Disclaimer: The only thing I own about this is the tears I shed writing it.
Harry Potter, previously known as the Boy Who Lived, stared at the picture.
In some ways, it was hard to imagine he was ever that young.
He understood why Dumbledore didn't mind dying now, but he also understood why he couldn't kill himself.
Harry smoothed the curling edges of the ancient photograph.
Smiling faces stared back at him, each of them somehow dead now.
Hermione Granger, at one point, Hermione Weasley.
She died in a car crash, of all things, because she was living in London, working at the largest magical library in England.
He died soon after his wife, of a broken heart.
She was 21 when they let her go on missions for the MLE, and that cost her her life because she got cocky.
He died years ago, the wounds gathered fighting Death Eaters finally catching up to him.
She died hunting down some wild beast, and she didn't take anyone with her.
He fell through the veil.
He died because the stress on his body from transforming proved too much.
Not dead yet, but probably by the dawn.
He had over 200 years to think about his life, to live his life, and to wait for death.
He thought it would be good to see them again.
Harry closed his eyes for a minute, breathing deeply.
When he let all the air out of his lungs, he didn't draw any more in.
No matter how powerful or wise, everything must die.
A/N I was watching a show and thought about this. Well, watching a show, listening to music and reading the books. Yes, I multitask.