Well, I had a few requests to follow this up, but in truth, that's all there is. There is no more to the story. It ends with his death, because that's the poigniant and slightly ironic end to it.
"There is nothing here. There never was."
It's all a show for him, all something that he's recognized and hidden for so long.
C'mon, he was abused, used, and thrown aside. Lets face it, he's all sorts of screwed up. Think about it, how much hate has to go into the Avada Kevadra? A lot, which is why, with some unspecified spell, Harry kills him, not with the Avada Kevadra. I guess I could explain it in story format... I'll try.
-
-
-
-
There was no feeling, no sensations. Only darkness and blessed coldness, relief. No emotions other than the light feeling, the one that told him what had happened.
He was playing his part no more. He had taken his bow after playing out the role he was given
But no more.
His conciousness was obliterated as his body fell to the floor, blackness and howling as the blood roared one final time.
It was over, yet it was just begun.
In those precious seconds as the Death Eaters fell, he realized just how many lives were cut short, even the lives of murderers like the Death Eaters.
Their children, their families... So much loss.
All because he had lived, all because he had not been able to kill the man when he was only a year old.
How could they place such a burden on a boy?
He had done what they wanted, and he could see their faces. He had killed Voldemort, not what they were expecting, he thought. They were expecting some great duel, some news of his great triumph without the pause to consider what would happen when all was said and done.
They were wrong.
He couldn't have used Avada, he didn't hate the man, even for all he did.
He could understand, really. It was simple. You grow up shunned, hated, reviled and lonely.
Add a dash of impudence, genius, and a will to survive.
Were they not the same?
He had the same potential as Tom Riddle did when he was young, had the same backround, same impetus.
He felt the bile rising in his throat as he thought about it, as he had thought about it for ages and ages before. Ever since he learned the truth behind Voldemort.
He was a scared, hurting little boy, grown to a man scared only of failure and death.
But Harry... Harry was not afraid of that death. He had been ready to face it since he had discovered that it was his destiny.
As he stood there, watching the bodies fall and rise, like a great seething tide, his thoughts roared in his ears, like the blood rushing through his veins.
His natural sense of fatalism... no. It was simple acceptance, and a bit of cynicism.
He would die.
"Neither can live while the other survives..."
It made a sick sort of sense now.
He was meant to kill the man.
And he couldn't live with the self hate, the loathing that came from being a mass murderer.
Sure, it was indirect on his part, but he still orchestrated it. It was something that he held himself responsible for.
He took that hate, that rage and saddness that he couldn't find when he killed Voldemort, and he turned it on himself.
A heartbeat, and a roar.
His heart stopped, and so did his thoughts.
He felt no more.
-
-
-
-
Is that better? I think it's pretty good for a quick-write. Tell me your thoughts on the subject?