Harry Potter Is dead.
Dead. They didn't believe it at first of course, how could they? Wonderfull Harry, strong Harry, who faced death in his short time on this earth than many other peole three times his age. Harry, who defeated a troll at eleven years of age, Harry, who killed a beast that many deemed unbeatable, Harry, who would allways put others first, who always cared far to much.
Thats what killed him in the end, He thinks, striding towards his chambers. Allways too nice, too sellfles, so kind, he thinks the word with discust. Kindness gets you nowhere in the end, He learned this the when his parents were made husks, empty shells going through the barest motions of living, of life, when there is nothing inside anymore, as he dreams of screams and cries, and begging.
He remembers the reactions of the Weasley clan and Granger, there cries and screams, refusing to believe that the body lying there, so weak, so fragile, so unlike the Harry they knew, who was never weak, who endured so much in his life, who was as fragile as a rock. But they forget that rocks can only take so much before they reach breaking point. They pushed him too far in the end, not knowing that with every enemy killed, with every ally slaughtered, that he grew closer and closer to the edge.
Still, He mused, sitting on his new bed, admiring the silk sheets and soft pillows, it wasn't all their fault. He never complained, never protested, never took a break, and indeed why should he? He was Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, emphasis on the boy. How could they know if he never told? If he never gave a sign? But they blame themselves, saying how they should have seen it, seen the signs, done something, anything, to save the one who saved them so many times.
But in the end, they could not change what has already passed, could not erase the blood stained knife, not the empty green eyes, not the note he left, containing a single sentence.
Sorry, I can't take any more of this
That was it. It was not not done out off guilt, out of fear, it was done out of his compassion, his idiotic compassion, which covered everyone he met, either ally or enemy. They thought it was a natural thing, that he was simply good and kind. He knew different though, He saw the scars on his back, the nightmares that shook him, the way he flinched at the thought of going home. He knew it wasn't kindness, but a lack of worth, seeing everyone else as more deserving of life than himself.
Still, nothing to be done for that now. He would come out on the winning side regardless of wether or not Potter lived, having joined His Lord when he gave him what he wanted most. He chuckled at the memory of her screams, her begging him, just like his parents did. He did not leave Her like them though, he killed her when he had his fun, Bellatrix was not worthy of living like his parents.
He hissed as he felt the burn of His mark on his arm, knowing that it would be another sleepless night. But he did not regret it, not even when He was put under His curse. He regretted nothing, Longbottoms do not look back, do not regret. He does not regret betraying Harry, he does not regrett pushing him futher to the edge with their late night talks, and his promise that he would see his parents again, that they would understand. He is Neville Longbottom, and he regrets nothing.