The third winter

Is it possible to forget?

Spring has arrived and blossoms bloomed, summer melted last remnants of memories, autumn leaves fell and covered what should be covered, but with winter all cold thoughts came back and though I'm trying I cannot get rid of them.

It's been more than three years since our last meeting. Three winters that remind me who you were and who I never will be.

At first sight not much has changed - the world I knew hardly differs from the one that surrounds me now. And yet I cannot find my place in it; I run away from people and wander around Muggle London at night, suspiciously often ending at your threshold and wondering how it all makes sense.

I thought that if I reach the one and only goal that I didn't even set myself, but that you have set, choosing me for an opponent many years ago, I will finally be at peace. I wanted to live like everyone else, wanted to have friends, job, family, and finally my own house. I didn't plan to do anything unusual. I didn't wanted greater fame, or awards, or achievements. I dreamed of a place where I could rest and be myself, and when I found out that I can finally make it all happen, I also realized that I don't know exactly who I am, what I am.

For a moment I even thought that it may all work out – that I will fulfill the dream that I dreamed for years. You were gone, so what could possibly stand in my way? For so many years I chased after you, I forgot who can be – and who is - the worst enemy of every man. I beat myself; I gave up and closed myself in the middle of my own mind, and although this is theoretically such a limited space, the enormity of pain, fear and loneliness that fills it slowly crumbled me, with every winter more and more.

It was all supposed to look so different, so beautiful - all my plans could come true. Initially I even naively thought that it will be so. Once the battle dust settled and wounds, at least those outside ones, had time to heal, nothing stood in the way to start doing what I wanted to do. After all being an Auror was my dream, wasn't it? I passed the test with not much problem, because everyone still treated me like someone special; not every day you get a chance to examine the Chosen One, right? Aurors office, though clearly thinner after the last, desperate attack of the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters, quickly gained new strength. There were many who wanted to rebuild the wizarding world and managed to do it, but not for all this new world turned out to be the promised land.

When has it started to getting worse? I don't know. Perhaps from the very beginning there was something wrong. Maybe only after you left, I realized this. After all, it is hard to think about such things, when someone stubbornly tries to kill you, your friends, and hundreds of innocent people. Maybe it's some kind of a genetic defect, but I would rather blame my childhood. It seemed to me that I finally forget how sad, cold and alone I was, when I lived on Privet Drive. However, then at least no one was trying to put my fate in check of some prophecy or tasks not only my knowledge and ability were not enough for, but which also stood against human understanding. Who can be so irresponsible to put a teenager - in addition burdened by a trauma - in face of challenges inadequate even for adult and powerful wizards?

Strangely enough, almost no one ever pitied me. Almost, because in the eyes of Mrs. Weasley and Hermione, and before them Remus too, I happened to see grief. As if for a long time they were asking themselves the question that started bothering me only after you were gone - why is it still happening to him and how much can he exactly bear? It's true that I didn't wish for pity, because I thought of it as a sign of my own weakness; doesn't it remind you of someone?

Somebody decided for me - I liked to repeat it to myself and I belived it for a very long time. You made me The Boy Who Lived. Dumbledore made me a warrior. Newspapers have called me a freak first and then The Chosen One. And I stood in the middle of it all and did what was necessary, never actually wondering if it has to be done this way, whether it's the only way. Was the prophecy true? It doesn't matter, because you made it become true. You connected us.

I cannot find a place in this world where there is no you, because as a result of an unfortunate accident we became a strange duet. Who is the Boy Who Lived, if there is no one who wants to kill him? And who is the Chosen One, when there is no role for him to play? I ask myself these questions more and more frequently, but the answer to them probably doesn't exist. Maybe if I had thought about it before, when you were still here, I would be able to find a solution. I never really tried to come up with another way. You had to die, it seemed to be the only proper way, I don't even know why.

I wander aimlessly around London; it's snowing harder. My hands are freezing, I forget to take gloves with me again. Legs themselves lead me and I know exactly where I am. Orphanage, which once stood here, was demolished long ago, and yet I come here almost every night, though even the pavement is not the same that you were walking on. I don't know what I'm looking here for. Consolation, memories, sense? I only know that now I understand better what you needed and why you did what you did. I'm neither trying to judge nor excuse you. There are no easy answers.

Today I'm here for the last time, at least for a while. I'm getting out of here, hoping that another place can change what is in me, even though I know that probably even a trip to the interior of the earth won't melt the ice, which cut down my heart.

I'm cold; not empty or dark, just cold. When the summer sun warms my face, it seems to me that there is hope and that I'm there, somewhere deep inside, maybe with a glass shard in my heart, but still able to recover; but on the threshold of autumn, I feel that nothing is going to melt the ice. It cuts me to pieces, slowly but steadily. Cuts me off from people who were close to me. They're trying to reach me, like a boat trying to swim to an island on a winter calm sea. The island turns out to be an iceberg thought and brings destruction upon brave sailors.

I really tried. After all Ron and Hermione supported me in all circumstances, it was the same with Ginny. I loved her. And yet I hurt them all, I don't even know when. I tried to tell them what was going on; that I'm turning into ice from the inside, but they couldn't understand. They wanted to, I saw it, but they couldn't. Sometimes I think that only you would understand. There was a shard of glass stuck in your heart too.

Although it's hard for me to admit it, I know what - or rather who - I'm missing. I miss you, no matter in what form - the Dark Lord, a boy from the orphanage, memory from Tom Riddle's diary. I feel like I missed something important; something went wrong, as it shouldn't. I don't know whether I blame myself now, because I feel I finally undestand you at least partially, or maybe I feel that now you're gone, I'm not the same person anymore. I only know that if I don't do something soon, I will only hurt myself and everyone near me more.

I decided to make one last attempt. If it doesn't work, I'll probably go for the final step and quietly part with this world. Maybe it can free me from this cold.

I went back to school. I asked for permission and got it. Hermione warned me that scrambling scars is not a good idea, when a man is on the edge of falling to pieces. How could I tell her that none of my wounds had time to heal? I went back to look for answers. The third winter, since you're gone - it will perhaps be my last one, if I won't find a solution.

Everything is as it used to, though completely wrong. My bed in no longer in the Gryffindor Tower, I'm sleeping in the teacher's wing. At the table I see only few familiar faces.

Neville greeted me so warmly, as if we were seeing each other every day. He's one of those people who came paradoxically well from the war. It allowed him to discover his own potential; courage, which was missing in many. I can see the reflection of my former self in him and suddenly I feel sick. How did I change that much? I'm overcome by a wave of panic and longing for who I was, but then the ice returns. Neville won't help me get rid of it, I'm sure.

I went back to try something. The idea seems crazy and the probability of success is close to zero, but the remnants of the old me which still stand up against the cold are not afraid to take the risk. If this last hope fails, I'm sure that everything will end for me.

I'm standing in front of a wall on the seventh floor and wonder what to ask for. What is my wish? Do I want to get help? Do I want to get the answer? Do I want to meet you?

Before I decide on a particular thought, I can already see door in the wall. I push it and see the echanted room. It's dark on the outside, the moon shines through the high windows in empty room, and my footsteps echo hollowly against the walls. Just as I suspected, it failed.

"What are you doing here?" The well-known voice pulls me out of my reverie.

I turn around and there you are. You look just as in the diary. Leaning on the window you look at me without any particular emotion on your face. But I can see now that there is ice in your heart too.

"Is it really that hard to answer my question?" I hear your irritated tone and I cannot help smiling a litte.

You really are here.

"I don't know how you called me here, but I suspect that this is not entirely your work." You begin to speak, as always belittling my skills. This time it really amuses me. "What did I do to deserve this meeting? Am I supposed to be your spirit of Christmas?"

"Spirit of Christmas?" I asked confused.

"Perhaps you wish me to remind you what the tragic fate befalls those who succumb to the cold thoughts." You turn around and look out the window at the snow-strewn meadows. "Those who walk with a glass shard in their hearts."

"Where did it come from?" I ask, powerless against your indifference. "Why? After you left, everything should change, everything should be fine... at last." I'm shouting now, feeling the emotions that were stifled upon these three winter finally escape to the surface.

You are silent for some time and I'm starting to wonder if you actually know answers to these questions. Maybe you are just as helpless as I am.

Finally you speak and the tone of your voice shakes my heart:

"Do you really think it's my fault, Harry?" You say my name for the first time as if you were close with me. "Haven't you ever thought that maybe that's not exactly my doing?" You pause for a moment, as if searching for words to express your thoughts and then you say slowly: "Believe me, I'm not saying that I didn't hurt you. I know this story well enough. Actually I feel some regret that it ended this way. Do you think that's what I wanted? Destruction of Hogwarts with a bunch of fanatics? It was never what I wanted."

I don't answer right away, this time trying to grasp the meaning.

You start to walk from wall to wall, and from time to time moonlight illuminates your face. There's something new in it, something I haven't seen before. Some new understanding.

And again, it's you who interrupt the silence:

"If I only knew sooner that you are a Horcrux, Harry." I can hear your voice dropping, because none of us have enough power to change the course of time and history, in which we both took part. "You would be my dearest friend. Not my possesion, not my partner, just my friend. Who else could be it, when you were a part of my soul? We could be each other's life and immortality. If I only for a moment I wasn't so blinded by fear caused by that stupid prophecy..."

"But I haven't tried to understan you even once!" I interrupt you, because I feel that I can no longer hold it all inside. "If I looked at you like at a human being, which you were after all... We were so similar and when I realized, it was too late."

"We were?" You smile. "We are still the same. My fate could be yours, if you only wanted to. You have a little more Gryffindor courage, therefore you're still trying to fight the cold that's taking control over you. But you could give up just like me. And if I had a little more faith in my own value, I wouldn't need a new name or anything it was carrying."

I have a feeling that someone finally put all my fears into words, so painfully straight explaining what bothers me. And I feel safe, because someone finally understands.

"You still haven't told me what you're doing here." You're talking again, this time looking at me almost with concern.

"It's so cold." Only whisper escapes my mouth and I feel that finally, for the first time in years, someone knows what I mean.

You don't say anything – you just come to me and reach out for me. I still can shudder at the memory of what these hands have done - killed my parents, Cedric, killed me. And I think that's why only those hands can make me warm again.

I take a step forward and you embrace me. Tears flow down my cheeks, but I'mn not sure, whether they mean pain, sadness or something else.

The ice in my heart melted and I feel that I'm Harry Potter again, that impetuous boy with Firebolt, who cannot invite a girl to the prom, but who's able to conjure a deer-patronus.

I can see light under my closed eyelids. The rising sun warms my face.

"Don't go." Now I'm holding you tight, as if it could negate time and death. Yet I feel that your heart beats. Why can't I stop you here?

You caress my back, but you also know that it won't last much longer. Not this place. Not this time.

I feel your warm breath. Winter is over.

AN: Well, it was a Christmas story at first, but I had some personal stuff going on, so I only had a chance to translate it today (actually it's all because of Krysania, you're my favourite reader ever!). It's so much harder to translate something I wrote in Polish to English then the other way; probably next time I should write in English first like when I was writing Forget me not... I haven't written anything in such narration in years, but I hope you can still enjoy it. Probably you know it, but the glass shard idea is taken from Christan Andersen's Snow queen and spirit of Christmas is a figure from Charles Dickens' Christmas tale. It's also funny how in English winter is over sounds like A song of ice and fire paraphrase, I must say I like it a lot. Have a happy winter nonetheless!