'And he's the best fuck that ever walked. He's beautiful - rich, in money and everything else; he's a rockstar to boot, trapped in the body of a fighter. And how he fought; at a state of turmoil with himself - somewhere inside his soul that only she...
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♱
'But it's easy not to, so much easier not to
And what goes around never comes around to you
Get up, get up, get up off of it
Get out, get outta here, enough already
Get up, get up, get up off of it
Wake up!'
They walked silently.
Hera knew nothing she could say would change her brother's mind. She understood his will to die, for it was one she had been well attuned to, though in a different way.
She feared that reminiscing now would weaken his resolve and foil his plan somehow. No, she needed to let him be, though it ached to do so. How could she spend the final moments of her life with her brother not talking?
She supposed they'd had seventeen years of talking together, and the real tragedy was not in their taciturnity as they walked to Harry's end, but rather that he should have so premature an end at all.
Hagrid's hut loomed out of the darkness. There were no lights, no sound of Fang scrabbling at the door, his bark booming in welcome.
Harry recalled all those visits to Hagrid, the gleam of the copper kettle on the fire, rock cakes and giant grubs, his great bearded face, Ron vomiting slugs, and Hermione helping him save Norbert...
He moved on, and now he reached the edge of the forest, and he stopped.
A swarm of dementors was gliding amongst the trees; he could feel their chill, and he was not sure he would be able to pass safely through it.
He had no strength left for a Patronus. He could no longer control his own trembling. It was not, after all, so easy to die.
Every second he breathed, the smell of the grass, the cool air on his face, was so precious: To think that people had years and years, time to waste, so much time it dragged, and he was clinging to each second. At the same time, he thought that he would not be able to go on, and knew that he must.
