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Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
* * *
Fawkes the Phoenix, Gryffindor, his best friend's hair, probably still growing, spreading into the dirt that will have inevitably made its way into his grave. Harry Potter.
One of these things is not like the other.
Harry giggles, the Muggle children's verse sounding from his memory at a distance, as if he's still hearing it muffled through the wooden door of his cupboard under the stairs. Its incongruity dissipates across the ground, wisps of the magic that have settled there, heavy, disturbed by the melody.
One of these things is not like the other.
He closes his mouth and the laughter beats at his throat, desperate to be released. He's still alive, see.
* * *
Dumbledore died with his apologies still on his lips. And part of Harry couldn't help but think that both sides were square in that moment. Sirius had been the first casualty perpetrated by both, and Bellatrix had long ago met the end of Harry's wand. For a split-second it was a little easier to keep tally in a war that had lost all its ideals amid the gray pallor of death. He could see it then, settling into Dumbledore's face, fancied that he'd seen its shadow for years lurking behind twinkling eyes.
His power and the explosive patterns of his robes made Dumbledore seem more substantial than Harry had ever realized he wasn't, but his legs still threatened to buckle down into the soft, wet decay of the earth as he carried Dumbledore's body back to the fortress of Hogwarts castle.
Later, he went to Dumbledore's office. The gentle whirring and tinkling of the various gadgets echoed through the hollowed space in Harry's chest, and he walked over to the large golden cage by the desk. Harry fingered the square lock before slipping his fingers through the wires and squeezing so hard the edges cut into his palm. At the bottom lay Fawkes, head resting in a small puddle of phoenix tears.
* * *
Harry reckons it's no longer courage when the choice has been taken away from you. Not that he would have wished his destiny on anyone, particularly not Neville. And he had found his own fate, hadn't he?
Harry and gallows humor have become good friends.
Harry would watch him sometimes, their one-man morale booster. Dark bags were a constant presence beneath his guileless eyes, and above pudgy cheeks that would cause the telltale bruises to disappear when rolled up in a smile. Neville worked tirelessly in his gardens, an odd palette of death and life where he cultivated plants used mostly in potions for either healing or guerilla warfare. This kept him in close contact with Snape, who indeed seemed to have rubbed off on him at some point. Neville had developed a gentle, self-deprecating humor, which he was able to use in ways Snape never could, to keep the others' spirits up. It was considerably more effective than Harry's own brand.
Neville had been a perceptive sort, and more often than not had caught Harry's eye when he stared and come to talk to him. Harry never said much back. He'd been too busy swallowing and choking on the words, It didn't have to be me. It didn't have to be me.
* * *
"Harry?"
"Hm."
"You're not going to sign the contract, are you?"
Harry remembers his blurry gaze falling on the scroll of parchment on the nightstand, the snitch logo of the International Quidditch Association at the top an indistinct mass of black ink. He didn't look at Ron, though he would have been able to see his face clearly, this close. Harry shut his eyes and inhaled the scent of sweat and grass and pumpkin juice on Ron's skin.
"What do you think?"
"I think you've got a hero complex, mate," Ron said, inevitability tingeing his voice. He fingered the ends of Harry's hair, callouses brushing his skin.
Tense, "Do you really believe that?"
"No."
"Harry?"
"Hm."
"You're not going to let me go, are you?"
Harry was filled with a myopic sort of terror. Ron was below him and smelling of sweat and dirt and blood and he didn't know, he didn't know what he had to do for the first time in forever, he didn't know.
"What do you think?" Harry's voice was reedy and he closed his mouth before the keening rising in his chest could escape. His hands were shaking violently as they clutched Ron's wool jumper with his initial on it. "No, no, no."
* * *
Harry has spent his whole life being different. Now he just wants to be dead, like the rest of them.