Disclaimer: JKR's creations. JKM's imagination.
Author's Notes: Uhm...Well. I've killed Fred, Remus (sort of), Sirius (not really...), I figured I might kill the one highest on the food chain. Plus, after reading the fifth book for the third time, he was really pissing me off. And...yeah. I have two stories I should be working on...but you know you wanted to see this...:runs off to word perfect: Sorry! I'll get right on the other stories. Anyway, this was for a contest on I kind of liked it (and not just because I wanted to kill a certain character). Thankfully this is a one-shot and will stay that way, so you won't have to worry about me being a lazy ass. xD
Voldemort came in with a lion's roar. Everyone expected him to leave the same way. "This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper," Harry recited softly as he pulled the robes over the bits of dust, all that remained of the feared overlord of the wizarding world.
Hands were rubbed together to expel the dust that lingered on his flesh. The sickening aroma that lurked around the small room was harder to expunge. Already the boy-who-lived had retched twice, even succumbing to dry heaves beyond that. Aurors were bound to start sniffing around. A sense of urgency, like a boa constrictor, wrapped around his belly. 'I need to get out of here.'
Harry stumbled to his feet, gagging on fear and the acrid odor. Fingers leapt to clutch at the mouth, though the young man knew his stomach no longer held anything to hold in. For a woozy moment, his equilibrium bounced around, the walls undulating under his wavering vision. Steeling himself finally, he stumbled alongside one of the stone walls, one hand following as both a stabilizer and his hold on reality. The leftover hand clung to the fabric over his belly.
They'd all expected him to do it. 'Eventually,' everyone reasoned, 'the boy-who-lived would come to save us again.' But he'd fought them. He didn't want to play hero anymore. He didn't want to be their only hope. He'd cried and begged and still he was chosen to be the one.
Light shone through the doorway, the one exit of the room, like a heavenly beam. 'Beyond that is hope. Beyond that is freedom. Beyond that is everything I've ever wished for…' he let the smile hold his lips, though he knew he was only fooling himself. Even as he caught himself on the wooden doorframe, a splinter sending a streak of pain through his hand, he knew all of his hopes were soon to be dashed upon the rocks of life.
Lurching into the light, there were no hands to catch him, or cheers to greet him. When it all came down to it, he'd murdered a living being, watched it writhe and laughed. Poetic justice. The bad guy dies in the end. But it wasn't the end, and Harry didn't want to laugh, he wanted to be sick again.
The stones under his bare feet felt cool and fake and so soothing against the heated soles. The silence of the corridors was a steady white noise to Harry's ringing ears. A part of his mind yearned to scream out, if only to hear the echo of his own voice.
A good portion of Harry's life had been spent planning the "Final Battle." So what now? Who was he now that he had survived twice? He really wasn't much of a 'boy' anymore, though he supposed the 'boy-who-lived' was a title he'd have for the rest of his life. He'd always be the hero. Always be the legend. Never would he be the boy, the man, the person.
An agonized cry was emitted off dehydrated lips. The tiny bubble of blood was just enough to taste, but not enough to show, from a particularly deep crack in the lips' flesh. There was no way he'd ever stand such a life. Forever in the spotlight, forever just a spectacle at the zoo. 'The good die young,' he'd heard once, though the source he couldn't remember, 'because they see that it's no use living if you have got to be good.' And as the wandtip was held under his chin, he thought of the quote, smiling, as he whispered his final spell, "Avada Kadavra."
Hours later found Remus Lupin and Kingsley Shacklebolt trudging down the halls after the arduous defeat of the Deatheaters. All had been made easier as a single cry among those of the darker side of magic rang clear. Fighting had stopped almost instantly, and those who relied on lighter magic knew they'd defeated their evil. Remus and Kingsley fought through the last stragglers of the great battle, to find the center, where Harry had bravely defended their way of life.
Sweat, blood and tears ran freely as both men stopped, staring upon the crumpled form of their savior. Seemingly so small, innocent, the face of a child, an angel in death. Almost sweetly, he seemed to sleep, as if taking a short nap before he had to face his adoring fans.
Remus picked up the body gently, as if he didn't wish to wake the boy. The small wound under his chin revealed the reason for his death, and the werewolf's hand quickly moved to cover it up.
"He lived bravely, he fought bravely…he died in peace," Kingsley whispered finally. No one needed to know of the way their savior died. Only that he did.
"And in that dream of death, what dreams may come…"