Harry on Wednesday's Tree
Harry awoke with a searing pain in his side, blood dripping from his wounds. His stomach called out in writhing agony, burning as it digested itself. His arms were bound. His legs, bound. His whole body, bound. He could not move, could not speak. His energy gone the way of the wind. His wand, tucked safely in his pocket where he had no glimmer of hope he could reach it.
Below him lay a body covered in white linens. Beautiful to see, terrible to smell. The stench filled his nostril, yet he could not comprehend its reek, not with the pain that filled him.
He closed his eyes, letting the life drain out of him. His task was done, he need not hold on any longer. And then he died, Dumbledore lying beneath him, his vigil complete.
A/N - This little morbid thing is a play on American Gods by Neil Gaiman, with a touch of Harry Potter in it. Short, sweet and to the point.
Again I claim no rights to either the Harry Potter universe, or American Gods.