Chapter Text
Death.
The heavy anticipated scent of death linger within the cool air of the forbidden forest. There was only a single dead road for him to tread. This was his bitter end.
His fate.
Ever since when the foolhardy prophecy was born and came to dictate his life. All of the outcomes of his life has already been determined for him. His insane delusional arch nemesis who wishes upon his destruction and his manipulative mentor who played him like a puppet for the greater good.
His story.
His story whom was written on stone, when he barely took enough breaths. A story of a savior, who was destined to die. The chosen one who actually did not have privilege of his own choices.
This is a story of Harry Potter. And a story that has come to an end.
“Harry Potter…the boy who lived,” rasped a voice breaking the cold silence, barely above a whisper, but was the clearest thing Harry had ever heard. It’s like the constant fog that wraps protectively over his mentality for all his life has been lifted at last, and heightening his sensitivity.
Perhaps he really had accepted what’s to come, despite his slightly shaking battle worn body still filled with lingering sense of adrenaline.
“…come to die.” The dark lord finishes, his inhuman scarlet eyes unmoving from the tattered boy’s figure.
Voldemort’s pale hue skin was even more so ghostly and unnatural, it seemed to draw light from the very shadows, casting an unholy glow that made the surrounding darkness all the more oppressive.
Harry only had eyes for him, he didn’t perceive the hoard of death eaters and Nagini behind the dark lord. Or even Hagrid, whom was watching the whole scene with wide and terrifying and hopeless eyes.
Harry met Voldemort’s gaze, steady and unflinching. He had expected fear, or at least unease, as he walked toward his end—the end Dumbledore had orchestrated for him, though unspoken yet unmistakably implied. It was the role carved out for the Boy Who Lived, the savior destined to sacrifice himself for the greater good when the moment of reckoning finally arrived.
And it has.
Harry hadn’t spoken to Ron and Hermione about his decision, nor did he intend to.
It was a choice he had to make on his own, but one he knew they would expect. Even if he had told them, he could already imagine their reactions. Ron and Hermione, though they might try to argue or search for another way, would ultimately want him to go. It hurt him to think about it, but he knew it was the truth. They would be in pain, too, struggling with the knowledge that the outcome was inevitable. They would want to save him, to find a different path, but deep down, Harry understood that his death was the only way the war could end. He saw it in their eyes, even when they refused to admit it.
He wasn’t blind to it—no one ever said it out loud, but they all knew. For Voldemort to be vanquished, Harry had to die.
It was the cruel truth he had come to accept. The weight of being the symbol of hope, the one who had carried the cause his entire life, left him with no other choice. He didn’t resent them for it.
He understand.
After all what other path could there be?
Hogwarts had always been the closest thing to home for Harry, a place he cherished deeply. It was more than just a school—it was his refuge.
Perhaps it was because, for the first time, it offered an escape from the Dursleys, from a childhood filled with neglect and cruelty. Growing up feeling unwanted and unloved—his world suddenly shifted dramatically at the age of eleven when he learned of his true heritage and the significance of his name in the magical world.
Suddenly, he wasn’t just an ordinary boy; he was someone important, someone special.
The sudden, overwhelming shift in Harry’s life was nothing short of drastic. Greedy for answers, driven by curiosity, he accepted everything that came his way, devouring each piece with a hunger for belonging.
He, Harry Potter—once a nobody—was thrust into a role where he had to become everything, almost overnight. Who was he to question such a profound change?
As a naive, terribly lonely child, he reached out to embrace his fate, accepting the title of the Boy Who Lived with little more than a sense of inevitability.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
He danced his role with the grace of one who had been molded for it, guided by the steady hand of his beloved mentor, a figure he had once seen as a grandfather. But as the years passed, more and more truths slowly seeped into his mind, challenging everything he had once believed.
He had mastered the art of being the perfect golden boy: the reckless yet brave, selfless hero, a prodigy in every sense.
But the longer he played the part, the more the weight of it gnawed at his mind. He came to realize that he was little more than a symbol, a tool meticulously crafted and sharpened for the sole purpose of defeating the Dark Lord. He understood that much.
Yet, that didn’t mean he was devoid of feelings. The constant losses of those who came close to him, the relentless push that forced him to move forward, never allowing him to look back, took their toll.
As time marched on, with him tethered by invisible strings, he became increasingly aware of the truth: his life has always been a scripted play, and he was simply following the lines.
Harry had always been perceptive, his mind quick to grasp the true nature of things, seeing through illusions faster than most. Even though he regretted it, he couldn’t escape the role that had been thrust upon him. He had already taken on the mantle of the Boy Who Lived.
One night, as he stood on the Astronomy Tower beneath a twinkling moonlit sky, the thought crossed his mind. A small, self-deprecating laugh escaped him as he reflected that, even if he hadn’t claimed that title for himself, the title had already claimed him.
In the end, it was too late for regret or to turn back. He had no choice but to move forward, to continue playing the role that had been set for him ever since that fateful prophecy was made.
The Dark Lord, whose soul had been torn into six pieces by then, had long since lost any semblance of sanity. He was too far gone to contemplate the consequences of his reckless, murderous actions, especially after Snape had revealed part of the prophecy to him, which had then been inscribed in stone.
Harry clung to the hope that, after defeating the Dark Lord—Voldemort—he could finally find rest.
Perhaps then, he would be free to search for his true self, stepping away from the role of the beacon of light, the figure that Dumbledore had carefully shaped him to be.
He longed to live his own story, not one dictated by another’s design. But that hope crumbled when he learned the horrifying truth: he was a horcrux, a piece of his nemesis’s soul, bound to the very darkness he needed to destroy.
A moment of eerie stillness. The silence hung between them, stretching endlessly, yet paradoxically fleeting.
The Dark Lord tilted his head ever so slightly, his cold, lifeless eyes locked onto Harry’s vibrant green ones. There was nothing in those eyes—no flicker of emotion, no clue for Harry to grasp. His gaze continued to bore into Harry’s with the same chilling intensity as the curse he was about to unleash.
Another heartbeat echoed within his chest, his own yet not his own. The Horcrux that had resided within him for nearly his entire life trembled, gripped by fear—fear for Harry. The terror was so vivid that Harry could taste it, sharp and metallic in his mouth, before the distance rasp of a shout rang out.
“AVADA KEDAVRA!”
The brilliant flash of green erupted, a blinding wave that engulfed Harry in its grasp. It was as if the light itself devoured him, pulling him into nothingness in a single, desperate breath.
How poetic, Harry thought—the same green curse that had torn his life apart now drawing it to a close. In his fading moments of consciousness, he couldn’t help but reflect.
Gone with his vision. Gone with the world. Gone with his story.
Harry’s eyes fluttered open, confusion sweeping over him like a fog. He pushed himself upright, his surroundings coming into focus.
It was King’s Cross Station, but not as he remembered. The walls and floors gleamed with an unnerving whiteness, as if carved from marble and bathed in a cold, sterile light. The familiar bustle of travelers was absent, leaving the station eerily still, like a forgotten ghost town. Harry felt the silence press in on him, the weight of the emptiness settling over his chest.
Is he dead? Is this the afterlife? Has what occurred really happen or is this some kind of dream?
Harry strolled through the station, his steps slow and uncertain. Under a bench, he came across a grotesque, disfigured infant-like form—it resemble the snake-like Dark Lord.
Shocked and curious, Harry hesitated before reaching out to probe the pitiful creature. It felt disturbingly familiar, like a fragment of himself.
The monstrous infant let out a piercing, anguished wail, and Harry quickly withdrew his hand.
“You cannot help it.”
Eyes widening at the familiar voice, Harry stood up and turned around slowly. Dumbledore stood a few feet away from him. Ever the same.
He blinked, realization settling after a brief pause.
The disfigured infant beneath the bench was the Horcrux within him—a fragile, severed fragment of Voldemort’s soul. No aid could change its fate; its destiny was already sealed. For Harry to move on, it had to perish.
“Is this limbo, or is it all just in my mind?” Harry opted to asked, disregarding Dumbledore’s words as his gaze moved from his deceased mentor to the wailing infant.
Dumbledore stepped closer, his hands calmly clasped behind his back.
“Of course, this is all happening in your head, Harry,” he replied, pausing for a moment as he immediately understood the true question behind Harry’s words.
“But why should that mean it is not real?” Dumbledore finishes, with a faint smile.
Harry’s gaze hardened as he processed Dumbledore’s reply. Without a word, he leaned forward, his arms reaching for the disfigured, wailing infant.
As he cradled the small, monstrous form, a surge of warmth filled his soul, as though something deep within him had been made whole. The piercing cries, once agonizing, gradually softened, becoming more bearable. Harry stared down at the baby, a strange sense of calm washing over him.
It was an utterly unsettling sight, Harry thought, as he cradled the baby gently in his arms. He then turned once more to his deceased mentor, staring into the twinkling blue eyes that seemed to still hold a spark of life.
“You wishes for me to go back? To aid the final stretch of the war?” Harry asked softly even though he was very much aware of the answers towards his own questions.
Dumbledore gaze gently into Harry’s, and replied, “It is up to you.”
The baby let out a desperate, strangled cry, as if wracked with unbearable pain, and reached out, gripping Harry’s sleeves with a helpless desperation. It clung to him, unwilling to let go, as if fearing that even the soul it had been tethered to for so long would finally abandon it, given the slightest chance.
“I don’t want to return,” Harry said after a long pause, his thoughts slowing as he considered, for the first time, his own feelings—selfishly, and fully.
“I have decided to die the moment I started treading down to the forbidden forest.”
Harry gazed into the distance, his words coming more slowly as he spoke.
“I have embodied the role of Harry Potter exactly as you envisioned, from start to finish. I… I am feeling quite tired and I prefer to rest now rather than return. Harry Potter is dead. His story has come to an end.”
Harry’s lips curled into a faint, sorrowful smile, his vivid green eyes heavy with exhaustion.
There was a weariness in his gaze, but he continued to press on. “The war will end, with or without me,” he said softly. “They know what needs to be done. I’ve left them everything—instructions, tools—everything they need to destroy Nagini and Voldemort.”
Dumbledore, with his characteristic twinkle dimmed but his voice warm and steady, “Rest, if that is what you truly desire. Yet remember, the choice to return is not about duty anymore, but about what your heart dares to hope for, even now.”
Dumbledore’s eyes moved back to the baby in Harry’s arms, his expression solemn.
“You’ve realized, haven’t you?” he said gently.
“That you and Voldemort have been connected by something deeper than fate for many years. The Horcrux has intertwined itself with your soul, becoming a part of you. But you must let it go, Harry. As familiar as that fragment of a shattered soul may feel, as tempting as it might be, you cannot hold on any longer.” Dumbledore shook his head, a quiet sorrow in his gaze.
“I must go now. But I implore you, Harry, to please take the final words of this old man.”
Dumbledore’s form began to dissolve swiftly, his eyes closing as he turned away from Harry and the baby. With his back to them, he walked forward, gradually disappearing into the distance.
As he withdrew further, his voice, laden with regret, echoed back to Harry. “I am sorry, my dear boy, for what I have done… but I do not regret my decision.” And with those final words, he was gone.
Harry remained still, his gaze fixed on the place where his mentor had disappeared.
“I know,” he whispered into the emptiness.