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Oh dearest.
How is it that the brightest stars burn out the quickest? That the most beautiful flowers are plucked first?
I wonder... if you hadn't been so perfect — always shining, always giving — would you have survived? Or is this the cruel nature of the wretched reality we were thrown into? That the best people suffer the worst fates?
Would things have been different if I had freed you from that gilded cage?
If I hadn't wallowed in my own ignorance — taking, and taking, and taking, even when you had nothing left to give?
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To whoever finds this letter,
I don't know why I'm writing this — what compels me to pour my thoughts, my very soul, onto this fragile piece of parchment.
Maybe it's because I know I don't have long left. Maybe I need to unburden myself of this weight that's been eating me alive. Or maybe... maybe I'm just selfish — hoping that by leaving this behind, I'll pass on my pain to someone else before I finally leave this world.
They say that in ancient Egypt, when you die, your heart is weighed against a feather. If it's heavier, you're condemned to their version of hell.
I suppose I know where I'm going.
I'm scared.
So here I am — scrawling out these last words, even as my wrist aches and my hand trembles. But maybe, when it's all over, I'll finally be free. Maybe I'll be able to face my punishment in peace, without regrets. Maybe I'll finally atone for all the deaths that weigh on me — my parents, my friends, Sirius, everyone who gave their lives for mine.
But then again, maybe this makes me ungrateful. Maybe I'm spitting on their sacrifices by wanting to leave.
I don't know.
I can't bring myself to care.
I would've ended it all long ago if not for my friends, for Hogwarts, for the magical world that opened its doors to me when I was eleven. I survived because I was afraid — afraid to go, afraid to stay.
A cowardly Gryffindor. That's what I am, isn't it?
As for Hedwig — please, if you find her, take care of her. She's my first friend, my only constant, and she deserves a life filled with warmth and love.
Even if I don't.
Sometimes, I wonder what my life would have been without magic. Maybe I would've died years ago at the hands of my relatives. Maybe I would've lived — though I can hardly imagine that. And now? Now I wonder what the wizarding world will do when its "Chosen One" — their so-called savior — is gone.
I suppose they'll move on.
I'm going to die soon.
It's strange, really — how I fought so hard to survive, only to give up now, when everything has fallen apart, when I've lost my last living relative.
At this point, I wouldn't care if Voldemort himself found this letter. If it is you, Voldemort, reading this — I hope you enjoy the party. Save me a slice of cake, will you?
Chocolate's my favorite.
And lastly... thank you. Thank you for listening to the ramblings of a boy who's already halfway gone. For carrying this burden — for knowing. Everything.
I'm sorry for the blood staining this parchment.
I'm sorry for giving up.
—Harry (I guess).
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They called him evil — a mass murderer.
Yet they never dared speak his name.
The name he carved into history — feared, revered, hated. In some dark, twisted way, he had wanted that.
He had killed without mercy. Tortured. Shattered lives — of enemies and allies alike.
And he had never regretted any of it.
Until now.
Somewhere in the shadowed depths of a cold, vast manor, where no one could see, a single tear slid down the face of Lord Voldemort.
His fault.
It was his fault, wasn't it? That his mirror image — his fated vanquisher — lay broken and bleeding, ready to welcome the death Voldemort himself had tried to give him for so long.
Hadn't he killed that boy's parents? Hadn't he thrown him to monsters disguised as family? Hadn't he tormented him, year after year, dragging him back to pain?
Funny, how they were bound so tightly — two sides of the same coin. Intertwined.
For all these years, Voldemort had taken and taken, sating his sadistic desires — and Harry, foolish boy, had given and given and given, until he had nothing left.
Voldemort had thought himself incapable of remorse. Of regret. Of grief.
And yet here it was — burning deeper than any curse.
His greatest enemy, the only one worthy of being labeled such, was dying.
And for the first time, victory tasted like ash.
The torn parchment crumpled in a trembling fist.
And in the suffocating silence of that great, empty manor, Lord Voldemort wept.
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And yet, he knew.
Knew that the piece was incomplete — that the letter was only half of a whole.
For how could someone so beautiful, so complicated, so quintessentially Harry, pour his entire life into something so short?
So Voldemort finally left the confines of his beloved manor — his sanctuary — and traveled to No. 4 Privet Drive, hell-bent on revenge.
His tears had dried up, his ducts barren, yet the emptiness remained — the bitter taste of ash lingering on his serpentine tongue.
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It was even more horrible in person.
The Dursleys died swiftly — begging for the life of their wretched boy as he tore through their filthy minds like a blade of fire and ice.
Anger consumed him.
How dare they.
How dare they.
How dare they give that fat, spoiled pig everything he wanted, yet force his Harry to sleep in a cupboard, make him do all the chores, cook, starve, and suffer beatings on top of it all.
It was a wonder Harry wasn't an Obscurial — that he hadn't died long ago.
The cupboard was next.
The padlocks were removed with a flick of his wand, clattering to the floor, and the contents laid bare before him.
It was so small.
Voldemort stood frozen.
How had Harry — his Harry — even fit inside that wretched little space? How had he survived in there for weeks at a time?
In the dim light, something caught his eye.
A paper, yellowed and torn at the edges, lay in the corner — a worksheet from long ago.
It looked like something from preschool, judging by the childish handwriting. A form asking what one wanted to be when they grew up.
When Voldemort read it, something in him shattered.
Every single answer was love.
Harry wanted to have kids — to love them.
He wanted to love someone unconditionally for the rest of his life.
He wanted the Dursleys to love him.
And now he was dead.
Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.
Dead.
His hand trembled as he lowered the paper, but something else caught his gaze.
There, scratched into the filthy, yellowed wall, almost invisible beneath years of grime, was a single word — bloodstained, tear-smeared:
Help.
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Voldemort stood frozen in the threshold of the room — Harry's room, though to call it such was an offense to the word.
It was larger than the cupboard, yes, but bare. Stark, empty, like a prison cell pretending to be a sanctuary.
The walls were yellowed and peeling, stained faintly with age and something darker in the corners — mold, maybe, or the remnants of tears that had seeped into plaster over the years.
A single bed sat pushed up against the wall — the thin mattress sagging under its own weight, sheets crumpled and half on the floor. Beside it, a tiny desk, cluttered with parchment, inkpots, and quills worn down to the nub.
And then —
There.
Harry.
He lay crumpled on the floor, as though he'd been crawling for the bed and hadn't made it.
Too pale, too thin — deathly thin, Voldemort realized, his crimson eyes narrowing. There was a trail of smudged blood behind him, smeared on the wooden floor like a final testament to his struggle. His glasses lay cracked a few feet away, one lens shattered, as though he'd collapsed mid-reach.
Voldemort's sharp gaze flicked over him — the way his ribs jutted out beneath his shirt, the way his lips were cracked and dry, dark rings bruised the skin beneath his eyes, which were — for now — shut.
barely breathing.
Voldemort's jaw clenched. Something twisted low in his chest — something like guilt, but too foreign to name.
Slowly, as though every step required effort, Voldemort approached the desk.
There, among the mess of parchment and ink, were letters — neat stacks of them, tied with trembling hands in faded ribbon.
Each one bore a name.
Ron.
Hermione.
Ginny.
Neville.
Luna.
Hagrid.
And at the very bottom, nearly hidden beneath the others, was one addressed simply:
"To whoever finds this."
For a moment, Voldemort's breath caught in his throat — and then, with fingers that did not tremble (because he would not let them), he broke the seal.
The parchment inside was stained at the corners, as though Harry's hands had been bleeding when he wrote it.
He read.
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To whoever finds this,
Sometimes, I wonder if there's anyone out there who really understands.
If there's anyone who's ever felt like they were drowning in a world that expected too much.
Everyone always talks about heroes, about strength and bravery and sacrifice. About standing tall and facing every danger head-on, brave and confident. But no one ever talks about what happens when you can't stand anymore.
What happens when the weight of it all just... crushes you.
I wonder if anyone has ever felt as alone as I do now.
I wonder if anyone else has been made into something they never asked to be.
If anyone else knows what it feels like to give and give and give everything and still feel like it's not enough.
I wish I could have been someone else.
I wish I could have been just Harry.
I think about that sometimes — what kind of person I would be if I weren't... this. If I weren't "The Boy Who Lived" or "The Chosen One" or whatever else they decided to name me.
Maybe I would've had a family. Maybe I would've had friends who didn't have to die for me.
Maybe I would've been free to love someone, without worrying that they'd be killed just for being near me.
Maybe I would've been able to play with the other kids, laugh freely, and live without the weight of being nothing more than a target. A scapegoat.
Maybe I would've been happy.
I guess all I ever wanted was to be loved.
And maybe that's foolish, maybe that's weak, but it's the truth.
So if you're reading this — if anyone is reading this — please, just remember that even someone like me, someone who was supposed to be strong, be brave, be the hope of the world...
Even I was broken.
Even I needed love.
Maybe if someone out there remembers that, maybe things can change. Maybe no one else will have to feel this way.
Maybe one day, someone like me won't be left alone, chosen and isolated in a prison of their own making.
I don't know if that's too much to hope for.
But it's all I've got left.
So thank you — for reading, for knowing, for carrying this part of me that I couldn't bear to hold anymore.
I'm sorry for the blood staining this parchment.
I'm sorry for giving up.
—Harry (I guess).
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Voldemort stared at the letter for a long moment, longer than he had stared at anything in years.
Something in him cracked, deeper than he would ever admit — even to himself.
On the desk, beside the stack of letters, lay a second, smaller parchment — hastily scrawled, like an afterthought.
It simply read:
"To anyone who finds me: Please, take care of Hedwig. And tell my friends... I'm sorry."
Voldemort set the letters down gently, as though they might crumble under his touch.
And then his gaze turned back to Harry — lying motionless on the floor, his fingers curled as though still reaching for something, or someone.
Something twisted in Voldemort's gut — rage, perhaps, or guilt. Or something worse — understanding.
With a slow breath, Voldemort took a step closer to the boy — his wand lowered slightly, though not enough to admit weakness.
"Stupid boy," he murmured, voice low and cold — but there was something else there too. Something raw. "Always fighting."
His eyes flicked back to the desk.
Back to the word that would haunt him more than any prophecy:
Love.
And as the darkness of night pressed against the windows, Voldemort stood alone — between a boy on the brink of death and a stack of letters never meant for him — and for the first time, he didn't know what to do.
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The room was silent now, save for the faint, shallow breathing of the boy who had defied him for so long — and was now so close to death he couldn't even move.
Voldemort stood there for a moment longer, his crimson eyes not glowing with rage, but with something hollow, like a void that could not be filled.
In one pale hand, he gripped the two letters — the one Harry had written to the world, and the second one, with its quiet, haunting confessions. His other hand trembled slightly, though he would never admit it, not even to himself.
He glanced one last time at the frail boy, lying on the floor, as if Harry had been crawling toward the bed, desperate for a final moment of comfort — and never made it.
Voldemort swallowed thickly.
He turned on his heel, cloak trailing behind him, letters clenched so tightly they crumpled under his fingers.
He didn't look back.
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Night had fallen completely now, the shadows swallowing him whole as he Apparated silently to Number 12, Grimmauld Place.
The door was charmed to hide itself from Muggle eyes and those who did not know of it, but Voldemort, despite the fidelius, could see its outline clearly. After all, he has seen it so often in Harry's memories.
He stood there, motionless, in front of the door that had sheltered Harry's friends, that had known warmth and hope — things Voldemort had long abandoned, things Harry had desperately clung to.
With a faint flick of his wand, he summoned a small black box, into which he carefully placed the letters, smoothing the creases with trembling fingers.
For a long moment, he stood there, the box in his hand, before finally, with more effort than it should have taken, he set it gently on the doorstep.
A soft spell, almost tender, sealed the box against the wind, but would let those inside open it.
And then he was gone.
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The next morning, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny stood frozen at the doorstep of Grimmauld Place, the unopened box between them.
Hermione's fingers hesitated on the lid.
"I don't know what this is," she whispered. Her hands shook. First, no messages from harry, and then... this? It was too coincidental to be true.
Ginny crouched down, picking up the box as gently as she possibly could, as if she could already sense what was inside.
"Let's open it inside," she decided.
Once in the kitchen, they gathered around the table as Hermione finally opened the box, revealing the stack of letters.
Hermione picked up the top one, reading the first few lines — Harry's handwriting, shaky and broken.
She covered her mouth, tears brimming.
Ron was already pale, staring at the letters like they might explode.
"Why— why would he write these?" Ginny whispered, her voice breaking.
Hermione's hands trembled as she passed the letter to Ron, and Ginny grabbed the one addressed to her.
For a moment, all that could be heard in the house was the sound of stifled sobs as they read.
And mourned the loss of their irreplacable friend, brother- Everything.
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The cavernous hall where Voldemort stood was cold and empty, lit only by pale silver moonlight through high windows.
The letters had been delivered. His part had been completed. But his heart, if he even still had one, felt heavier than ever.
With a deep breath, he raised his wand, and for the first time in his life, he whispered a spell meant not to kill, but to reach beyond Death. To call ones dear ones back.
"Voco umbram... Harry James Potter."
The shadows shifted, swirling like mist, and from the darkness, a faint glowing figure began to form.
Harry — pale, ethereal, but unmistakably him — stood before Voldemort, head tilted slightly, green eyes soft and knowing.
"Hello, Tom," Harry said quietly, as though he knew everything now — the letters, the visit to the Dursleys, everything.
Voldemort's throat tightened. "I thought... I thought you would hate me."
Harry smiled sadly. "Maybe once. But now... I just wish someone had seen me."
There was a long pause, filled only by the sound of wind outside the windows.
"I saw you," Voldemort whispered, voice breaking. "I see you now."
Harry's form flickered slightly, like a candle flame in the wind.
"I don't have long," Harry said softly, stepping closer. "But... thank you. For letting them know. For letting me say goodbye."
Before Voldemort could react, Harry reached forward, pulling him into a gentle hug — a hug filled with warmth Voldemort had never known.
For a moment, Voldemort let his head fall against Harry's shoulder, eyes closing.
"Thank you," Harry whispered one last time.
And then, as Voldemort reached to hold him tighter — Harry was gone.
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The sky was heavy with gray clouds.
They gathered at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where Harry had once walked to meet his fate. Now, he lay in a white casket, simple but elegant, surrounded by flowers — lilies and wild daisies.
The entire wizarding world had come.
Ginny stood at the front, eyes puffy, but her voice strong as she spoke.
"Harry was always... always the one to smile for us, even when we didn't know how much he was hurting. And I want everyone to remember that smile — because that was him. Even in pain, he cared for us. Even in hardship, he never let it show."
Hermione took the stand next, voice shaking.
"He once told me," she began, tears spilling over, "that he liked rainy days because they made the world quieter, like it was giving people permission to be sad. I hope... I hope today, the world will give us that quiet, too."
Finally, Ron stepped up, clutching a piece of parchment — Harry's letter to him.
"I never knew," he whispered, "how much you carried, mate. I wish I could've helped you. I wish..." His voice broke, and he wiped at his eyes. "I hope wherever you are, you know we love you. You didn't have to carry it alone. You- you didn't have to do all this alone."
As he stepped back, there was a long silence.
Then, without a word, Voldemort, standing hidden at the edge of the trees, raised his wand.
He whispered a spell, voice soft but strong.
Above them, the sky broke open, and rain began to fall — gentle, soft rain that seemed to echo all the tears shed for Harry.
No one saw him as he turned and walked away.
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The grave was simple —
"Harry James Potter
The Boy Who Lived
The Boy Who Loved
Forever in our Hearts"
Voldemort stood there, alone, long after everyone else had gone.
The rain was still falling.
"You were braver than I ever was," Voldemort whispered.
He knelt for a moment, reaching out to gently trace Harry's name carved in stone.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, so soft only the wind could hear.
To the only worthy opponent he had ever faced. To the one whose memories, veiwed through dreams, taught him more than even a century could.
Taught him love and forgiveness. Mercy and ruthlessness in a terrible dichotomy.
With a final breath, Voldemort stood, turning away from the grave — from Harry — from everything.
And he never looked back.
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No one saw a spirit with bright, beautiful jade eyes watching, very soul brimming with tears, and a small smile lifting his features. They would move on, he knew.
This was his one, bittersweet goodbye.
How ironic, it was to his worst enemy, his opposite in all ways but the only one that mattered.
Love.