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Harry is thin, thin to match the last crisp leaf on the tree in the yard. Thin and fragile, ready to rip into shreds. Ready to rip and rip like you do the leaf from the stem as you pick it from the branch, so it can join its brothers and sisters. Both Harry and the leaf seem to be the last ones standing, the last ones, cursed to die last.
Harry laid against the tree, surrounded by the dead leaves, dead after surviving so long in the Spring, Summer, and Autumn. Harry had his wand ready, as he laid in the pile of leaves. He contemplated dying in pain, subjecting himself to the pain he caused all the others. Yet, he decided to go peacefully, because although he understood that what happened to him was also unjust. Child soldiers, he thought, should be allowed to die in peace. To die in a peace they were not allowed to have before.
So, with the last hanging leaf, now pulled from the branch, he held his wand to his head. He gripped the leaf tight, let it crumple. The Boy Who Lived died from a silent Avada Kedavra.
It was the first, and last unforgivable, he had ever successfully cast. He meant it that time.
—
Hermione Granger came to check on Harry the night he had killed himself. She had been checking on him whenever she could, whenever Ron was out of the house, or out on a mission. Ron had left Harry shortly after the war, pinning the blame for Fred's death on him. It’d been a whole event.
She apparated in front of the flat Harry had bought, on the far edge of muggle London. It was a simple house, fit for a simple man. She’d been proud of his decision to buy his own house, and escape from the ghosts of Grimmauld.
“Harry?” she called. “I’ve come to check on you, it’s ‘Mione!”
No response. Not even a creak in a floorboard or the sound of shifting fabrics.
“Harry?” Hermione asked, not letting the worry seep into her voice. Maybe he was just out getting some groceries. Maybe he was out meeting someone, if she was hopeful.
She walked out to the backyard, maybe he had gone to get some air?
She found his body lying against a tree, his hand by his side, palm up. His wand had rolled into the pile of leaves.
“Harry?” she yelled, running toward his pale body. She shook him, pulled his body to her chest. She screamed, she cried.
There was still a leaf hanging from the tree, one Harry had overlooked. This leaf, different from the others, never had the intention to fall. Now it was just Hermione. Hermione was the last one standing. Ron had fallen long ago.
If only Harry had stayed the winter, if only Harry could’ve waited the winter, then new leaves would begin to grow again. She could’ve left Ron, who had left her as soon as he forgot what all the trio had been through together. Now she was a lonely leaf, one that refused to fall.
Hermione continued to clutch the body, holding both his hands. She thought about music, and the one joyful moment she had while Horcrux hunting. A dance, Harry’s hand on her shoulder, soft swaying. Her soulmate for forever, her brother, her friend, gone.
This world was an endless cycle of guilt, a guilt that even the greatest heroes could never seem to beat.