The End

I sit beside him in the dimly lit room. I'm the only one who will, the only one who can bring myself to face reality. As I sit quietly with my unread text open in my lap, watching him fighting for breath, struggling against the pain that haunts him even in sleep, the irony of the situation rises unbidden to tickle at the back of my mind. Not only the irony of my bedside vigil, but of the cause thereof. Once, years ago, anyone who knew me or knew the boy he was back then would believe that I could ever care about his well-being. No one, that is, except for Albus, and he is no longer here to share this irony with me. Albus was killed in the war against Voldemort - the very war we were certain would take the life of Harry Potter.

Although the odds were stacked against him, Harry survived the war. He survived, though he lost as much or more than anyone else - friends, schoolmates, his Godfather, and even those Muggles relatives that he so despised. He went from being The-Boy-Who-Lived to being The-Man-Who-Defeated-Voldemort. In spite of all the boy had lost, everyone expected a 'happily ever after' ending to his story after Voldemort's downfall. They expected him to pick up professional Quidditch, become an Auror, or maybe take a position teaching at Hogwarts. They expected him to marry and have children and live in peace for the rest of his days.

What no one expected was for Harry Potter, who had survived the killing curse and numerous attempts on his life, to fall prey to a completely mundane and totally unstoppable Muggle disease.

At some point in the struggle against Voldemort, Potter and I had set aside our differences and become if not friends then at least allies. As he grew into young adulthood, I realized that I had been mistaken in many of my assumptions about him, and I grew to actually rather enjoy his company. For years we worked tirelessly, side-by-side, intent on rescuing the world from the tyranny of the Dark Lord; it would have been impossible to keep our animosity toward one another intact throughout all of that. Still, I was taken by surprise when Potter came to me when he first learned of his illness.

Potter and I became comrades in arms once again, this time fighting a faceless killer rather than a dark wizard. Harry adamantly refused to ask for the help or advice of anyone else; he did not want his friends to worry over his illness. The two of us researched every avenue we could find, but to no avail. None of the treatments available to either Muggle or Magical medicine were able to stop the cancer from rampaging through his body.

Potter was never a very strong boy. Oh he had the heart of a Lion - a true Gryffindor Albus would have said - but physically he was always undersized, short and thin. The war against Voldemort had left him in dubious health. The combination of factors may be partly to blame for the delay of the diagnosis of his disease; by the time that Harry realized that his symptoms were not side-effects of his war injuries, the cancer was already far advanced. From the beginning, the Muggle doctors told him there was no chance for survival and that even if treatment was successful it would only prolong his life for a year or two at the outside.

Of course, he knew what they did not: that wizard medicine has a great many secrets that have not been - and can not be - divulged to the Muggle medical world. It was Potter's hope that he would find some spell or potion that would do what Muggle medicine could not. But it was not to be.

After months of research and treatments, Potter knew that every hope had been exhausted, and he resigned himself to his fate. I knew that Harry had no desire to spend his last days, or months, in a hospital or private care facility. I offered him an alternative, and he took it. He would live out his remaining time in the place where he had been the happiest, in the only true home he ever had.

I made the arrangements with Poppy and Minerva for Potter's stay at Hogwarts. A private suite was set up for him as near as possible to the hospital wing, where Poppy could keep a close eye on him. His friends would be able to visit him there, and if he had need of anything I would be close at hand, in my own room in his suite. I arranged for a leave of absence so that I could be with him.

Nothing prepared me for the days ahead. I have not lived a sheltered life - far from it - but nothing I have ever seen readied me for this painful task. Nothing could ever have prepared me to watch the gentle, quiet boy who everyone believed could walk on water slowly wither away, fading with each new day.

When Potter first came back to Hogwarts, he walked across the grounds and into the castle under his own impetus. His step was a little slower, perhaps, but he hardly seemed to be dying. His friends flocked to his side in those days - Granger, the Weasleys, and the rest - eager to bring cheer to their friend and relive bygone days, but unwilling or unable to accept what was to come.

As the days turned into weeks, Potter, Poppy, and I faced many crises. As the disease ravaged his already weakened body, Harry developed fevers, difficulty in swallowing, inexplicable pains, and a marked loss of appetite. I did everything I could to ease his pain and encourage him to eat. He tried - more for me and for his friends I think than for himself - but at the weeks passed by, it became more and more difficult for him.

As he lost weight and strength, and the effects of the disease became more evident, his friends came by less often. It was simply too painful for them to see the energetic Quidditch player they remembered from school reduced to little more than skin and bones, his once shining emerald eyes now dull and sunken in his gaunt face.

To be honest, the pain was too great for me, as well; had I had a choice, I would have run as well, but honour and my concern for Harry kept me by his side. Often when he slept I would take the opportunity to vent my frustration, my anger at his unseen assailant and at my own helplessness. Sometimes I would go out into the Forbidden Forest and simply howl like some feral animal; other times I would beat my fists against the cold stone Hogwarts walls in impotent fury.

It has been only a few short months since the Muggle doctors first diagnosed Potter with cancer. In spite of the treatments, he is fading fast. He has lost an alarming amount of weight, and hardly has the strength to stand unaided. He sleeps away most of the day, and I am thankful that he has at least a partial respite from the pain and despair that is so much a part of him now. The disease has robbed him of even the most simple pleasures, and it has made eating and even breathing into a difficult, taxing task.

Potter has very little strength left now. He no longer fights to live, but merely to survive another day. He struggles to stay alive not for himself, but for the sake of those who love him. His existence is devoid of happiness now, and he is in constant agony, yet still he battles against the disease and against his own despair, making it through each day by sheer force of will, just to postpone the moment when his loved ones have to say goodbye.

We've talked about the end, you know. We have discussed what we believe happens when a person dies, and I have kept my own thoughts on the manner to myself, telling him instead that I am certain that he will meet his parents at long last and be reunited with his departed friends in some sort of afterlife. Pretending this is true makes the prospect of his dying easier - for both of us. And who knows? Perhaps there is an afterlife. Perhaps his mother will greet him with open arms and his father will tell him at long last how proud he is of the man that Potter became in the short time allotted to him. I hope so.

I force myself to believe it is so. Otherwise, I know, I can not face what lies ahead.

Yes, Harry and I have talked about the end of his life, and he is not frightened at the prospect of death. He has faced death many times in his twenty-two years, and he is no longer afraid of it. Instead, Harry Potter's greatest fear is losing his identity and his dignity.

This is where I can help him - I and no other. Whilst his friends try to encourage him to keep putting one foot in front of the other, so to speak, I will do what must be done. I will help Potter to retain his dignity. I will help him to end this fight on his own terms.

The potion is prepared and waiting. Harry, too weak now to put quill to parchment, has dictated letters for those nearest him. His affairs are in order, and he is ready for the curtain call. If only I were as ready as he.

I have grown quite fond of Harry over the past several months. I will miss his physical presence in my life, but I know that he will always be with me. The lessons I have learned, the moments that we have shared - they will always be tucked into some part of my mind. He has changed me.

Tomorrow is October 31^st. Twenty one years ago, Voldemort killed Lily and James Potter, and attempted to kill Harry as well. Potter decided that it would be somehow appropriate for the last day of his life to coincide with the last day of his parents' lives. Tomorrow, he will be gone.

Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley will be outraged. They will say that I am a heartless bastard. Yes, they will believe that it would take a cold, emotionless person to euthanize this pitiful child. They are wrong.

It is only because of my affection for this suffering young man that I can do what I must do. I will let him go because I care for him as if he were my own flesh and blood. It is because I love him that I will end his pain.

Tomorrow, Harry Potter's suffering will end at last. My own is just beginning.