Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters.
A/N: Well this is the first story I'm uploading here, so hopefully I did it right. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this and if you have the time C&C's are welcome.
Aftermath
"So this is it. This is the end of our days of torment, and the end of our days of death and pain. There is no retreating, no going home to fight another day. We win, or we die, taking a few of them with us. I'm willing to give my life so that my family and friends will be safe. Are you willing to do the same for yours?"- Unknown
Harry Potter was in pain. A numbing pain that ran the length of his left arm and hand, his fingers limp and useless. His right leg was bent in a way that he knew was not normal, but his nerves had overridden the pain signals hours ago. He was bleeding from a dozen or so wounds, and he could fell the coldness of the blood as it found its way along the contours of his body and soaked in large stains across his clothes.
Breathing was a chore, a rattling breath was the most he could muster from his position laying on his stomach. He moved his head as he took a deep breath, and looked toward the room that he had just crawled from. It seemed like miles away, the dim light of a candle his only reference point. He blinked a few times as blood crept into his eyes, adding a stinging pain to the others.
In the room he could make out a large mass laying on the ground in front of the flickering candle. A slight smile crept across his lips as he saw no movement come from it. It was over, for him at least.
He was so tired.
He could still hear the sounds of battle outside. The sound of Men and Women screaming incantations and in pain, fluttered through the night, echoing all around Harry. If he could have, he would have placed his hands over his ears.
The haunting sounds of death seemed to become his only friend as he began to fall in and out of consciousness. Images shimmered though his mind, finally being set free from the walls of Occlumency that he had built up prior to the battle. He saw his greatest fears bounce into the front of his mind, making him watch his friends dying over and over again. They filled the darkness behind his eyelids when he closed them for sleep.
#
Harry jerked awake at the feeling of warmth on his skin. With sleep encrusted eyes he blinked at the blinding light that shimmered though the broken window. The warmth was a great contrast to what he had felt last night, the light felt almost heaven sent. The chill had finally left him and he rolled onto his back, giving a cry of pain as he did so.
Tears fell free of his eyes as he finally landed on his back. Pain shot along tattered and worn nerves, causing him to shiver involuntarily as he fell. Muscles screamed at him for the toll, and his head throbbed, causing him to squint at the light that was now shining completely on his face. A heavy sigh escaped him as the pain finally began to subside.
With a shaking hand he rubbed his forehead, dried blood flaked from his skin as he did so. He breathed in heavily through his mouth, noticing a strange taste that seemed to play on his tongue. He ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth, and his teeth, trying to scrape the taste off, but it wouldn't leave.
His mind seemed to play back every taste he could think of. His first thought was blood, and while his mouth was full of blood at least once the night before, it wasn't the same taste. He removed his hand from his forehead and reached down to a small bag that lay on the ground, it was attached to him at his waist.
He played his hand along the top of the bag feeling only three vials of the potions Hermione had made for him to take. There was six, but he remembered using two during the fight, one strengthening potion and another one he couldn't quite recall. He was quite sure he would not have won if it hadn't been for those potions. And as he thought back he was able to place the taste.
"Blood replenishing potion." He mumbled as he looked about his surroundings and found an empty vial laying where he had moments before. A film of red layered the glass, and the stone floor was stained with droplets of the potion.
"Thank Merlin for you Hermione." He grunted out as he remembered taking the potion after he crawled out of the room. He laid his head back against the cool stone and smiled for the first time in a very long time.
The smile didn't last for more than a moment as thoughts of what might have happened to his friends filled his head. It was silent outside, and while he had won his battle, he wondered how his friends had faired. He was sure that if they had been triumphant they would have come for him.
He strained to listen for any sound from outside the walls of the old building. The sun was still flickering in his face, reflected by a dozen or so shards of glass that laid shattered along the floor and furniture. He heard nothing.
Fear began to over take him, the pain of his wounds second to it. Had they won and thought he was dead and left him there? Had they lost and now Deatheaters ran ramped across the country? Were they still fighting but too far away to hear?
They forgot about him.
The thought was so powerful that it shocked him to his core. They would never forget him, the rational part of his mind screamed, but it was lost among the laughs and screams that seemed to grow louder, reiterating that he was forgotten. Those laughing voices pushed forward ways of rationalizing the very idea of it.
He didn't want to be left alone, he realized with a panic. He didn't want to be alone anymore. His entire life was one lonely affair until he had arrived at Hogwarts those seven years prior. He had friends there, good friends. Ron and Hermione.
The names sat cloistered in his mind. Their faces standing against the dismal backdrop of his thoughts. He couldn't believe they would forget about him. But, maybe they did, maybe with him being dead they could finally be together.
He groaned. He was tearing himself apart with thoughts. His already weak state of mind and body was failing, and he was speeding up the process. The will to live was fading with each and every thought that came to him. He had served his purpose. He had done what he was born to do, and now he was of no use to anyone, especially himself.
He was going to be discarded like an old and broken cauldron, left for the earth to take and forgotten the second he was out of sight. He felt tears burn his eyes, and for the first time they weren't from the physical pain of his wounds, even though they still throbbed and pounded with every breath and beat of his heart. No, it was the feeling of abandonment that called these tears to the front.
He was already dead, his mind had succumbed to the onslaught and offered the only choice that made any sense at this moment in time. He wrestled with the pain as he gently moved his hand to the bag on his waist again, his broken and shattered fingers rubbed against the bag and Harry hissed in pain as they bent back, but he did not stop. He forced his fingered to work and untie the bag, letting the three remaining vials to fall to the floor. They rolled a few inches before coming to a stop, casting their respective colors on the dark floor.
He turned his head to face them, his eyes reading over the different colors. Hermione had only given him five. The sixth one was one from Remus. It was a last resort, to save Harry from whatever Voldemort could plan for him had he lost. Harry was sure Remus never thought he'd use it after he won, but now . . . it just seemed right.
Harry moved his hand to the greenish blue vial of liquid and grasped it firmly, pulling it to him. With a last bit of strength he moved his other hand up and pulled with everything he had, removing the stopper with a pop. He placed the vial against his lips, a drop of the potion dripped on his tongue and burned it with a small hiss.
He squinted, readying himself for what was to come after he drank the potion. Just the next great adventure, Dumbledore had said to him ages ago. He hoped he was right. He began to twist his wrist to allow the potion to fall into his open mouth.
Stay that hand Mr. Potter!
The voice was loud, and demanding. His hand stopped as he opened his eyes and looked around his surroundings the best he could from his prone position on the floor. No one was in sight. He shook his head, passing the voice off as just hearing things and began again.
HARRY POTTER!
It was louder this time, a booming voice that echoed everywhere and no where. It shook the shattered windows and the very mortar between the stones he laid on. Harry dropped the vial in his surprise and rolled off him and shattered along the floor, the greenish blue liquid flowed out, seeping into the cracks, hissing and popping as it went.
He cursed as he watched the liquid thread its way along the stones. With a sigh he turned his attention away from his failed chance and to the arched ceiling above him. He ran his eyes along the stones that formed a ring of sorts in the center of the arch, and focused on the circle as his mind was sent reeling.
The voice sounded familiar, but in his pain-induced stupor he couldn't quite place it. Whoever it was shocked him out of his last chance for a quick death, now it was just a waiting game. It was a game he played his whole life, and one that he was never very good at.
If he could have, he'd of gotten a hold of a shard of glass to do the deed, but his body was too tired and too damaged to comply with the idea. As options faded, he found that the only thing he could really do was sleep and pray that it wouldn't be long until it was done. So he closed his eyes, the ceiling disappeared behind his lids and imagined his parents and friends, willing sleep to take him.