Love.
Such a simple word that expresses so much.
My entire life, or at least since Hagrid rescued me from my 'family,' I've never had a true idea of what it is. What it was. What it will turn into.
The Dursleys' idea of love was to spoil and pamper their son. Mrs. Weasley's idea of love was to give me a glimpse of what her children grew up on, but it was just enough to make me want more. Sirius tried the best he could, but his love was tainted by guilt and bitterness. Dumbledore's idea of love was to protect me with ignorance.
That ignorance got the closest thing I had to love killed.
And then he revealed the truth, just in time for me to realize that it was my fault.
Ron and Hermione have love. If they don't make it, no one will. And even if one of them dies, the other one would follow them. They're in love.
Ginny and I have love. It is as fragile as a new-born bird, but it is still love.
And come to think of it, love started this whole mess.
It started because one woman dared to love. If Merope Gaunt's family had supported her, had the decency to realize that being Pureblood was meaningless, if Tom Riddle Jr. had taken pity on the young woman instead of dismissing her as inferior, perhaps his son wouldn't have grown into the warlord who ruined so many lives.
Perhaps love could have shaped his character, molded him into a decent human being capable of compassion. Perhaps he might have been a Healer, or Minister of Magic. He might have had kids.
Dumbledore says that my greatest strength is my ability to love. But this love, however tainted and convoluted, is getting people killed. Cedric Diggory, caught in the crossfire, Sirius Black, bitter and guilty, Albus Dumbledore, whose love for intrigue and power lost him his family and his life, and now the parents of my godson, and Severus Snape, who loved one of the 'enemy.'
Love is masochistic. It is a guilty pleasure for me, something I indulge in but should avoid.
And I'll indulge in it one last time, as I walk these corridors for perhaps the last time, bidding a silent farewell to those whom I should not love, and walk into the loving embrace of death, who wears the face of a lonely child from a London orphanage.
Perhaps love will be enough. It wasn't enough to save Lily Potter, but it might be enough to save her son. Perhaps it will carry me through.