It's that moment when you take in the fact that the one person you thought was always going to be around is no longer there. It is a quiet kind of tapping in your heart, letting you know how hallow its walls make the inside seem. You have lost everything and it is all in you arms, covered in muck and grime.

"Draco!" You scream, but nobody can hear you. The Forbidden Forest drowns out your sobs and terrorized yelps. Even the spiders stay away from you. They are scared of your pain, afraid they will feel it if they come near you.

It was just one spell, meant for enemies. You think, but there is no more time to think. No more time to digest. Why would the Prince write such a spell? Maybe, you realize, it is because the Prince knew what a horrible liar you always were and he wanted you to pay for it.

You drop the body and feel trapped in your own. You can't look at the corpse. There is blood, dirt and leaves. There is a look of calm, even amongst the ash. Slashes all about the skin and abdomen and the face still shines through as stark white and pure as ever. The pain hits like a tornado, ten times a few moments past. This cannot be happening.

You can no longer smile, or laugh, or ever see yourself being in the company of friends. Ron and Hermione have each other. The Order will take care of Voldemort. They don't need me anymore. Nobody needs me.

You take out your wand, feeling the pit in your stomach rise. You feel the familiar grooves in your hands, gazing at Ollivander's work. Even then, even with the fond memories of your wand, you cannot smile. Never again will you smile.

Your knees give out and you think It's time that the boy who lived, died. And without further ado, you pull out your wand. "Avada Kedavra!" You order, but your wand sputters out. You try one, two, three more times, begging for death. Nothing happens, you are at the mercy of Ollivander's work, his will in the wand. Even before you came around, Ollivander knew to keep you safe, just like everyone else. Why can't they just let you die?

You content to lying next to the crumpled, seemingly sleeping Draco Malfoy. You fantasize about hearing weak breaths hitting your face, but there are none. Draco has been dead for twenty minutes now. You cannot keep a steady grip and lean upon his corpse, feeling his bones set. You lie him flat and cross his arms, making him look sweet and asleep, rather than sprawled and dead. You try to smile, but cannot.

"Harry! Harry where are you?" you hear Hermione call. "Where you gone off to now, Mate?" you hear from Ron. The calls come closer, you are running out of time. Without a second to consider, you pull out the shard of mirror Sirius gave you if ever in an emergency. If any, this was the one you needed him for and he was also dead.

One. Two. Three. You count off, and before hesitation and consideration can come forward, you plunge the large shard of glass into your stomach. Searing pain spreads around the area. Compared to the emotional pain of murdering Draco, this is a merry-go-round ride. You grimace as you pull out the shard, slicing open your veins on your wrists. In a last call on what is surely to end you life, you stab into you heart, feeling the undeniable pain and hot flash before you eyes. That flash that did not prevail in dark magic of a skilled Lord, but in the grievance of a broken heart.

Feeling yourself plunder, you relax into the arms of the one you killed and loved. You wrap yourself in his arms as the life drains from your body. Blood begins to come forth in your mouth, and you feel yourself shiver in the cold of blood loss.

You hear the shifty yelps of the people you feel like you never really knew and it's all so faded. There is one thing unmistakeable you can identify just as you drift into a forever sleep.

"HARRY NO!" The yell of the one you thought you killed, rising from his trauma faint.

Who knew a Slytherin could be so cool and still when he slept?