review, please!
His thin legs were pressed to his tight stomach, his head burrowed into his knobby knees, a coif of black hair covering his face. He sat in shame, tears threatening him but never erupting.
Sirius. If Harry had just considered the fact that Voldemort would contemplate banking on his love of playing the hero he would still be alive. He was like a brother and a father, all twirled into one. If he had just listened to...
Hermione...the name made him nearly choke, his lower lip quivering as he bit back a sob of sorrow. She had fought 'til the end, wand at the ready, avenging the death of her best friend and ex-lover. At least she had died happy. She had slew the monster, Macnair, Ron's killer, before she was hit with an earth-shattering killing curse.
Ron had died long ago, in their hunt for the Horcruxes, one of the Dark Lord's elaborate booby-traps catching him off guard. Harry still recalled the expression of gut-wrenching pain as poisoned arrows riddled his body, spreading their disease in seconds. Hermione had been the one to bury him.
Dumbledore, at least he had died for a cause. To save Harry, while Hermione and Ron's deaths were in vain. They solved nothing, stopped nothing, saved no one. But Harry was not alone in his fury and battling sorrow.
The only other survivor. Hermione's husband of two years, Harry's ally, yet not friend. The Second Rising's version of Severus Snape, without the later treachery, whom Harry had the honor of murdering. Draco Malfoy.
After Hermione's death he had become nearly unhinged, though this technique undoubtedly defeated thrice as many Death Eaters. It was he who wiped out the entirety of the Malfoy and remaining Black family line with minimal help. But he too had, eventually, been driven to insanity.
He lived, but his mind was in total disarray. Luna, too, had been killed defending Neville, who momentarily after her demise had been taken as well. The Patil twins fled England, and Fleur was a beautiful warrior on the battlefield, but when she came against the rabid werewolf who had nearly butchered her husband, she had succumbed to death as well, though Greyback was later defeated by Remus Lupin.
It was a vicious cycle. Harry ticked off the names in his head, remembering the circumstances of their deaths. Not a one of his fellow schoolmates had made it out of the war if they had been involved in it. Ginny...oh, Ginny. Her death was the most horrid of all.
After Bill and Fleur's wedding, she had been butchered the old-fashioned way by a group of over-zealous Death Eaters, still wearing her bridesmaid gown. That was the only way any of one her family, including Harry and Hermione, could so much as identify her aside from the dress's fabric. Harry had not been able to speak for nearly one month, though this went nearly unnoticed. All he had had were Hermione and Draco, the eventual storybook couple with one child, a son, whom Hermione's parents had custody of after Draco had been driven to insanity.
They were all so young, excluding the teachers who, too, had been taken mercilessly by the growing Dark Side. Hagrid was decapitated. McGonagall, Flitwick, Sinistra and Treelawney had all been murdered.
Lupin was put down by one of their own, he was confused with another werewolf during the full moon. Tonks and Moody had been killed soon after.
I'm alone. He realized, blinking back tears in the dank, dark room he had placed himself in. The only survivors were either mad or had fled the country. The Order of the Phoenix was exterminated aside from the one or two stragglers who somehow escaped.
Everyone is dead. His heart burst with emotion as he impatiently wiped a tear off of his face, staring out into the bleak darkness, unable to keep from sinking into a depression.
It would be a lie if he were to say that he had never contemplated suicide, because he had on more that a dozen occasions. But, despite his weaknesses, he was strong. He could never give in. Time and time again a knife would look helpful, a casement look peaceful, a pond seem to be the solution. He had nothing left...but, wait. He sat up straight and attempted, to no avail, to flatten his stubborn hair. I'm not...all along he had one thing, one thing that made him stop from doing anything irrational. Himself. He lost friends and foes alike, they had been taken, but he was not. He was still alive. An empty shell, perhaps, but still existing.
It felt like eternity since he had stood and, as he cracked his knuckles, he headed towards the door, somehow knowing that this was the end, for either him or Voldemort he was unsure.
Not knowing is half the fun...and he unsheathed his wand and prepared for the last battle.