Hair.
Mom, he thinks only to have his heart broken when he realizes that it's Albus (who stares at him in disbelief) who gazing down at him.
Whoever said that the wicked had no rest was wrong.
No. It was always the hero, always him, that didn't get to rest.
Never gets to greet death.
He shouldn't be surprised. He's the boy who lived after all.
Or was he was the boy that could never die?