i. Bittersweet I said, "Remember this moment,"
in the back of my mind.
"The time we stood with our shaking hands,
The crowds in stands went wild."
Harry stares up at the Elder Wand tucked tightly into his fist. For an immeasurable moment, he stands amidst the crowd, feeling altogether as lifeless as the monster splayed across the floor.
The erupting cheers ignite his senses and cause him to forcibly rip his fist down from above his head. Even back in reality, Tom Riddle's lifeless body remains the only figure in Harry's line of vision. This trance is purposefully unbroken, even when he feels Ron and Hermione's arms around him. How can he be sure that he really won? That Voldemort wouldn't rise up, unaffected and murderous? Everything had happened too quickly to be certain.
He thinks he hears hurried murmurs from his friends but of the exact sentiments he is completely unsure. A beating silence soon consumes their group of three; only muffled exclamations from the rest of the Great Hall are discernible. They stand uninterrupted, entangled and swaying, but Harry's eyes still refuse to leave the crumpled mass upon the floor.
"Harry," he hears Hermione distantly whisper, feels her cold hands against his cheeks. He finally forces his eyes to meet hers, completely flooded with water. "We thought you were dead," she cries. She repeats this over and over before throwing herself into his chest again.
Harry glances over at Ron, whose expression is stubbornly unreadable. They don't speak and it's not long before Hermione instinctively moves into Ron's arms, freeing Harry.
He watches as Ron engulfs her and they sway on the spot, Hermione crying openly into his bloodstained t-shirt. Suddenly, Ron's face darkens and a single tear escapes his eye, causing Harry to wonder if it was brought on by the sound of Hermione's cries or a nagging memory of Fred.
Regardless of the cause, he realizes that this victory will always be more bitter than sweet for Ron.
Harry cannot shake the stabbing thought in the back of his mind: remember this moment. He hears the cheers; he knows that he is seconds away from being swarmed by the people who have fought so hard to see him alive.
Amidst the chaos, as Luna and Neville lead a pack of faceless admirers into a strangling embrace around him, the only clear image burned in his mind is Ron and Hermione, crying together. And he wants nothing more than to forget, if only for a while.
Remember this moment, sure. Remember the cheers and the outpouring affection, of course. Remember the victory.
But while you're at it, be sure to remember the loss.
ii. Euphoria
We were the Kings and the Queens
And they read off our names
The night you danced like you knew our lives
Would never be the same
"Have you even seen Harry in the past hour?" Ron murmurs into his hands, the only things keeping him from slamming head first into the long wooden table of the Great Hall.
"No, I haven't…I guess he's being shuffled around," shrugs Hermione before placing a hand on his back.
Ron holds his tongue against the desire to scream endlessly; Hermione is his only lasting comfort. He can't stand to turn to his mother, still crowded with the rest around Fred. Seeing her tears; hearing her sobs...
While Hermione's arms are the most comforting place where he's ever cried, save for his own mother's embrace, he knows his tears will start a chain reaction and not making Hermione upset becomes the goal of the day.
Ron suddenly feels her familiar arms wrap around his waist, her head on his shoulder. He takes a deep, trembling breath and battles with conflicting memories: the curse that struck Fred in the chest and the feel of Hermione's lips on his. While the latter seems randomly provided by his subconscious to cushion the blow of the former, he feels sickeningly guilty for thinking it.
Nonetheless, he decides to be selfish and sanction off the thoughts in his brain. While only allowing the good ones to pass through, he can almost imagine smiling again. His kiss with Hermione pre-dates the fall of Voldemort, sure, but it also represents the final minutes before he saw his brother crumple to the ground, so still that it's difficult to believe he ever moved.
No, he pleads as he squeezes his eyes closed, straddling the brink of a migraine.
Her shining smile. He relaxes his shoulders.
His hands on her waist. He opens his eyes.
Her lips.
Her lips, her lips, her lips.
Clinging like mad to the quickly draining euphoria, Ron re-lives the rebounding curse that finally erased Voldemort from existence - and he sends every crushing, excess memory straight down to hell with the monster that caused it.
When he tilts his head down to view Hermione, she is already looking up with concern. She brushes a hand across his forehead and through his hair. It's strange, the way they seem to move together now, so unencumbered by the petty nonsense that always seemed to drive the bulk of their arguments. Perhaps it's the feeling of loss settling over the rubble or the fact that they've finally kissed, but he swears everything has changed between them. And it may just be the only good thing he has left to cling to.
"Are you going to be alright?" But just as the words leave Hermione's lips, they fade away into silence. It's a question she didn't consider before uttering – the answer is already clear. No. Never.
Noticing her eyebrows suddenly stitched together, Ron moves his hand around her waist and shakes his head slightly. "Don't worry about me." He kisses the top of her head.
"Don't," he repeats stubbornly at her unchanging expression, but then bows his head and watches tears as heavy as Bludgers plummet against the table.
He knows that he can try his damndest to run forever, to push all the sad thoughts away and live back a time where they didn't yet exist. But the thing about sorrow is that it follows you wherever you go – once its born, every moment is a reflection of that pain. Nothing is ever right.
Those demons always find a way to fuck with your head.
iii. Tenacity You held your head like a hero
On a history book page
It was the end of a decade
But the start of an age
Long live the walls we crashed through
How the kingdom lights shined just for me and you
I was screaming, "Long live all the magic we made,
And bring on all the pretenders -
One day we will be remembered"
With a sigh of relief, Harry throws himself onto a bench beside Luna, grateful for her orb-like eyes. They aren't the kind of eyes that demand anything of you; instead, they watch with interest for whatever you feel like displaying at the moment.
"I'd want some peace and quiet, if it were me," she says and it's quite literally music to his ears.
"I'd love some," Harry casts a glance towards her, bloodied and bruised, with her long blonde hair in knots. He remembers the way she coaxed him into creating a Patronus during the battle, mimicking what she had learned during those meetings of Dumbledore's Army. He almost feels guilty for what she has gone through on his account, but her smile, seemingly defiant of all the tragedy and heartache that occurred but an hour ago, makes him swallow an unnecessary, and probably unwanted, apology.
"I'll distract them all," she promises. "Use your Cloak."
Luna is surely an oddity, but Harry wishes that she would stay a little bit longer beside him. Her unyielding optimism is contagious and even in the wake of victory Harry feels nothing but exhaustion.
"Oooh, look, a Blibbering Humdinger!"
And there it is: his glimmering moment of escape.
He moves through the Great Hall, never more grateful for Luna or the Cloak. He sees Ginny almost immediately. Moments ago, Ron and Hermione were all that filled his brain, but now he finds himself halting beside Ginny's shimmering red hair.
He watches as she tilts her head onto her mother's shoulder and pushes stubborn tears from her cheeks. He wants to rip the Cloak off and talk to her, but more than anything he wants to know what he could possibly say to make everything right.
Harry knows that he will battle with viewing this same expression on her brother's face, but he wills himself to pass Ginny and continue through the aisles. He whisks past Neville, a chill running through him as he remembers the way he broke from the crowd, facing Voldemort with the sword in his grasp.
He knows that this day has changed Neville forever; he knows that it is the start of something great.
Finally, he reaches Ron and Hermione sitting close together on a bench. He stands behind them for a moment, watching Hermione's palm as it makes circles against Ron's back. In that moment he yearns to hold Ginny, but crouches behind them regardless.
"It's me," he murmurs. They turn slowly towards him, their eyes blindly searching the empty space. "Will you come with me?"
They nod simultaneously and lead the way out of the Great Hall.
Harry follows at a distance, his head held high and an unfamiliar lump in his throat. With a trembling smile and a deep appreciation for invisibility, it dawns on him that this is the first time he has to ask Hermione and Ron to come along with him anywhere.
iv. Gratitude
I said, "Remember this feeling,"
I passed the pictures around
Of all the years that we stood there
On the sidelines wishing for right now
We are the Kings and the Queens
You traded your baseball cap for a crown
When they gave us our trophies
And we help them up for our town
Harry, Ron, and Hermione step out of Dumbledore's office after surrendering the Elder Wand for good, earning a rowdy goodbye from the lopsided gargoyle.
"Hey, wait!" it calls just as they begin to walk down the hallway.
They halt. "Er…yes?" Harry raises an eyebrow.
"Why the long face? You just defeated the Dark Lord!" The gargoyle laughs.
Ron smirks while Harry runs a hand through his hair and searches for a response. "Um…well, it's a bit overwhelming, isn't it?"
"Haven't you been waiting for this moment for years? Have a shot of Firewhiskey and kiss a pretty girl."
"Alright, Random Gargoyle! Thank you for the advice," Ron waves goodbye and starts leading them down the hallway. "Now, shall we take the drunk statue's advice or have a nap?"
"The latter," Hermione sighs. They walk all the way to the Gryffindor Common Room in silence (a password is, again, completely unnecessary as they discover the Fat Lady face-down in an apparently drunken stupor). Stepping inside, her voice almost lost in the sound of the Fat Lady snoring, Hermione murmurs, "Harry, do you need to…I don't know, go back downstairs?"
"I hope not…for now at least. I'm just seriously afraid of passing out in the middle of a conversation…"
"Hey, you know everyone wants a picture with the Hero," Ron pats him on the back and continues towards the staircase.
Harry stops walking and Ron and Hermione turn to face him after a few unknowing steps. "What's up?" Ron murmurs.
"No, I just…" Harry cringes through his inability to manage a proper 'thanks.'
"Harry…" Hermione murmurs; her voice is cautious, as if talking him down from a window ledge.
He shakes her off and plows on. "I just wanted to say that…well, I wouldn't have been able to do it – no, I wouldn't be alive right now if it wasn't for you: the both of you. I don't know if I would've made it past First Year."
"Oh, Harry…That's not true…" Hermione smiles, a blush creeping up her neck.
"It is," Ron laughs softly before taking a few steps forward and pulling Harry into an embrace. "You know I hate saying stuff like this, and I know we both hate hearing it…but we're useless alone,"
Harry laughs and pats him on the back as they separate. "I'm cringing at the explosion of love that's happening right now."
Hermione sniffles, causing them to look back in shock as she furiously wipes at her eyes. "No, it's just…" She holds in a small sob. "You two…"
"Feeling left out?" Ron suggests.
"No!" Hermione laughs. "It's just after all we've been through…we're all still alive because of each other."
"Come over here," smirks Ron and they pull Hermione into their arms. "You and your damn brain…"
Harry grins. "Imagine it was just you and me?"
"We'd be fucked."
"Ron!"
"Come on, that's the only way to put it, Hermione."
"Yes, I suppose…"
"You can say it."
"I'll do no such thing, thank you very much."
"Say it."
"No, Ron!"
"We'd be fucked without you."
"You would, but I'm not saying it."
"Say, 'Boys, you two would be fucked without my astronomically-sized brain.'"
Hermione widens her eyes and scoffs in disbelief. "Astronomical, hm? You've been reading, haven't you?"
"I've been listening to you," Ron casts a glance over at Harry, who has since separated himself from the embrace, simply watching as the bickering continues. He thinks that for once, he quite fancies the endless argument; it reminds him of a simpler time. "Could you tell my vocabulary increased a bit? You know, since I started actually listening to Hermione instead of tuning her out?"
Harry considers this. "Perhaps, but I can't say when you actually started listening…"
"Probably around…Sixth Year."
Hermione opens her mouth in protest but Ron cuts her off, "Yes, okay, I know what you're going to say…the whole Lavender debacle – again, great word, right? Anyway, I suppose you're right…well, it was sort of on and off, you know? I stopped listening around the time you actually wanted to take me to Slughorn's party and then picked back up once I ended it with Lav."
"Lav," Hermione nearly spits from her teeth while sending Harry a look of disdain; the look, of course, is lost on the boy pretending to be implausibly interested in the state of his cuticles.
Ron gives her a squeeze around the shoulders and she rolls her eyes playfully. "Come on, Harry just defeated Voldemort, no use in moping about that. The fact is, I will now listen to your every word for all of eternity."
"Would you like me to hold you to that?"
"Not really, but maybe that will increase the chances of it happening…"
Hermione pounds a week fist into his chest without any damage whatsoever.
"Well, if the bickering has concluded for now, I'm off to bed…" Harry sighs, making his way up the staircase.
"Yes," Hermione separates from Ron and begins climbing the stairs, but upon reaching the middle, looks over her shoulder.
Their eyes meet and she smiles a bit. "Ron?"
"Yeah?"
"You've would've been abysmally, abominably fucked without my inconceivably prodigious brain."
Ron chuckles. "Quite proud to hear the word 'fucked,' but the rest could've been Spanish for all I'm aware of."
Hermione raises her chin and smirks. "Just a lot of words to truly explain how fucked you'd be without me."
"I like the sound of that."
"Me too."
v. Seventeen
And the cynics were outraged Long live all the mountains we moved
Screaming, "This is absurd!"
Cause for a moment a band of thieves
In ripped up jeans got to rule the world
Long live the walls we crashed through
How the kingdom lights shined just for me and you
I was screaming, "Long live all the magic we made
And bring on all the pretenders
I'm not afraid."
I had the time of my life fighting dragons with you
I was screaming, "Long live the look on your face
And bring on all the pretenders
One day we will be remembered."
Harry throws himself onto his four-poster bed, tosses his glasses on the night stand, and brings his palms up to his eyes, embracing the darkest dark he can manage to get as the sunlight continues to stream stubbornly through the thin curtains.
He hears Ron entering and the sound of the door slowly clicking shut. He hears him move around the room like a zombie, meticulously shifting certain objects that Harry cannot identify without sight. Because what Ron should be doing, by all the logic Harry can muster on a deficit of sleep, is nothing other than collapsing into his bed.
Harry slides his palms off his eyes and blinks rapidly, trying to squint at Ron's blurred figure.
"What are you up to?" he murmurs, sitting up a bit.
"I don't know…"
He slides his glasses on and watches as Ron sits down in his bed, staring into seemingly questionable nothingness.
"You don't want time to think, do you?" Harry guesses. While sleep beckons to him, he knows his dreams (if he has any) will be filled with guilty thoughts of Fred, Lupin, Tonks, and countless others. But Ron only has one severe, pestering thought of one person, and it is profoundly more painful than any Harry could have at the moment.
He realizes this, of course, but still hasn't managed to contemplate – to allow himself to contemplate – a means of dealing with the Weasleys' suffocating grief.
After a moment, Ron shifts towards Harry and nods. "I know if I have a moment of rest, I'll just start seeing things I don't want to see. I've already been thinking a lot about what I could've done."
"I've been thinking about that too…wishing I'd been able to do something. Anything. But the fact is we didn't have a chance…"
Ron nods softly, without much commitment. "It's scary as hell because it could've been anyone. Just a random act of violence and everything goes to shit. So I just keep on re-living the moment of the explosion, wondering what I could've done differently. It's easier to keep the focus on myself."
Harry bites his lip. "But how is any easier to blame yourself?"
Ron swallows thickly and falls back onto his pillow, his eyes still on Harry's across the room. "I guess," he starts, his voice a bit hoarse, "When I'm beating myself up, I'm not thinking about that look on his face…that frozen smile."
And suddenly there is nothing for Harry to say and nothing Ron needs or wants to hear. They fall into silence, each staring at the ceiling, thinking about all the things they swore they wouldn't allow into their minds.
After a seemingly endless amount of time – Harry is unsure if he fell asleep at all; his thoughts were so clouded with conflicting feelings that he is altogether rattled and disoriented when he hears Ron's voice rise above the silence.
"It's amazing, though, isn't it?"
"What is?" For a frightening moment Harry wonders if he has been carrying on a dream-fueled conversation with Ron, completely unaware of the sentiments he provided. But Ron's next sentence assures him they had both been in another place for a bit.
"I just found myself thinking about what just happened…you know, your last duel with…with Voldemort. And I still can't believe I'm not dreaming,"
"Maybe we are…" Harry offers as he sits up and looks across the room at his friend grimacing.
"Don't even say that…I can't wake up in a tent on the countryside somewhere. I'll off myself right then and there."
Harry nods. "It's true…we've done so much to get here and now that it's done, it's hard to believe…"
"Yeah," Ron sighs. He runs a hand through his hair and along the length of his face. "We're just kids, you know? We're seventeen. I'm not sure if anyone truly believed we were gonna pull it off. Well…everyone thought I was sick with Spattergroit, but I don't want to put all the pressure on you alone."
Harry laughs softly. "No, it's true. Many people believed in me. I don't blame them either. I wouldn't. In the end, they fought because that's all there was left to do. But when Voldemort paraded me in front of the Great Hall, I don't think anyone was…surprised. Or suspicious of my death."
"I don't know what I thought," Ron considers. "I can't really…describe what I felt. It was sort of one of those moments when you want to throw yourself onto the ground and go into the fetal position?"
"I've had a lot of those."
"You just want to scream, 'Okay, fuck this shit. Seriously, fuck this.'"
"But despite that, I did hear you."
"When?"
"When the Great Hall was completely silent and Voldemort was standing in front of all of you, saying I'd relied on other to sacrifice themselves…saying I was dead. You yelled out."
"'He beat you,'" Ron recalls, nodding slowly.
"He beat you…" Harry repeats, smiling.
"For all I knew, you were dead. But even if you were, it was still true. You'd beat him…you'd always beaten him. I reckon that's why he was so pissed off all the time…" Ron considers. "Really think about it…think if you were supposedly the most powerful wizard of all time and a one-year-old managed to live? You'd probably be pretty peeved. And then you chalk it off to sheer dumb luck, but he continues to escape death every single time. Wicked, huh?"
"I guess I never thought about it that way."
"You should," Ron nods wisely. "And I think he knew it, too. He was just too damn proud - even in the end - to admit it."
"If you were supposedly the most powerful wizard of all time, would you admit to yourself that a bunch of seventeen-year-olds might be able to kill you?"
"I'd think it was fucking absurd."
"Right up until the last minute."
"The last second," Ron clarifies.
Harry nods and falls back into his pillow. "If you wake up in a tent, don't wake me."
Ron laughs darkly and shakes his head. "Listen, man, if that happens, you're gonna have to be the one to kill me. Hermione could never do it."
vi. Surrender
Hold on
Just spinning around
Confetti falls to the ground
May these memories break our fall
Can you take a moment? Promise me this:
That you'll stand by me forever,
But if God forbid fate should step in
And force us into a goodbye,
If you have children some day,
When they point to the pictures,
Please tell them my name
Tell them how the crowds went wild,
Tell them how I hope they shine
Harry stares into the crackling Common Room fire; his eyes are itching for sleep but it's something he's completely unable to provide. He looks down at his hands resting on either armrest and notices his fingers – they're trembling, very slightly. Anyone other than the owner would never be able to notice such a faint movement. But there it was.
Now that he thinks of it, Harry reckons that his heart has a strange beat as well. It's not pounding, but it's – for lack of a much more desirable word – fluttering. It's just not quite right and that makes him anxious. Of course the anxiety makes him shake more rapidly, so he tries to take a deep breath. It's as if every cell in his body is still buzzing from the duel earlier that morning.
Yes, Voldemort is gone, but he requires a bit of time to adjust to what that means. He can't just flick his emotions off, even though it was that simple to wipe Voldemort from existence.
Just a flick of the wand and he was gone – using a spell, Harry recalls, that he very well knew in Second Year.
Harry raises his empty hand and closes his fingers around an invisible wand (his own is safely tucked into his pocket; he's not willing to put any more physical distance between him and his weapon – not yet, anyway). He mimes a flicking motion and whispers "Expelliarmus," feeling altogether ridiculous.
"Not murdering any other dark wizards today, are you?" Ginny's voice is timid and empty of any humor the sentence may have called for in another time.
Harry jumps up from his seat and turns to the Common Room door – he hadn't even heard it open, but she's standing in front of it with her arms crossed and cheeks stained with tears. He thinks that he sees her lips twitch into a possible smile, but if he'd blinked he would have missed it.
She takes a shaking breath, looking as if she may collapse. She tries to speak, but instead just gives Harry a look that says she can't.
"Ginny –" Harry starts; it's a good thing when she closes the distance between them by hauling herself across the Common Room and into his arms – he had had absolutely nothing else to say.
Short, trembling breaths. Shaking sobs. Nails digging into his back.
Falling back into the couch. Ginny in his arms. Crying, crying, crying.
Her lips on his neck. Her lips on his lips. Her hands through his hair.
Her sobs. Her first words since the greeting minutes ago: "I can't," repeated over and over and over – so many times over that he cannot make sense of them; they lose their meaning and collapse into groans, which collapse into sobs. And she collapses into him, and her lips don't touch his skin again. He just holds her and she just wails.
And he thinks that he's the only thing breaking her fall, and he thinks he's okay with that.
In fact, he's more than okay with it. He knows he doesn't want to do anything, anything at all, but keep her from falling. He rocks her slowly as she turns her face into his neck – he grits his teeth and dares himself to cry. Just do it; do it and you'll see what happens. Because he won't allow himself to cry (he might never stop), even though Ginny's sobs are one of the most engrossingly depressing things he's ever heard.
He is suddenly struck with thoughts of the Chamber and the Diary and Ginny's voice so faint that he was sure she would die before he got them the hell out of there. And though he was young, he knew he would have to save her and he would. And he did.
The truth is, Ginny is one of the strongest people he has ever met and maybe that's why it hurts all the more to be holding her as she falls apart.
Then, rather abruptly, he resurfaces from the depths of his mind and realizes the silence.
He feels her slow, deep breaths against his neck. Of more importance is what he doesn't hear: sobs.
He leans back against the couch and closes his eyes. He dreams about a time when the memory of this day will not hurt as much as it heals. He thinks about standing with Ginny, their hands clasped, telling stories about how they both fought and survived.
Perhaps he's chasing a dream; perhaps he's tempting fate by letting his mind run free with euphoric images of a life not completely within his grasp. Feeling the cynic inside of him rip through his chest, he wonders if he's being foolish by even believing Ginny will want to stay with him forever.
But as Harry holds Ginny in his arms and tries to match his breathing to hers, he cannot imagine a future without her. And maybe it's wishful thinking and maybe it's simply what he needs to tell himself to fall asleep.
And he accepts that, whole-heartedly. But it doesn't make it any less possible.
Long live the walls we crashed through
I had the time of my life with you
Long, long live the walls we crashed through
How the kingdom lights shined just for me and you
I was screaming, "Long live all the magic we made
And bring on all the pretenders
I'm not afraid."
Singing, "Long live all the mountains we moved,
I had the time of my life fighting dragons with you
Long, long live the look on your face
And bring on all the pretenders
One day we will be remembered."