I know what you must be thinking. Yes, I will continue writing my KH fanfic, but as I've reached a bit of a snag and haven't been able to continue out of sheer boredom for the scene, it's on hiatus. Meanwhile, this idea popped into my head, and so, as I think the Harry Potter board must be flocking with reviewers, here's my Harry Potter fanfic.
Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, Sirius Black would still be alive and the outcome of the Deathly Hallows would be right on this page.
Harry Potter was holding his wand to Lord Voldemort's head. Voldemort had an expression of mixed fear and loathing on his face.
"Do it." Voldemort dared Harry. "Do it, Potter. I dare you."
Harry did not move. Voldemort was unarmed, his wand strewn aside by Harry himself. Harry was sitting on top of his chest, to prevent him from getting up. He had no more horcruxes. He was at Harry's mercy. But Harry still couldn't do it.
Then, Voldemort laughed. A high, cold, mirthless laugh. "You can't do it." he laughed. "You don't have the courage. You don't have the strength. You could never kill me, Potter. Never."
And with that, Voldemort suddenly, impossibly, pushed Harry off him, and threw him against a wall. Harry's scar seared, he was blinded by pain. Voldemort was going to kill him.
He managed to open his eyes to see a flash of metal as Voldemort pulled a dagger from his cloak and stabbed Harry in the forehead, where he knew it would hurt most. Harry couldn't even scream.
Harry awoke in his bed with a jolt, and realized he'd dreamt of that night again.
Harry threw off the covers and sat up. His gray T-shirt was drenched in his sweat, but he felt cold, so cold he was shivering, and couldn't bring himself to go back to sleep. He needed fresh air.
He walked downstairs, opened the back door, and stepped out onto the back porch. He took a deep breath.
It had been ten years since the night he killed Lord Voldemort. Things had changed a lot since then. He was older, now. He was wiser. People were happy, people were safe. The war was over. And yet, Harry was having nightmares of fighting Lord Voldemort every night now. It hadn't been that way all these years, but it was that way now. For some reason, he was having dreams of Voldemort killing him, instead of what really happened.
Harry was beginning to feel better. He reminded himself that Voldemort was dead, and nothing could change that. His horcruxes had been destroyed. His diary, Salazar Slytherin's ring, Hufflepuff's cup, Slytherin's locket, Gryffindor's bust, and Nagini, his pet snake. Harry had destroyed all these pieces of Voldemort's soul, and then he had proceeded to kill Voldemort himself.
Harry had managed to avenge all the people around him who had been killed at the hands of Voldemort, or, by extension, Voldemort's Death Eaters. Lily and James Potter. Cedric Diggory. Sirius Black. Albus Dumbledore.
But there were parts of the story that Harry didn't know himself. There was Severus Snape, who had killed Dumbledore, which had been part of Dumbledore's ultimate plan to defeat Voldemort…but Snape had disappeared, and Harry hadn't seen the Potions Master for so many years. And Draco Malfoy, whom Harry had always hated, and even now was not on close terms with…he had turned to Harry's side, had helped tremendously in killing Voldemort. He had even smiled--a true smile, not his usual sneer. But since then, whenever Harry saw Malfoy there was the usual retort, the insult.
Harry even thought about Peter Pettigrew, one of his father's close friends when he was at school. Pettigrew, or Wormtail as he was known as, had betrayed Harry's parents, but he had died sacrificing himself for Harry's sake. Harry had never understood it; it wasn't bravery, Wormtail didn't have a courageous bone in his body. Maybe it had been a payment--Harry had forced his godfather, Sirius Black, and his teacher, at the time, Remus Lupin, both of whom had also been his father's school friends, not to avenge James and Lily by killing Peter…maybe that's what it had been.
And Neville. The most tragic part of the story, Neville had been impaled in the back by a giant spear. It had been aimed at Harry, but Neville had gotten in the way and taken the blow. Harry relived the scene. A spear hurtled toward them by one of many faceless Death Eaters, one of Voldemort's supporters. Harry was on the ground because…he couldn't remember why. He must've been hit by a curse, or had dropped out of exhaustion. But the spear had shot toward them, and Neville, being the nearest one to Harry, had jumped in front of the spear, and it had hit his own back. Harry had been sure that Neville would die right then, right there, and so he told Neville, told him that he had had a chance to be in Harry's place, if Voldemort had chosen him. And Neville had cried.
Neville had survived, although how, Harry could only guess. Harry had heard he had taken up a post as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts--the job was no longer jinxed, due to the fact that the Voldemort, who had made the jinx in the first place, was dead. Harry hadn't seen Neville since Ron and Hermione's wedding. Ron and Hermione were Harry's best friends, and Harry had known it was coming for a long time. Harry was married too, of course.
"Harry?" came the voice of a woman in the doorway. Harry turned to look at it, and saw the beautiful young woman known as Ginny Potter.
"Come to bed, darling." Ginny said, walking up to him and putting her arms around him. "Was it another of those dreams?"
Harry couldn't find the word "yes", so he nodded. Speech returned to him, and he said, "Yeah. Another dream about him."
"What are those dreams like?" Ginny asked.
Harry wasn't about to tell her, he didn't want to worry her, and he didn't want to relive it. Nevertheless, he felt a cold feeling sweeping over him. The damage was done, and so he said, "I relive the moment when I killed him, but it's…different. Instead of me killing him, he kills me."
Ginny gasped quietly, but she didn't press on. "Come back to bed, Harry. Voldemort's dead."
"I know." Harry said. He looked at her face, and the coldness swept away from him. He felt safe again, by gazing into those big, brown eyes. Those eyes that were reminiscent of their house-elf Dobby's eyes, but brown and beautiful. And Harry followed her back to bed, where he slept soundly all night. No, the next jolt for Harry Potter arrived in the morning.