Pale hands reached for him through the shadows, razor-edged nails pressing into his skin. Harry knew skin didn’t tear. But in this case, his always did. Small dribbles of blood met the pale fingers buried into his neck, a resounding shriek of pleasure pressing into his skull, imbedding itself into every fibre of his being. every nerve, every vein, every artery, every organ, felt that scream. Harry could do little but listen as the hands tore through him, shredding him. Yet he could do nothing to stop it. he couldn’t even feel the pain he knew should have coursed through him by now.
He had never felt so hopeless before. He, Harry Potter, the chosen one, had always found a solution to his problems, no matter how harsh they seemed to be. But that was when he was alive. He was dead now. Well, dying. In a flash of sudden fate, every nerve in his body lit aflame. Harry would have preferred the cruciatus curse a thousand times over, rather than this. With agony setting into his skin, he opened his mouth, flinging his head back in a silent prayer. To whom he was praying to, he didn’t know. nobody had ever come, nobody would ever hear him.
Why not? Was his pain not worth listening to? He had listened to everyone else’s, absorbed it into his own skin and held it close to his heart, hoping he could help them. But still, nobody had done the same. Harry managed to rip words from his larynx, half-spoken. “Please..” he whispered, knowing nobody could hear him. Except for the owner of those horrible hands. But they didn’t care either.
“Nobody’s coming to save you Harry,” the owner said, . “The Order fell, everybody is dead, you know this.” Violent images flashed involuntarily through Harry’s mind. Crumbling stone, burning grass, and the deeply familiar smell of death burning through his nostrils. A birds eye view of Himself, approaching the forbidden forest with intents of relinquishing himself, all for his friends wellbeing.
Himself, letting his weary body fall to the forest floor before Death eaters, before Voldemort. Before Death herself. Yet he still, after everything, wasn’t granted the mercy of meeting her. Voldemort hadn’t allowed him that glorious ending.
Because after all, what god would grant his most loyal promise to death magnanimity?