"Everyone Dies"
by: CNGB
Special thanks to:
J. K. Rowling, who wrote Harry Potter.
Anyone who reads this.
Word count: 3,554
Rating: K+
Warnings: (Former) Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley relationship mentions.
Categories: Tragedy; Hurt/Comfort.
Legal junk: I do not own Harry Potter. All rights go to the honorable J. K. Rowling.
Listening to: "The Mercy Seat" by Anders Manga
Everything that he had ever been told made so much sense now, from the prophecy to any "hints" Dumbledore had given him. He was meant to die, not to live. He was meant to be pushed around even on the battle field. It was, in a sense, like his younger days, when he had never known anything about the Wizarding world and was attacked by Dudley and his gang. He was meant to allow Voldemort the killing blow; the killing blow that would silence him forever. Die! Die! Die! Die!
He was not going to be able to celebrate the victory with the Weasleys or Hermione or Luna or Neville or McGonagall or anyone, and it hurt, because he knew that it was his true destiny to die. What was he to do? Harry would not run away. No, he had the power to stop even more unnecessary deaths. Lupin and Tonks and all of those poor, poor people that had been allowed to die by some ungodly force, some unfair, evil twist . . . he had no intentions of letting their deaths go in vain. They had died to protect him, when they could have easily tied him up and presented him to Voldemort and his Death Eaters.
Thump, thump, thump, went his heart as it rammed itself against his rib cage. How ironic! He was going to die that day—that very hour—and yet his heart was pumping itself as fast as it could. The rapid beats were louder than when he had faced Quirrell in his first year; louder than when he had been facing Voldemort's teenage form in his second; louder than when he faced a newly resurrected, all-powerful Lord Voldemort in his fourth; louder than when he did the same in his fifth; shoot, it was probably louder than even when Dumbledore had been blown off the Astronomy Tower by Snape's Avada Kedavra Curse. It seemed to Harry that his heart was determined to beat a lifetime's worth before it would no longer be able to do so.
As he lay on the floor, Harry thought about all of the times that he had nearly died. And oh, there were quite a few! When he was a baby he should have died. If not then, then his death, however it happened, should have taken place sometime in his six years that he had spent at Hogwarts. Or maybe even sometime when he, Hermione and Ron had been running in the many forests that had served as their shelter.
The Reaper was standing only inches from him. Not even the Invisibility Cloak could conceal him now. But then again, he had no intentions of simply hiding behind it or anyone else. Not anymore. No, Voldemort would see him, and most likely everyone else in the Wizarding world (and maybe even the Muggle one) would, too. It was not like Harry's arch-enemy, his soon-to-be killer, to remain quiet about such a feat. He would have killed the Boy Who Lived! The one that had escaped him not just once, not just twice, but over four times now! A victory for the snake-like man indeed.
Harry found himself wishing that he had already died. He wished that he didn't have to face death this way, with a kind of bravery that he did not have a limitless supply of. He wished that he could die like Hedwig had, so quick and sudden that the poor, beautiful owl most likely hadn't even realized what was happening. He wished that he could die like Cedric and Sirius: quick. For the love of all that is mighty, he wished he could die like his parents, diving in front of a wand to save someone that he loves.
Ah, but that was practically what he was doing, wasn't it? Harry was going to die so that maybe, just maybe, Ron or Hermione could destroy the giant snake and then Voldemort himself. Yes, Harry's death would ever-so-slightly resemble his parents'. Well, perhaps it should be parent's. He was going to die by self-sacrifice, not like his dad, who had been wiped out in a duel, fighting. Harry was going to give it all up. Give up his future, present, and past.
Slowly, Harry sat up. He was so very, very aware of his own body as he did so. He was aware how his legs were brought up on instinct; how his arms planted themselves firmly on Dumbledore's old office's floor; how his back and head lifted from that same floor. He was aware that his breathing was slow, deep. He was aware of how dry his mouth and throat were . . . as well as his eyes.
Dumbledore! Ah, the betrayal. Harry was still hurt and angry (And probably will be until Voldemort kills me, he realized) about the entire situation, but the ordeal was next to nothing to the huge fact that he was going to die. Harry admitted to himself that he had been a blind fool to not suspect that there had been a greater plan, past just "Harry must kill Voldemort." A plan that was fool-proof. One that had no room for mistakes. One that would undoubtedly work. Dumbledore's plan was well thought out, and for that, however small, Harry had respect for the deceased man.
A small part of him wished that he could say goodbye to Ron and Hermione. Ron and Hermione: His the two best friends. The people that had stayed by his side through practically everything. Yes, all three of them had gotten angry at one another throughout their time spent together, but had it been worth it? Of course it had! Harry was not about to remorse over the bonds that they had all shared. But . . . he could not say goodbye. For one thing, he needed to make this journey, his final journey, alone. For another, Harry knew that they would not want him to die. Ron would probably say that Dumbledore had been a twisted old loony, and Hermione would most likely cry and beg him not to go through with the final, pre-determined path he was destined to walk.
Finally, Harry forced himself to stand and walk out of the office. Down the corridors. He sincerely wished that he was eleven again, being led by McGonagall to the Great Hall. So young. So innocent. Unknowing of his destiny. How he wished.
Hogwart's corridors, from what he could see, was completely empty. Even the portraits, which usually always contained people from long-ago, were empty. Where were they? Most likely somewhere where everyone else was, the inquisitive little—
Pulling the Cloak over him, Harry continued his death march to the great, big doors. Did he want to be stopped? Did he want to be dragged back? Oh, yes. Yes he did. He wanted the Invisibility Cloak to be ripped off of him, and then he wanted his arms forced behind his back and to be taken into the Great Hall.
He did not want to die. He did not want to die. He did not want to die.
But he would.
And just as he was walking out, Neville and Oliver almost crashed into him. They were carrying something—a body—and Harry peered down to see who it was. Immediately, though, he wished that he hadn't, for the young boy that was not even supposed to be there, in the castle, was Colin Creevey. Just as Malfoy and his goons, Colin had probably sneaked back into the castle to help with the battle.
"You know what? I can manage him alone, Neville," Oliver said as he picked up Colin's lifeless body, fireman style, and headed towards the Great Hall.
Neville stood there, watching Oliver's back, and turned around, to Hogwart's grounds, no doubt to retrieve the dead. For just a split second, Harry admired how his friend had gone from (now let's be honest) shaking-in-his-boots kind of loser to a strong, independent man.
Friends. He had many of them. Hermione and Luna, the Weasleys, and all of the people who had joined the DA. Quickly, he glanced back in the direction that Oliver had carried Colin's corpse to, the Great Hall, and scanned the area to see if he could spot anyone he loved in there. But, alas, he did not. What he would give to just have one, last, wonderful look at them! If he could have that look, though, would he ever have the strength to turn away? He vaguely recalled how he wanted to sit in front of the Mirror of Erised for all eternity back in his first year, and decided that he probably wouldn't be able to stop looking.
So with that in mind he made his feet follow Neville, to the grounds. Goodness it was dark. What was he to expect at four o' clock in the morning, though? Of course it was going to be dark.
Harry's friend stopped and was about to pick up another body before Harry startled him.
"Neville."
With a slight jump, Longbottom replied, "Blimey, Harry, you nearly gave me heart failure!"
Harry took off his Cloak. The idea had come to him just as a way to win the World Cup came to a professional Quidditch captain.
"Where are you going, alone?" Neville asked, and Harry could hear the suspicion laced in his voice.
"It's all part of the plan," Harry said. "There's something I've got to do. Listen—Neville—"
And then, just as quick as the idea had come to Potter, fear outlined Neville's features. "Harry! Harry, you're not thinking of handing yourself over?"
"No. 'Course not . . . this is something else," Harry lied. A little too easily, perhaps? "But I might be out of sight for a while. You know Voldemort's snake, Neville? He's got a huge snake. . . . Calls it Nagini. . . ."
"I've heard, yeah," Neville confirmed. "What about it?"
"It's got to be killed. Ron and Hermione know that, but just in case they—"
Harry could not go on. He could not say "but just in case they are killed." It would be betrayal! And Gryffindors, Gryffindors were supposed to be loyal, were they not? He wanted to shut up, to not consider such a possibility. It occurred to Harry that his heart—the same heart that was still beating wildly—did not want him speaking with Neville, did not want him even thinking that anything in the world could happen to his two best friends. He wanted to run far, far away. Not just from Neville, but from the Death Eaters, from Voldemort, and from life itself. Moments after he thought these things, however, he forced himself to stay focused; he needed to be like Dumbledore, to have several back-up plans in case something went wrong. Someone needed to annihilate the final Horcrux, and if it couldn't be him, nor Ron nor Hermione, then perhaps it could be Neville.
"Just in case they're—busy—and you get the chance—"
"Kill the snake?"
"Kill the snake," Harry confirmed.
"All right, Harry. You're okay, are you?"
"I'm fine. Thanks, Neville."
Harry's feet moved on, but Neville grabbed his wrist. "We're all going to keep fighting, Harry. You know that?"
"Yeah, I—"
Harry could not keep the lie going; he had to stop. It was suffocating, how Harry had the actual ability to lie like he was to Neville at that moment. Perhaps I got too much practice, Harry thought bitterly to himself. The thought was extinguished just as it had fluttered through his mind, however, and Neville let go of Harry's wrist, and the two boys went their own ways.
He swung the Cloak back over him once again and kept going. Someone else was moving, not so far away, and he realized that it was Ginny. Oh, Ginny! All of the times he had spent with her that previous year came rushing back to him, and it was as if he was viewing someone elses life, where that person did not have an abominable scar on his forehead, where that person did not need to hunt down a mental man who wanted to kill him and would let him do so, where that person didn't have to worry about breaking up with his God-given girlfriend, or going out to fight a war at the puny age of seventeen.
The feeling of wanting to be dragged back to the Great Hall enveloped him once again, but with a shuddering breath, he forced himself to keep going, past Ginny. He would never see her again. She was going to grow up after this, and she was going to meet a nice, wonderful man and marry him—not Harry, but someone else—and have his kids and, and, God Almighty, Harry was jealous. Not just of whoever Ginny would grow up to meet and marry, but also of his best mate's sister. She was going to live.
If nothing else, he could assure that.
Through the thick darkness Harry could see the form of Hagrid's hut. The memories flooded back to him once more, of Hagrid forcing his rock cakes on Harry, Ron and Hermione. Vaguely he wondered where in the world Hagrid had went. The last Harry had seen, Hagrid was being carried away by the horrible Aragog's descendents. He sincerely hoped that the man was all right . . . .
Forcing himself yet again to keep moving, Harry finally reached the Forbidden Forest's edge. He had to stop, however, as dementors swarmed the entire area. Did he have energy for a Patronus? No, no he did not. How in the world was he going to get passed them?
Maybe he could just go back and formulate a new plan.
Right, right, of course I would do that.
As he stood there beneath his Cloak, watching the disgusting beings fly around, he realized that he was trembling. Harry thought back to the times that he had watched a bit of television while at the Dursleys'. On those programs, it seemed like they had always made the tragic ones so simple, so easy. But now, now Harry realized that that was not how a person acted when they knew that they were soon going to die. It was so much harder than what the average child would think. Harry mused that if he actually wanted to die, then it would probably be easier. But he didn't want to; he was merely doing what he had to.
Every second he breathed in the smell of the grass, felt the nippy wind on his face, was so precious. It seemed a million years ago when he took all of those things for granted, how he would just walk around and not even think about the wonderful air he was blessed with, or the amazing vegetation he was able to admire. Had that boy really been him? How? It was . . . so impossible.
With an almost regretful sigh, he realized a wonderful metaphor of what was happening: the long game had been ended. He, Harry, the Seeker, had finally caught the Golden Snitch, and. . . .
The Snitch!
His fingers fumbled with the pouch at his neck until he pulled out a round, golden little ball with weak, fluttering wings. How had he not seen it sooner? How had he not discovered what the riddle was? For, indeed, "I open at the close," was engraved in it. And, indeed, the close was now. The game was coming to a close now. He was ready to get out of the air and off his broom now.
Harry pressed his lips to the Snitch and whispered, "I am about to die."
Just as he expected, Harry could feel that the metal shell had snapped open. Because of the darkness, though, Harry was unable to see what had fallen into the palm of his hand. With his shaky right hand he grabbed the wand that he had stolen from Draco all those centuries ago from beneath his Cloak and murmured, "Lumos."
There it was: The Resurrection Stone. It had cracked down the middle to resemble the Elder Wand, and the triangle and circle for the Cloak and Stone were still visible.
It made so much sense, now, that he was not going to be calling back the dead forever and ever. They, however, were going to be bringing him with them, wherever they were.
Harry knew what he needed to do, and so he closed his eyes and turned the Stone in his hand over three times.
When he was done, he knew that it had happened, for he could hear slight rustling around him that made it clear that he was not alone. Opening his eyes, he seen the people that he loved most that were deceased. As he examined them, Harry realized that they closely resembled what Riddle had looked like when Harry faced off the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets: Neither fully ghost nor fully human. And on each of their faces rested a loving smile.
James, Sirius, Lupin, and Lily were there with him, beside him, almost as if they were guarding him. It was not exactly painful to see them, because he knew that he was soon going to be joining them.
"You are very close," James said. "Very close. We are . . . so proud of you."
"Does it hurt?"
Harry hadn't meant to say that; the childish question—goodness, even his voice had sounded immature—had slipped from his mouth before he could even recognize it for what it was.
"Dying? Not at all," Sirius assured. "Quicker and easier than falling asleep."
"And he will want it to be quick," said Lupin. "He wants it to be over."
That certainly made Harry feel better, and he found himself hoping that Lupin was right. Voldemort wanted it to all be over? Well, so did he.
"I didn't want you to die," said Harry. Just like the question he had asked them before, Harry hadn't completely meant to say that. He meant it indeed, but he hadn't meant to. It was almost as if someone else was controlling how he was thinking, someone else was controlling how he said things . . . . "Any of you. I'm sorry—"
Harry was addressing Lupin more than anyone else. His parents and Sirius had long-since been gone, and Harry had had time to grieve and heal. He felt, however, that Lupin's death could have been prevented.
"—right after you'd had your son . . . Remus, I'm sorry—"
Lupin agreed, "I am sorry too. Sorry I will never know him . . . but he will know why I died and I hope he will understand. I was trying to make a world in which he could live a happier life."
As Lupin finished, a chilly, early morning breeze swept through Harry's hair, but he did not shiver. A little over half of his time to surrender himself to Voldemort had wasted away, but the youngest Potter knew that none of the "people" who were around him would make him go. That was his choice.
"You'll stay with me?"
"Until the very end," said James.
"They won't be able to see you?"
"We are part of you," explained Sirius. "Invisible to anyone else."
Harry looked to his mother. "Stay close to me."
And so, they sat off, into the forest. Harry, thankfully, did not need his Patronus to fight off the dementors, as his parents, Sirius and Lupin acted as his guards. They were as his strength and his courage and the reason that he was able to keep putting one foot in front of the order, towards his destruction. It was only because of them that Harry was able to blindly walk through the forest, stumbling as he went, not knowing where in the world to go, but knowing that somehow or another, he would find his final destination . . . he wound meet his Maker.
Hello there, everyone. Now that you've made it to the bottom of my short story, please allow me to babble.
While I believe that flames are unnecessary and childish even in the worst situations, I happily accept as much criticism as possible. So please, please, please, if you have the ability to criticize work, then do so. Just make whatever you have to say, well, make sense. It's kind of an epic fail if you criticize me of something in here while writing something along the lines of, "yhu n33d 2 du dis bruh". Seriously? Are you kidding me? Any way . . . .
You may feel that this short story is entirely useless to write. If you think that, then you're wrong. Any good author that has actually had his or her work published will tell you that all writing, no matter what it is, is good for the writer.
If you've read the seventh Harry Potter book, then you probably realize that I picked the format from it, and just added a different "twist." This short story served as three different things: A way to have a glimpse into my own writing style; to have a little fun; and in honor of the American Thanksgiving.
- CNGB