Pinpricks of gentle darkness

Pinpricks of gentle darkness

Summary: After his final fight, Harry is dying. There is just one person that occupies his mind - will she save him?

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They say that you get to review the course of your whole life in the last moments before your death. Well, guess what? They are bloody wrong. Or perhaps it's just me who's abnormal - after all, that has always been my defining feature - being different, sticking out from the crowd.

I never wanted any of it - in fact, I would have given a lot to be ordinary, to have a normal, organised life without mortal peril threatening me on every corner. But you don't get to choose your destiny, right? So eventually, I accepted it, out of lack of any other options. Mages idolised my for most of the time - I was the Boy Who Lived, the one who could measure up to Voldemort, their hero, their hope. Each single one of them expected me to defeat him in the end, never even asking whether I wanted to or not. I mean, not that I would have declined - after all, what can you possibly answer if somebody asks you, “Are you willing to save world from the most evil wizard that has walked upon it since Grindelwald?” You can't very well refuse, not in my position, anyway. And yet… wouldn't it be polite to ask, at least? But no-one ever thought of it. No-one but you.

Hermione…

I wish I knew where you are now. I hope - I pray to every God that might be listening - that you managed to get into hiding in time. Not because only somebody of your intellect and brilliance has the chance to find a workable plan to destroy Voldemort and to succeed where I have failed, no. My reasons are different. I have to persuade myself that you are in safety due to the simple fact that I couldn't bear the thought of any alternative.

My mind tells me you can't possibly hear me now, muttering to myself like the lunatic I'll become if this searing pain in my head doesn't stop soon. But this conversation, or monologue, or whatever, is the only thing that keeps me vaguely sane. That, and the picture of you I see through the mist of agony when I close my eyes. I can't concentrate on anything else, really, although I'm trying to run through the increasingly hazy memories of my life, like a dying person is supposed to do. You see, even in the last moments of being alive, my desire to be ordinary hasn't left me. I would laugh, but I can't even breathe without feeling an imaginary knife twisting between my ribs.

I wonder what you are doing right now… Perhaps I should have let you come with me - now I can't even apologize for my failure and tell you that I… But maybe you'll understand what happened anyway. You were always good at figuring out things… always saw right through me, knew everything about me. Everything - except about my love for you.

I wish I knew of better words to describe what I feel for you, but I was never particularly good at this kind of thing. My already vanishingly small eloquence disappeared every time I tried to tell you. In the end, I took it as a sign that you weren't supposed to know. It made sense, actually. You were endangered enough as one of my best friends; announcing that I loved you would have been your death sentence. Still, perhaps there might have been a way to ensure your safety nonetheless… Damned might have beens…

Why am I incapable of thinking clearly about my actual past, but incredibly creative where my utopian future is concerned?

I know, I'm raving. It's just that the faster I think, the more tolerable the pain seems to be. Silly? Perhaps. Wishful thinking? Bloody likely. Could I care less? No.

I miss you. It's like a dull ache that occupies my whole body - though I suppose that could be some residual effect of Cruciatus as well. Yes, I do realize I'm getting increasingly unconcerned about my upcoming death. Should I be worried? Probably. I wonder whether I'm going to die of my injuries before they can enact whatever revolting plan they have concocted for the ritual killing I am to play the main part in.

I can't believe I'm going to die without even kissing you once. Not once…

How could I have been so damn stupid??

Well, I guess the resigned-and-careless phase is over. Panic has kicked in instead. Panic and full-fledged despair.

My mind is reeling now, instead of constructing various pink-tinted futures for us. It's bombarding me with pictures, ideas, memories and wishful thinking, so that I can't discern what's real and what isn't. I can't remember anymore what happened and what didn't… Even the picture of you in my mind, my last anchor to sanity, is slipping away, slowly but inexorably. I try to hold on to it, try with all the feeble strength that's left in my battered body, try to focus my chaotic thoughts, but I fail…

I fail again and my throat closes up at the realization that I'm not even able to recall the colour of your hair anymore. Was it toffee-brown or several shades darker? I don't know.

I rack my brain, or what is left of it, to call up every residual memory of you, but there are preciously few. You are fading, my beloved, fading unstoppably and it's rending my heart. The knife that was twisting somewhere between my ribs vanishes and is replaced by a white-hot fire that spreads through my chest, my throat and my tormented head. I can't breathe. I try to hold on to your image that is still faintly imprinted on my inner eye-lids, but all I see are your eyes, two pinpricks of warm, gentle darkness in contrast with the sudden harsh, searing light that envelops me, blinds me and takes me away, far away from you.

The brightness almost makes your eyes disappear, but as I strain for a last glance, I see a single tear falling from one of them.

My soul cries out for you, but it's too late - they are coming.

Hermione…

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