And its gone... gone... going...
His pale face shone in the dull moonlight, his red scar illuminated as one final insult. He had died for that scar, died for everything it stood for, a one last stand against evil. Hermione wanted to carve it out of his face; he would never have rest as long as that disgusting thing remained a reminder of all that was resting on his shoulders. A seventeen-year-old boy shouldn't have had to carry the weight of the world with him wherever he went. It was so unfair. She guessed it didn't even matter anymore, he would never sigh again that sad look in his lovely green eyes. He would never cry silently in the safety of his room when he thought no one could hear. He would never have to push away everyone he loved in some hopeless last attempt to save them. Harry wouldn't have to be the boy-who-lived any longer he was just the boy-who-died. History books would remember his name, maybe a picture would accompany those pages, but they would never remember him.
Hermione knew that she was doing something wrong as she looked at the corpse; his back arched slightly, that terrified expression on his face. She was supposed to be crying, it was her best friend lying right there in front of her. She didn't feel sadness she just felt a supreme sense of irony. Irony that the boy-who-lived was now the boy-who-died, that in order for the most evil man in the world to die, the most wonderful man in the world had to as well. That even after his death the world would still fear the day when another such as Voldemort would arise. Everything Harry had done for them seemed so pointless to her. It wasn't worth the consequences; it wasn't worth one god damned thing. But it was the most distinguishable and beautiful irony that a boy had to sacrifice himself for the whole world. Hermione felt the laughter bubbling in her stomach and as it flowed up through her trachea she didn't even wish it was tears, it spilled out of her mouth filling the air with its innocent sound. It seemed so crude, worse than the strongest profanity, the most disturbing thing anyone could have done at that moment. Yet no one understood that Hermione Granger had found the irony behind the whole world, she had seen its cowardly face as it turned its back to her friend.
It felt like years later that she sat on the raggedy old bed, with its pale blue sheets faded to some unnamed color, the paint was chipping on the walls of the room and the shelves were sagging towards the middle holding the dead and deserted playmates of the undeserving. A calendar was pinned to the wall and she smiled as she saw the small x's and the circled date. The battered armoire that was just waiting to collapse; it all seemed so tired.
She lay back and imagined what she looked like from above. Her face a pale cream, her nose a slight button small and unmemorable, her lips chapped and red from inattention, her frizzy unmanageable mop cushioning her head more than any pillow ever could, her clothes too baggy to show any discernable shape. Hermione wondered if people in heaven just looked down at you and caught every facet. Did they love the night when they saw people's faces rather than just the top of their useless heads? Did they see loved ones in the faces? Did the angels weep for what was still without them on Earth? She wanted him to see her now, but she hoped he didn't weep for her. He had wept enough during his lifetime. Hermione lay there silent and still until she heard the unmistakable sound of a car pulling into the driveway and she thought about how the occupants had no idea what had happened just two days ago. She began to think about whether they would even care. She had been warned to stay away from them, and she had fully intended on doing just that. Hermione had only wanted to see his room before it was turned into something else that didn't hold the memories of him. But, now she felt they deserved to know, no matter how they reacted. The Dursleys may never have loved him, yet they had kept him under their roof for sixteen years, didn't that count for anything? So she rose from the bed sparing only a glance for that calendar tacked to the wall. Walking down the stairs should've given her some sense of fear, she had seen these people only once, and even with all her intelligence she felt intimidated and inferior. But as she walked into that sparkling kitchen she didn't feel an ounce, they looked at her in fear their eyes held no recognition.
"Who the hell are you?" The man said his voice angry as his face began to purple.
"Harry's dead." Hermione said no other words seemed to be able to fit besides those. They looked at her blankly, and she wondered if they understood. Surprisingly it was the young boy with the blond hair that spoke first, his voice deeper than she expected.
"What do you mean he's dead?" He said his voice tight as his eyes narrowed at her.
"He died two days ago during the Final Battle." Hermione said and those words were so hard to say because it all seemed so wrong.
"What Final Battle? There wasn't anything on the news!" He was showing emotion that she never thought would come from the child who had terrorized Harry.
"You wouldn't have there were spells to hide it from everyone and those who witnessed it-" She paused for a moment swallowing, "Most of them are dead, the others had their memories wiped."
"Why…why was he fighting?" That came from his aunt and Hermione was shocked forgetting for a moment that these people had no idea.
"He was the only one who could kill Voldemort." She said and they all stood silent shocked this proclamation, and she knew they wondering how they could have ever missed it, that there was something so special about the boy they treated so terribly. She left then heading for the door but a pudgy hand grabbed her arm. Hermione turned her head to look at Dudley Dursleys' face.
"Did it hurt much?" He whispered as if asking that question was some terrible type of sin. She wanted to answer truthfully yet she wanted him to hurt for all he had done to Harry.
"No it didn't hurt much when he died." She said quietly and he seemed to see past her words to all the pain that Harry had endured through the years because he paled, nodding before walking away. She watched him go and wondered if Harry's pain had just become his.
A/N: This is one of my really angsty stories personally I like it a lot. There are two more parts to this.
Your no-I-am-not-emo author,
Wonderwall