Fic: Green
Title: Green
Characters: Harry Potter.
Summary: The original post-apocalyptic piece I wrote that inspired my Padma post that inspired Kate's Seamus post that -- you get the idea. *snickersnort!* Anyway. Harry's been stripped of his magic, and is awaiting...
Rating: PG13 for character death

Of course, it was to be a public execution.

The Walk had been seventeen years in the making, and without his magic, there was no hope to walk away from this one.

He knew it. And despite this, his head was held high. It was, after all, his destiny.

Sometimes Harry remembered what it was like to use magic, the feel of wood in his hands. How his hand used to twitch when he'd utter a spell. All the phrases in Latin that he never bothered to translate, but somehow knew what they meant. He remembered the smell of potions. How most of his best potions still turned to soup. How much he hated the now-dead wizard who taught the class. He remembered half-moon glasses, bushy hair, freckles. He remembered orange eyes, bangled bracelets, white-blonde hair. He remembered buggy eyes and the way they made him feel. He remembered photographs that moved, and marble basins that swirled with iridescent wind. He remembered giant snakes and memories that lived.

His life would be remembered as the wound that wouldn't heal, wouldn't scab. His death would cauterise the wizarding world, they said. Hushed reporters from the Daily Prophet to The Quibbler were waiting in every corner; Quick Quills hovered in the air. The Boy Who Would Die would be studied.

He still had nightmares, but the scar he wore was nothing more than another reminder of a life reprobate. No family, all dead. No friends, all gone. He had outlived them all. It might have been the only thing he hadn't been prepared for, and he merely waited, slack and devoid, for the death sentence. This ersatz life was his waking nightmare.

The peregrination from cell to death only took one hour through the streets of London. He survived the catcalls and opprobrium as he always had, with his jaw set and a disdainful eye. Their brickbats rebounded off him, and the only time it stung was when the surviving members of his Army turned away from him. They looked hungry and lost, broken and tangled, and Harry couldn't stand the look of disappointment on their faces. He was a saviour who could no longer save. And maybe, he thought, he was never intended to save them.

The acid green quills fluttered madly upon seeing him. Only the most derelict dared to call to Harry, begging for his help. Their voices were immediately silenced in a rush of green coruscation, more bodies left in Harry's wake. He was not surprised to find the loss only hastened his steps to his fate. His bleak eyes memorised their faces, and he might be the only one to mourn them.

Like so many years ago, Harry refused to bow to Voldemort or the line of Death Eaters waiting in the centre of the square. He refused to cower and hide behind pretty gravestones. He refused to answer questions that made no difference in the end. His retorts were met with the familiar mirthless laugh that used to haunt his nightmares.

Then he was finally on his way to join Hermione and Ron, and there was no where else he'd rather be.