The click of the gate latch echoed in the pre-dawn quiet. "Goodbye, Lillith," Harry mumbled, his voice hoarse, as Lillith Moon, her dark hair pulled back in a braid, turned to face him. She smiled, a small, genuine smile that had become common these past few years.
"Don't be a stranger, Harry," she said, then apparated with a soft crack, leaving Ernie Macmillan waving from the edge of the apparition point. Ernie gave a thumbs up before disappearing too with another crack.
She was the last. The last of his broken snakes to leave the nest.
Harry closed the battered front door of Grimmauld Place, the wood groaning as if in sympathy. For years, this house had pulsed with a strange, chaotic energy. It had been a haven, a refuge for the Slytherins who had been cast out after the war. He had opened his door to them, to his former classmates, to the people who had once been his enemies, because it was the right thing to do. Because they were hurting, and he knew that pain.
He had fought tooth and nail to change the public's perception, to show them that the blanket hatred of an entire house was not only unfair but dangerous. Slowly, people had begun to listen. Jobs were offered, friendships were formed, love had bloomed. These past few months, one by one, they had moved out, moving on to new lives, new beginnings. They had begun to heal.
But Harry had not.
Without the distraction, without his broken snakes to focus on, he was a shell. He had given so much of himself, had poured every ounce of energy into them, that when they had healed, he had crumbled. The weight of all he'd seen, all he'd lost, had settled over him like a shroud. He had seen too much death, lost too many he loved. And despite the temporary fullness the house held when he had been a saviour to so many, he had always felt like he was on the edge. He never quite shook the isolation, the despair that had been his closest companion since childhood.
He strolled through the house, his footsteps echoing eerily in the silence. He remembered the laughter that had once filled these rooms, the whispered secrets, the passionate debates, the shared meals. He remembered the joy and the light, but they felt like memories of someone else's life.
He sat at the kitchen table, the scarred wood cold beneath his touch, his gaze fixed on nothing. His fingers toyed with his wand, the smooth, familiar wood offering no comfort. Finally, he lifted it, the tip pointing towards himself. A single tear traced a path down his cheek.
He closed his eyes, wishing them well, wishing them happiness. He hoped they would have good lives now. He whispered the words that had haunted his dreams, the words that had stolen his parents, the words that seemed to call to him from the void.
"Avada Kedavra," he whispered, and a flash of green filled his vision before everything went black.
The silence in Grimmauld Place was absolute. Days turned into weeks. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that pierced the grimy windows, undisturbed. The house, once teeming with life, was now a tomb.
Pansy Parkinson, back to pick up a forgotten scarf, found him. The scene was burned into her mind - Harry slumped in a chair, his wand still clutched in his hand, the faint tingle of Harry's magic clinging to the air. She screamed, a ragged, desperate sound that shattered the silence.
The news spread like wildfire, a bitter, shocking revelation. Harry Potter, the boy who lived, had died not in battle, not at the hands of some dark wizard, but alone, in the silence of his own grief.
At his funeral, the rain fell like tears from the heavens. The gathering was a strange, uncomfortable mix of former Slytherins and those who had called themselves his friends. Draco Malfoy, his face pale and drawn, stood beside his wife Astoria, his eyes narrowed, dark with rage and sorrow.
He looked at the faces of those present, his gaze sweeping over the Gryffindors, the Ravenclaws, the Hufflepuffs, and the Slytherins who were there today. And in a low voice, he asked, "Did any of you think to ask if he was okay?"
The silence that followed was deafening. No one met his gaze. The weight of their inaction hung heavy in the air, a truth that needed no words. They had been so busy navigating their own lives, so caught up in their own healing, that they had forgotten the one who had helped them to live again. They had forgotten Harry. And in their silence, they had let him die. The most dangerous Dark Lord of all time and a fool sworn to the greater good hadn't been able to kill him, but loneliness and despair had