The Boy Who Would Not Live Anymore

 
Harry Potter was running so quickly he thought his lungs would burst from exhaustion and overuse. Sure, flying could be tough, but he hadn't been running since Dudley's diet failed two years ago and Aunt Petunia had instated exercise regimens.
 
He rounded another dark, dingy corner, and sprinted forward, determined to put more space between him and his pursuer. He tripped over a pile of rubble, but quickly regained his balance and surged ahead. Harry couldn't help thinking that this would be so much easier on a broom; at least then he wouldn't have to worry about ground conditions, and with his Firebolt he could travel much quicker. However, the Firebolt was not accessible now--it never would be--and Harry had to make do with what he had: his legs.
 
He darted around Knockturn Alley, taking full advantage of its various twists and turns. Left, right, sharp left, straight ahead. He didn't dare and look back to see if Malfoy was still following him; to do so would mean lost time, and the two were playing a game in which there were milliseconds between life and death. No time could be lost. Panic started to creep into his mind, but he vehemently tried to push the feeling away; it was times like this when a level head was his most important asset. Harry reached a fork in the road, and veered right, hoping to confuse Draco. Blind with pain and panic he ran forward, not noticing the dead end until he was fifteen meters in front of it.
"Damn it!" Harry exclaimed, screeching to a halt. "What the bloody hell am I supposed to do now? Malfoy's about to come, I can hear his feet pounding, and if he sees me I'm fucked ..."
"Give it up, Potter."
Malfoy had just neatly rounded the corner, and looked lived. His usually perfect blond-white hair was disheveled, and his cheeks were red with effort. He was gasping for air, but tried to hide it; evidently he had been getting as little exercise as Harry had.
Harry didn't say anything.
"You heard me, give it up. I've got you cornered, and no one's here to die for you. No mum. No Hermione. Hell, Weasley's not even here to save you; pity, I've always wanted to kill the him. Too bad. Still, it's you and me, all alone. And seeing as I've got the only working wand--"
At this, Harry glanced down dismally at his precious wand, which he had bought in Diagon Alley with Hagrid on that balmy afternoon before his first year. It had been so pretty that afternoon; not a cloud in the sky, but a light breeze, which cooled off shoppers. Harry fiercely wished to go back to the time when Diagon Alley was like that-so peaceful and free of Dark Magic.
Turning his attention away from the happier time and back to the wand, Harry again noticed the rough edge on which it had split. Fawkes' feather was sticking out.
"--Pity yours broke. I was so looking forward to dueling with you. Then, we would see who really was Head Boy material. I dare say we would have found out who would have been on top if Dumbledore had not stuck his overlarge nose into those matters."
"Leave Dumbledore out of this," Harry growled through clenched teeth. "He has nothing to do with this. Like you said, Malfoy, it's just you and me. You and me."
"Sticking up for him again Potter? I guess it's only natural, since you are The Boy Who Lived That Saved Everyone From Big, Bad Voldemort Who Was And Still Is The Most Feared Dark Wizard Ever. It's an ironic title, if you ask me. You'd never hurt a fly though, would you? No, I suppose not, because you're too afraid of Dark Magic, and the powers it could give to you. After all, once you hurt something you're automatically a Dark Wizard, isn't that right? You're afraid that if you start to delve into the Dark Arts then your parents would have died in vain, trying to protect you. Well you know what, Potter?" Draco sneered at the other boy, then advanced towards him and in one deft movement had shoved him on the ground. "They did."
Harry didn't do anything but stare back at Draco, green eyes alight with defiance.
"Don't believe me?"
Harry finally found his voice, and spoke: "No. I don't. When have you ever given me the occasion to believe you, Malfoy?"
"Never. But that's not the point. The point is I've got a working wand and you don't," Draco said, clearly enunciating each word. It would have been clear to any passers-by he was enjoying this more then anything and intended to savor this moment. "The point is, there's no one here to die for you, and, well, I flatter myself to say I have a touch more experience with dueling then you do. So the odds are stacked against you."
"I've never been one for odds, Malfoy," Harry said, in an attempt to stall the inevitable.
He knew Draco was right, and there was no way he could duel with him with a broken wand; hell, he'd have enough of a problem withhis wand. Malfoy had been raised to be The Perfect Dark Wizard, and he'd excelled with flying colors. He'd also planned this meeting with Harry without fault; Harry and Draco were alone, somewhere in the depths of Knockturn Alley. No one ever ventured down Knockturn Alley now that Voldemort ruled the Wizarding World, and precious few people ever went near neighboring Diagon Alley. The only people still in the vicinity most assuredly worked for Voldemort. It all made sense, because, after all, there was barely a ministry to speak of, and the wizarding world was in shambles. The Daily Prophet was still being published, but Voldemort had seized control of it too, and was using it solely to stir fear in the Wizarding community. No such thing as freedom of the press now. Not a day went by without Dark Mark citings, and these were reported on the Prophet's front page, along with full-color, moving photos and detailed descriptions of those dead. All of these precautions were working too. Things started to decline steadily downhill when The Prophet announced Fudge, along with all top Ministry officials, had been given the Dementors Kiss.
Still, there were Resistance groups, working furtively to quell Death Eaters, who now numbered in the thousands, if not the hundred thousands. Even the resistance groups could not stop the inevitable. When Dumbledore's death had been announced, and his rotting corpse had been displayed in the center of Diagon Alley, suspended in mid-air, people became frightened. More then frightened, really. They felt their only hope was Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, and their pleading and cajoling for help finally led him to where he was right then. Lying on the ground in front of Draco Malfoy with a wand being held steadily five feet in front of him.
"Of course you haven't, Potter," drawled Malfoy using the tone one would think he would use on a child. "You've beaten the odds every day of your life: the only person in history to survive the Avada Kedrava curse, lived through battles with Basilisks imprisoned for hundreds of years, freed escaped convicts, beaten my master more times then I would like to count. . . the list goes on. But we both already know what you've done, so why don't we talk about what I've done?"
Harry didn't dignify that statement with a response. Instead, he stared forward at the other boy, as if he was trying to frighten Draco off with a steely glare.
"No answer? Well, you're a bit cocky today, aren't you Potter? Fine, we won't talk about me, as much as I'd love to. Might I suggest we go back to the topic of your parents, the fine and illustrious Lily Evans and James Potter?"
Again, Harry didn't say anything, but Malfoy noticed Harry's eyes began to blaze even more brightly.
"Yes, Lily and James, upstanding citizens of the wizarding world. Both Gryffindors to the core, and well-loved by their teachers and peers at Hogwarts. Head Boy and Girl in their day, and model students all the way around. Lily was beautiful, with her long, flowing red hair, and she always had her fair share of admirers; when she chose James to be her knight in shining armor there were feelings of disdain and even--dare I say it?--hatred by many. Of course, with her looks and demeanor, who could stay mad at Lily Evans for very long? She was always the belle of the ball, a perfect flower, if you'll excuse my pun.
"And James? Well, he was the Gryffindor Quidditch captain, excelled in all of his classes, especially one of the more difficult subjects, Transfiguration, was a member of one of the older pureblood wizarding families, and received admiration from a good percentage of the female population. He and his three best friends, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew, were almost never seen apart; they were the 'dream team' of wizards that everyone wanted to be friends with, or at least seen with. Yes, that's what you've been told, isn't it, Potter? That your parents were perfect angels, with no faults whatsoever? I mean, sure, Lily could be a little forgetful at times, and James did like to break rules, that's nothing major, was it? Certainly not enough to cancel out all their other esteeming qualities."
"Shove off, Malfoy."
"No, I'd rather not, but thanks for the offer. I'm much more interested in the soap opera that's playing out before my very eyes. I must say, your defending your parents does not come as a surprising move on your part, Potter."
"You didn't know my parents-"
"-and neither did you. My Master took care of that quite nicely, I must admit, except for his whole dying thing. Quite an inconvenience."
"Your Master," Harry spat, "is nothing. He couldn't defeat me at a year and a half, and he probably still couldn't. After all, he's sent you, a scrawny, seventeen year old seventeen-year-old kid, to kill me. A sure sign he is a bit afraid, wouldn't you agree? If he is as all-powerful and unstoppable as you claim, why didn't he come after me himself, instead of sending you to do his bidding? I'll tell you: because he's afraid. Afraid of me and afraid of the very things I respect. I'm sure he can not possibly conceive why I would value life over death, kindness over killing. He's no less afraid of me then what you claim I am, Malfoy, although he's more skilled at covering it up. Of course, having you come after me was a red flag; it means he'd rather you get killed then be killed himself. Voldemort is-"
At the mention of his Master's name, Draco flinched backwards the slightest inch, but immediately regained his composure, hoping Harry wouldn't notice. Harry did.
"-afraid to hear his name, are you? You, who has pledged eternal devotion to him, cannot even call him by his proper name? Thanks, Malfoy. I needed a laugh right now, although I had no idea you'd provide it in such an ironic fashion."
"Let's get one thing straight before I fucking blow you into millions of tiny unrecognizable pieces. I am not afraid of my Master, Potter."
Harry nearly laughed, and had to calm himself down to continue his and Draco's verbal battle. "Then can you not say is His name. Voldemort? Did your father teach you to fear the name too?"
"No. I can say it," said Draco, stepping closer to Harry and leveling his wand with the other boy's chest. "Voldemort."
"Oh, nice job Malfoy, real brilliant. "Witch's Weekly Courageous Wizard of the Year" award goes to Draco Malfoy, for actually saying his master's name. Do you have any other revaluations or surprises for me? Like if the ride to hell is as much fun as hell itself?"
"Sod off, Potter."
Harry pretended not to hear Draco, and kept speaking, his sarcasm denting Draco's self-confidence.
"Imagine actually saying the name of the person you've sworn eternal devotion to ... Imagine that. If you had asked me to even fathom that five minutes ago, I would have told you you were crazy. But now, thanks to you Malfoy, I can know not only fathom it, but also picture it. Thanks. Be sure to send me a picture from your 'Witch's Weekly' cover shoot, will you?"
"Shut your damn mouth, Potter. I should have killed you in our sixth year when I saw you walking alone. I wanted to, don't think that I didn't. But my father said the Master had other plans for you so I stayed still. I've known the Killing Curse since, well, forever, basically, and it would have been very easy to practice on you. Then there was that time in the seventh year, when you had just found Weasley. Found Weasley dead, more precisely. You were so distraught over that Mudblood-lover your guard was down, and anyone could have knocked you off. And, like I said, I would have welcomed the practice"
"So why don't you make up for lost time and kill me now, Malfoy? Or are you out of practice now?"
Draco gave Harry a sick and twisted smile that Harry did not expect.
"If you insist," Draco said.
With that, Malfoy whispered a curse, and Harry saw his lips move, clearly enunciating the most fatal pair of words in the history of the wizarding world: "Avada Kedrava."
He tried to move, but a split second was not enough time, and the green light stemming from Draco's wand hit him squarely in the chest.
As soon as it had started, the light was gone, leaving Harry lying still in the alley with Draco across from him, still holding his wand pointed towards Harry's chest. Harry was in the same position he had been five seconds before.
Draco slowly lowered his wand, and, even more slowly, crept towards Harry. He lifted Harry's head up, and then moved to lift one of Harry's eyelids, but stopped, because Harry's eyes were open. Draco pulled back in disgust, and let go of Harry's head. It fell towards his shoulder, and then hung still.
Potter's dead. The boy who lived, Harry Potter, the savior of all, the patron saint of Mudbloods and Muggles and every other bit of filth, is dead.
Draco Malfoy rose to his feet, and took several steps back. The enormity of the situation (that he had finally achieved his and his Master's goal.) If there was any hope in the wizarding world of a rebellion now, it would be crushed when Potter's death was reported and his body was displayed. The resistance groups would never know what hit them. Draco took a few steps backwards, and laughed. It was a slow laugh that at first showed how proud Draco was of himself. Then the laughter changed and became quicker and more manic. Draco Malfoy had killed Harry Potter, The Boy Who Would Not Live Anymore.