Death

Death

The young wizard stepped around the bodies on the quidditch field. He was shocked by the destruction that surrounded him. Everything was gone; he was the last one. He cried out as he found the dead body of one of his best friends. Her long hair was mussed up and she lay sprawled out in a very unnatural position. Hermione's face no longer held the bright color he remembered so vividly, and her eyes were frozen open in a blank stare that didn't at all match her cheerful and bossy personality.

Her hand was cold, her arm limp, and Harry bit his lip until his teeth drew blood. He picked his friend up and held her tight in a last embrace. Her body was freezing cold and lifeless. Harry clenched his fists in frustration at the cruel man who had caused all these people to die.

He stood up, and moved on, passing by old friends. Seamus, Neville, Dean, Justin...they were all gone. Lost. Never to return. Harry swallowed hard, as he recalled the jokes they had shared, the conversations they'd had. He willed himself not to cry out and exploded with the curses that were running through his head. He was devastated, but for some reason, he felt like Someone or Something was watching him, laughing at him, and he couldn't give into them. And then...Harry's eyes fell on one body, lying all alone at the bottom of a dead tree. His orange-red hair no longer seemed as bright as it had once been. His freckles stood out strangely on his pallid face. The friendly grin that Harry had taken for granted had disappeared, replaced with an expression that was neither a smile nor a frown.

It pained him to see such a look on the face of his best friend. The person he had always confided him, the person who had always forgiven him, who had introduced him to the world of magic, the very first friend he'd ever had, was dead. Gone. And Harry stared up at the cloudless gray sky as he thought about how his best friend would never come back.

"Ron," Harry choked out. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I made a promise, and I broke it. I'm sorry, I..." His voice had faded to a whisper. Harry held back the tears that threatened to spill out, held back the curses his mouth wanted to scream. He shook his head slowly. He clenched his fists.

"Why?" he screamed to the sky that seemed to portray his emotions. "Why?" he whispered again, this time to himself.

Harry thought back to what had happened only moments ago. The horrible, cruel, laughter that had rung through the air as destruction and disaster took place. He'd turned around to see Voldemort, standing there with his wand raised.

"I told you I would come back. I never lie," the Dark Lord had said, with terrific grin full of malice on his face.

He had glared defiantly back at Voldemort. Then it had begun. Everything passed in a blur, and all Harry knew was that all his friends were dying at the hands of his most hated enemy. And he could do nothing to stop him. Harry had taken a few blows himself and tried to protect his friends, but it wasn't until it was too late that he finally killed Voldemort.

He looked beyond the tree, and saw the Dark Lord lying on the ground, just as lifeless as everyone else. Harry felt bitter anger and hatred when he saw him, and wished his enemy had not died so painlessly. Harry had used Avada Kedavra to murder the inhuman man who once was Tom Riddle. He hadn't cared about anything at that point except killing the thing he hated most in the world. Harry's eyes moved back to Ron again. Voldemort had saved the people he loved most for last. He had murdered Hermione with the Death Curse, then tortured Ron and ended his life with a spell that broke every single bone in his body, and then finally...

Harry turned, knowing what he would see. A few yards away, lying on the grass, was the one person he had loved more than anyone else. He slowly walked to the figure. He was wearing black, ironically, for it was the color of death. His usually pale complexion was made paler by his lack of life. The young wizard's eyes were closed, and his face displayed the pain he had felt in the last few moments of his life. Harry uttered a moan of despair and shut his eyes tightly, drawing in deep, shuddering breaths.

"Harry," a voice croaked in hoarse whisper. Harry's eyes shot open with shock. He fell to his knees.

"Draco! You're alive. Oh gods -- everyone's gone, Draco. They--"

Draco hushed him by clutching Harry's hand with whatever strength he had left. He opened his mouth to speak, and a crimson bubble formed. He spit the blood out and coughed.

"Listen, Harry. You did your best. N-never forget that. Promise me." Draco tried to smile, but winced as his mouth stretched the cut on his face.

"I promise." Harry could hold back no longer, and a single tear rolled down his cheek and landed with a soft splatter on Draco's hand.

Draco ignored it. "I l-love you, Harry. I always did." Draco was dying, and Harry knew it. It had been amazing enough that he'd survived that long after Voldemort had taken a dagger and cut him slowly and deeply, laughing at each painful cry.

"No, Draco, you can't die. You--" Harry's voice broke. "You can't. I won't let you." His voice held a note of hysteria, and his usually low and deep voice was high-pitched. Harry bent down, and fastened his mouth on Draco's to share a passionate kiss. Draco kissed back as hard as he could, calling on every last bit of energy he had.

Harry felt his spirit leave this world as the kiss ended, and Draco's head fell back. He desperately tried to call back his lover with all the healing magic he had ever learned, but all was to no avail. Harry dropped his hands to his sides in complete despair. There was no point in living when the only people he had ever loved were gone.

Sirius had been one of the first to die. That had been a month ago. Harry recalled the helplessness he had felt at that time. Well, that was nothing compared to the bitterness he felt now. Harry let all his emotions spill out, and he cried desperately, with dry, convulsing, sobs. There was nothing to stay for. There was nothing in this world left for him.

Harry drew his wand from his blood-stained robes, and held the tip right above his heart. He muttered a spell, and took his own life, falling next to the one he had loved the most.

And in the following generations, when second year students in their History of Magic classes were learning about the Boy-Who-Lived, they always sat on the edges of their seats with rapt attention. And they learned about the Final Battle, which ended with the death of Harry Potter.

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