Title: The Art of Letting Go
Author: Unspoken Tragedy
Rating: PG-13, for suicidal themes and death
Spoilers: All five books
Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own 'em.
Summery: After returning to the Dursleys, Harry finds that he has lost the will to live. When the savior of the wizarding world commits suicide and breaks the prophesy, those left behind must win the war without him. And Harry's friends must learn to let him go.
A/N: Most of this was written months ago and I had decided not to go on with this plot... But then I saw the plot bunny suffering from neglect and I had to do something about it before he died. He's now healthy again, never fear.
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The Art of Letting Go
"I DON'T CARE!" Harry yelled at them, snatching up a lunascope and throwing it into the fireplace. "I'VE HAD ENOUGH, I'VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON'T CARE ANYMORE-"
He seized the table on which the silver instruments had stood and threw that too. It broke apart on the floor and the legs rolled in different directions.
"You do care," said Dumbledore. He had not flinched or made a single move to stop Harry demolishing his office. His expression was calm, almost detached. "You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it."
"I- DON'T!" Harry screamed, so loudly that he felt his throat might tear, and for a second he wanted to rush at Dumbledore and break him to; shatter that calm old face, shake him, hurt him, make him feel some tiny part of the horror inside Harry.
"Oh yes, you do," said Dumbledore, still more calmly. "You have now lost your mother, your father, and the closest thing to a parent you have ever known. Of course you care."
-Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Page 824, paragraphs 4 through 8
"THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD APPROACHES…BORN TO THOSE WHO HAVE THRICE DEFIED HIM, BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES… AND THE DARK LORD WILL MARK HIM AS HIS EQUAL, BUT HE WILL HAVE POWER THAT THE DARK LORD KNOWS NOT… AND EITHER MUST DIE AT THE HAND OF THE OTHER FOR NEITHER CAN LIVE WHILE THE OTHER SURVIVES… THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD WILL BE BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES…"
-Harry Potter and the Order of Phoenix
Page 841, paragraph 2
Harry Potter lay silently on his bed at the Dursley's house on Pivet drive, staring at the ceiling blankly. Ever since he had gotten there, which was over two weeks ago, he had gotten absolutely no mail, despite all his letters to the order. The Dursleys had been avoiding him like the plague after their little "chat" with the order, and even stopped giving him chores.
Despite all the times in the past in which he had wished that they would just leave him alone, their avoidance stung. It was rather depressing when the only family you have left hated you so much that they would not even say two words to you. In fact, Harry's whole existence could very well be labeled "depressing".
His parents had died when he was only a baby, leaving him absolutely no memory of them, save the scenes of their death that dementors invoked. The only parent he had ever known was killed only mere weeks before, and it had been entirely Harry's fault.
And that was not the only death that Harry was to blame for… A year prior he had also led a fellow student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to his death at the hands of the evil Lord Voldemort.
Life was a prison for him now, dark, cold and empty. He wanted it over. But no, he was too important to be given the precious gift of death. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, the Boy-Who-Bloody-Well-Better-Kill-Voldemort-Or-It-Was-The-End-Of-The-World.
Well, he didn't care. He didn't care for the friends who wouldn't even write him, even though they knew he must be having a hard time of things. He didn't care for the Order of the Phoenix, who only protected him to save their own petty lives. And he certainly didn't care for the wizarding world which he was supposed to save, who hated him when he appeared vulnerable, only to love him again when he did something heroic. It was they who created the Dark Lord after all, with their petty prejudices and hatred of the Slytherin house.
He didn't care for the muggle world either, riddled with whores, killers, child abusers and rapists. How ironic. He was being asked to give up everything he had, just to save a world which was not even worth being saved.
What had this world done for him? Ah yes, it took his parents, his godfather, forced him to live with relatives who hated his guts and then asked him to save it. Well they could find a new savoir.
Because Harry Potter had had enough. Life was too much to bear; they had no right to ask him to bear it alone. It was so hard getting up in the morning… So hard trying to move on.
But he wouldn't have to bear it much longer, for this time he was taking his life into his own hands, instead of letting everyone run it for him. He pulled out the knife he had hidden under his pillow after the first week he'd been back at the Dursleys', and slashed it deeply through his left wrist and forearm. The knife fell onto the bed, as he let go of it shakily, but he was not done yet. He took it up again and slashed through his right wrist and forearm. Then he lay back onto the bed and closed his eyes, falling into the deep dark oblivion called death.
As Albus Dumbledore sat in his office, going through his daily correspondence, a shrill shriek emitted from one of the tiny instruments on his desk. He took up the instrument, a Sedalia stone, and gasped as he saw the color that the stone had taken up.
It glowed ominously a deep blood red, indicating that Harry Potter was in grave peril. Strangely, however, the wards placed at his place of residence had not been tripped. 'So, it must be someone living at the house that's the threat,' he thought as he rushed to the fireplace, grabbing a handful of floo powder. Great emerald flames shot out from them and he stepped into them shouting for the Order headquarters.
Entering Headquarters, he shouted for all that might be present, "HARRY'S IN TROUBLE! CALL THE REST AND GET TO PIVET DRIVE AS SOON AS YOU CAN!" Mere seconds later, he was gone again, apparating away to Pivet Drive to save the world's hero.
What he found upon arriving in the Dursley living room was the least like what he'd expected to find: three muggles staring at him horrified after being pried away from some television show that they'd been watching.
"Now look here, old man-" Vernon started, only to be cut of by the very one he was addressing.
"Where is Harry?"
"Up in his room. Why does it matter where the boy is? He's perfectly fine," he spat out in reply.
"I have reason to believe otherwise," Albus replied grimly, as he whirled on his heel and rushed down the hallway and up the stairs.
When he reached the internally locked door, he did not hesitate to perform a simple unlocking spell and blasted the door away instead. What occupied the room horrified him beyond belief.
Lying on the immaculately made bed was a rather small, dark haired boy. Around him was a pool of blood, and a smile rested on his pale lips out of which shallow breaths were emitted. Blood was draining quickly from the young wizard's body from two long slashes up each arm.
Albus rushed to the bedside, noting the bloody blade lying in the palm of one upturned hand. He ripped a length off the blanket which hand not been drenched and wrapped it around one bleeding appendage, repeating the action for the other. Yet the boy's life force still seeped through, and Albus was no expert on healing. He needed a healer, but moving the boy could prove fatal in this state.
So he did the only thing he could do, he wrapped the cloth even tighter around the dieing boy's forearms and turned to find the Dursleys staring in horrified wonderment at their charge. "I must go summon a healer," he said quickly, "if the blood starts to stain the cloth more, change it, with bandages if you can find them." As he was about to apparate again, he heard a shaky voice behind him.
"Couldn't we call an ambulance?" Petunia spoke up.
"But what if you don't come back in time?" Vernon snapped impatiently. He certainly didn't like the boy, but sitting around and watching him die was far from what he wanted to be doing on a Sunday evening.
"Others will be arriving soon." Albus Dumbledore was gone again.
Within seconds the house was filled with the pop of witches and wizards appearing in the dining room below.
A resounding shout of "Harry!" filled the house, as they searched for any sign of disturbance.
"Up here!" called Dudley, thankful to get the unwanted situation off his hands and into others'.
Remus, Moody, Tonks, Arthur and Molly were in the room within record time, and with a short explanation from Vernon, Molly set to work. Though not a qualified healer, she was mother and therefore the best suitable for the job.
Despite her efforts (and those of the others), they couldn't save him.
On 7:59 pm that night, not even a month after the death of his Godfather, Harry James Potter was dead.
A/N: Dodges flying knives. Heh heh. Yes, I killed Harry Potter. Something which even Lord Voldemort can't boast of doing. I've got to say I'm almost proud of myself. ;)
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