I should have died before I was born, saving my parents their travesty of a marriage.

All of us would have been better off that way.

I lived.

I should have died when I fell off the birch tree in the backyard on my fourth birthday.

I bounced. Magic came with too high a price attached.

I lived.

I should have died when Black set out to murder me in fifth year.

Before I traded my soul for the vain promise of friendship and power.

I lived.

I should have died during the trials, died before the world named me traitor.

I might as well rot in Azkaban with my honour still intact.

I lived.

I should have died at the hand of the Dark Lord when he called to his faithful to do his bidding, again.

Died with a bit of my soul intact.

I lived.

I should have died when I had to kill Dumbledore, died before obedience killed honour.

Not that my death would have saved him.

I lived.

I should have died in the war, forgotten, nameless bones rotting in damp soil.

Finally free of greater men’s grip on my fate.

I lived.

I should have died last night, before the morning papers scream for my blood.

The warm body next to me makes waking noises and nestles closer. I smile.

I died last night, several times. Harry made sure of that.

I live.