Author's Notes:
It's sorta saddening to watch the way the numbers are dying off. 2131 views on the prologue, 562 on the first chapter, and 405 on the second chapter. Does my writing scare people off?
Anyways, sorry for the short chapter, but it fits the story. Keep reading and reviewing.
Chapter Three: The Man-Who-Died-Alone
One memory still winked at him from the basin of the Pensive, and Harry knew it would have to be the one. No other memory he possessed of the time was strong enough, or in the right place to do any good. He would forget everything he needed with the other memories before it was time.
Time itself was a strange thing, resistant to change. That was undoubtedly part of the problem, which was what made the potion so difficult, why he needed a perfectly clear memory, or this would be merely a creative and messy form of suicide.
Appropriate, of course. Wizard's oaths tended to be of the death before dishonor type, for sure. He would have to go with the last memory, the one he would never ever forget…
This memory, though… it could hardly be worse timed. There would be no second chances, no ability for damage control if he screwed it up again. Who knew, he might not even win this time.
So the last memory would have to do, for it changed the least things. He did not have to watch it to know what happened in it either, the scene replayed for him every night in his dreams, and on nights like tonight, his waking hours as well…
The Pensive swirled, bringing his seventeen year-old face to the surface, the image fading as his face spoke the words… Avada Kedavra, the flash of green that had haunted him ever since he was a small child, and Hermione's scream as he killed her…
Dipping his wand into the Pensive once more, Harry drew out the memory, long and powerful. It hung from his wand, gleaming softly, as he placed it into the bubbling mixture that was the potion…
It hissed, turning deep silver, exactly the color it was supposed to turn. Harry allowed himself a small grin, then pulled the cauldron right to the edge of the desk, directly in front of him. He closed his eyes for a moment, then scooped out a cup full before pushing the rest of the potion away. He only needed this little bit. He transferred the cup to his left hand and picked up his wand again, pressing it to his chest above his heart.
"Diffindo!" The pain was excruciating. He felt his chest shatter open above his heart, and blood splattered onto the wall, hot and sticky as it pumped from him. Immediately his heart began to beat faster as blood stopped flowing through his body, trying to pump more and more blood to his body.
The goal was to have his heart's blood splatter into the potion, which was becoming difficult to see as blood loss began to make Harry black out. He lifted it, saw the blue steam rising from it, and knew, then…
He drank it down… and then, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Man-Who-Defeated-Voldemort, and the man who let down his friends, died. Alone.
Author's Notes for the End:
You'll see that complete memory later. The story flows better without it here.