The Boy Who Died

He had seen death before. His green eyes had grown used to seeing classmates, teachers, and friends all in pools of blood. But one thing he thought, or he had hoped, had prayed he would never see, was a certain long nosed, big footed, red haired someone, with his own pool of blood issuing around him, someone who was not moving, not breathing, someone who was most certainly dead.

He felt his wand slip from his hand and fall with a clatter to the concrete. He saw someone with bushy brown hair running towards the boy lying on the ground. He did nothing. He stood there, his mind moving a million miles an hour. This can't be real, he can't be dead, this has to be...has to be...ONE OF FRED AND GEORGE'S JOKES, a real mean one. Ha! Real funny guys, real funny, I'm laughing my ass off. But even as his brain processed the thought, he knew it was fake. He knew that Fred and George would never do anything like that. He knew he was dead. He knew he would never hear the laughter again, never hear the excited whoop after a quidditch game, never hear the grumbling when they sat down to do their potions homework.

He knelt down; his knee's hitting the hard surface. He shuffled pathetically towards the heap of black, which were his two best friends in the world. One dead, one alive. Snivelling he looked down onto Ron Weasley's face. He looked clam, tranquil even, in death. He didn't look in pain, didn't look surprised, he looked angelic, beautiful. Hermione sobbed and sobbed, muttering disconnected phrases "Ron...not...dead...can't...need...him...alive".

The green eyes passed over his living friend, he felt a surge of emotion, she won't suffer the same fate he thought I'll die before she does. Somewhere over head he heard the maniac laughter. Anger swallowed him, consumed him. Every fibre of his being, every atom in his body was focused in hatred on that laughter, and the creature from which it was issuing. He stood up and walked back towards his wand and picked it up slowly. He examined it, quite innocent it was, quite simple, but it had a wrath, and the Dark Lord would feel it before the moon came out.

He looked back towards his friends, ' Go home, Hermione, take Ron with you'. She looked up at him, her brown eyes shining with tears, 'What are you going to do Harry, where are you going?' she whispered.

The Boy Who Lived turned and squared his shoulders, 'I'm going to make him swallow his fucking laughter. I'm going to make him suffer, and then...he's going to die, he's going to hell, where he fucking belongs'. He turned and smiled at his bushy haired friend, ' You see 'Mione, he thinks it's funny, he thinks killing is funny, he thinks human beings dying day, in day out is funny. He doesn't understand humanity, he doesn't understand how extraordinary human life is, people just living on this rock together, each so caught up in their own lives. He doesn't understand...I'll fucking make him understand'.

He looked one last time at his friend, the boy who had always been there. Thanks Ron...It's been fun. I'll see you soon.

Then he turned away and started walking, his boots splashing in the puddles of blood. It was his burden was it? To fight the Dark Lord, to take on the 'man' who had cast a shadow on wizard-kind for so long. Well he was going to rectify the mistakes of his kind. He was going to fulfil the prophecy that was made such along time ago. This night, the night when Ron Weasley died, Harry Potter had the power to slay the Dark Lord. And slay him he would...

To be continued...