The Boy Who Loved
Harry wasn't sure how he had ended up there on the ground, gazing up at the tall figure standing over him. All he could remember of the past several minutes was a disconnected stream of images: a flick of Voldemort's wand, a river of purple light, his wand being ripped from his fingers by the force of the spell, and spots in his eyes as he was thrown ten feet into the air and dropped in a heap at Voldemort's feet.
Now, however, time was passing so slowly that Harry wasn't sure it hadn't stopped altogether. Not a single whisper passed among the circle of onlookers. The remaining Death Eaters and members of the Order alike had stopped fighting to watch the scene unfolding before them.
Voldemort alone dared make a sound, and the sound was a high, cold laughter – devoid of any real human emotion – that made Harry's heart sink. At length, the laughter died away and Voldemort raised his wand slightly so that its tip was pointed right at Harry's chest.
It's over, Harry thought, a dull weight of resignation settling into the very core of him, unless… Yes! There! Just as the words 'it's over' entered his exhausted mind, Harry's stomach leapt and fizzed with an excited happiness that was completely unrelated to anything he himself was feeling or thinking. It was a sensation that Harry hadn't experienced in two years, though he knew instantly what it meant. An idea began to take hold in his mind, helped along by the clear voice that filled his head.
"There is a room in the department of mysteries… a force at once more wonderful and more terrible than death… the force he detests… it mattered not that you could not close your mind. It was your heart that saved you."
Before the idea was even fully formed, Harry knew it could work. His heart twinged at the thought of his old mentor, and he distinctly saw Voldemort flinch unwittingly.
And Harry screwed up his eyes against the June sunlight and searched the corners of his mind for a sufficient memory while trying desperately not to lose his mental connection with Voldemort.
Harry Potter is eleven years old and, though he has only been at Hogwarts a short while, he feels he is finally home.
"So this piece is a Rook," says the redheaded boy with the long nose who sits across from him, "and it can move as many spaces as you want it to, but –"
"Only in a straight line!" interrupts the rook, "No diagonals." Harry laughs out loud. Magic still surprises him.
Ron goes on to explain the other pieces and Harry listens eagerly. He was never allowed to play any kinds of games with Dudley. Not that Dudley would ever have wanted to play chess.
At length, Ron concludes his lecture and smiles at Harry.
"It's great I've got a friend to play with me now," he says, "Ready to try a game?"
Harry nods, but he isn't thinking about chess. At the sound of the word 'friend', a strange warmth has filled his chest. It's only distantly familiar, as though he possibly felt it in another lifetime, and he doesn't understand it, but he knows that he doesn't want it to go away.
Voldemort's wand was still pointed down at Harry's chest, but the hand that held it, Harry noticed with grim pleasure, was trembling violently. Voldemort's already narrow eyes were narrowed even further and he was looking at Harry with something like confusion etched on his inhuman features.
"Reminiscing, Potter?" he asked coldly, though Harry could hear a brush of fear in his high voice. "Yes, go on. I suppose I can't begrudge you that."
As he spoke, his hand steadied. Harry felt, from a place buried in his subconscious, Voldemort starting to pull away. Frantically, he cast about for another memory.
Harry is older now, and his fourteen-year-old heart is heavier than it has been in a long time. His best friend hasn't spoken to him in weeks, and in a few days he will have to face a live dragon in front of the entire school.
"You've just got to concentrate, Harry," says Hermione. "And you've got to be sure. Just picture the book, picture it coming toward you, and know that it will. You can do this."
"Accio textbook," Harry says, and his copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Four, rises teasingly into the air and sails halfway across the room to him, then falls heavily to the floor. Harry groans in frustration. "I'll never get this," he says, "May as well just let the dragon do me in."
He expects Hermione to roll her eyes, retrieve the book, and insist that he try again. Instead, her eyes grow alarmingly bright and fill with tears.
"Hermione! Why –"
"That's not funny, Harry. I know you were kidding, but honestly." She wipes her eyes and looks squarely at him. "You're a great wizard, Harry, you know that. You've faced Voldemort twice. You ran off a hundred dementors with a single Patronus! You can beat a dragon. You have to! Now summon the bloody book!"
Harry isn't sure if it's her use of the word 'bloody', the way her voice rises in panic, or simply the look of desperation in her eye, but suddenly, unexplicably, he feels the warmth in his chest again. He's starting to understand it, he thinks. He trains his wand on the book, says the incantation and, as he watches the book soar into his open hand, he feels a renewed since of purpose.
Voldemort's wand hand was shaking again, even harder than before. Harry thought with a leap of hope that there was a shadow of fear in his red eyes.
"What are you up to, Potter?" he muttered, but Harry didn't spare time to give an answer. His next memory was ready, and he focused on it with all of his draining strength.
"I reckon Molly's right," Sirius says after a lengthy silence, peering anxiously at Harry through his dark hair, "I do forget how young you are. You just look so much like him."
They are sitting together in the drawing room of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, resting after a long day of cleaning.
"I don't mind!" Harry says eagerly, "Treat me as though I'm fifty if you like. I want to know everything. I want to be a part of it!"
Sirius laughs.
"It's that, right there. That's exactly what James would have said. Still, Molly has a point, as much as I hate to admit it. Mind, I don't think she's right for wanting to keep you in the dark. You're already involved as much as anyone. I say you should know as much as we can tell you."
"Exactly!" says Harry, thrilled that Sirius understands what he's feeling at last. "I wish Mrs. Weasley felt that way, too."
Sirius shrugs in a self-satisfied manner, but his eyes are soft and kind as he looks at his godson.
"You know, Harry, Molly and I might not exactly see eye-to-eye, but we do have one thing in common. We both just want what's best for you." He leaves it at that and leaves the room, muttering something about setting the table.
This time, Harry isn't surprised by the flood of liquid warmth and light that fills his heart.
Voldemort's wand hand dropped to his side and he took a step backward. The hand that wasn't struggling to hold onto his wand flew to his face, as though by keeping Harry from meeting his eyes, he could prevent further attack. Seizing the opportunity, Harry pushed himself to his feet and took a step forward, silently letting Voldemort know that it was Harry who was in control now.
"I know what you're trying to do. It will never work," Voldemort said, but his voice shook in agony, and Harry, undeterred, delved into a memory which – he realized – he was unconsciously saving for last.
The sun is just beginning to sink below the trees of the Forbidden Forest, and their shadows grow long across the grounds. Ginny shivers in the evening air.
"You ready to go inside?" Harry asks her. She smiles impishly at him.
"Not just yet."
"It's going to get cold soon. I wish I could remember the charm for that blue fire that Hermione always conjures," Harry muses.
"I think you'll find, Harry Potter, that there are other ways of keeping warm," Ginny giggles. Comprehension dawns on Harry, and he grins at her so that when she leans in, she kisses his teeth.
They break apart, laughing, and Harry relaxes back onto the cool grass. At length, their giggles die off and Ginny tries again. This time, her lips find his and Harry feels a bolt of electricity shoot through him, just as intense as it was that first time in the common room. The kiss deepens, and Harry is lost in it for many moments until the need for air sets in and he regretfully pulls away. He draws in several lungfuls of air, only to have his breath catch in his throat as Ginny's lips graze his ear and her voice buzzes through him.
"You're wonderful, Harry. I'm so glad you finally came around," she whispers.
Finally, Harry fully understands the feeling that spreads, not only through his chest, but all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes. He doesn't attach the word to it yet. Four letters seem impressively inadequate to define the scale of it.
Voldemort was on his knees. A couple Death Eaters rushed forward, but he raised his hands and waived them away frantically.
"Stay back!" he screamed. "Stay away."
Harry's mind reeled. Voldemort was weak, certainly, but it wasn't enough, and Harry didn't have another memory. He thought desperately, but couldn't find another memory where the feeling was as strong as the ones he had already used.
Love, Harry thought, grasping frantically at the thought of it. He tried to recall exactly the feeling of brilliant warmth flooding his body, but it was panic that filled his chest instead. Ron, Hermione, Sirius, the Weasleys, Dumbledore, Ginny, he went through all of their names in his head, but nothing took hold.
Voldemort struggled to his feet. Panting and shaking, he raised his wand toward Harry again.
"All out of memories, Potter?" he yelled furiously. His red eyes flashed with anger. "Very well. I won't pretend that didn't hurt," He looked down at his hand, opening and closing his fingers around his wand. "But it ends here, Potter. Avada – "
The final memory came out of nowhere.
Baby Harry is cradled in his mother's arms and he can feel the beat of her heart from where he lies nestled against her breast. She's afraid, but Harry is not. He's safe.
From a distance, Harry hears the words 'Avada Kedavra', followed by a dull thud. His mother gasps, clutches him more even more tightly, and runs toward the source of the sound. Harry hears more sounds that he doesn't understand: the thundering of footsteps, a high-pitched, cruel voice, then his mother's own voice, which vibrates through her chest. Even though she sounds panicked, the sound of her voice is music to Harry.
"Avada Kedavra," he hears again, and for a moment he is surrounded by green light – though he of course doesn't know the word 'green' yet – then he falls a few feet as his mother crumples. But the feeling that fills his body is not the terrified tingle of falling. Instead, he's surrounded by a warmth that is simultaneously strong and soft, powerful and gentle, fierce and unassuming.
Harry is unaware of the red eyes that bore into his as he lies, helpless, on the stairs. He doesn't see the green light that arcs toward him, and he scarcely feels his forehead split open. The green light explodes outward in all directions, bringing the house down around him, but Harry doesn't notice. He is safe because he is loved.
The adult Harry knew it was over as soon as the memory dissolved into mental mist. Present-day Voldemort screamed shrilly in agony and Harry's scar ignited with white pain. He shut his eyes tight against the burning in his forehead, but opened them almost immediately as, from some hidden part of his mind, he registered gasps and yells coming from the circle of observers.
Silent now, Voldemort had raised a pale, long fingered hand and was staring at it, transfixed. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, his fingertips began to dissolve and blow away like white sand in a high wind. Faster and faster his hand disappeared; within a few moments, his entire arm was gone, evaporated, nothing.
It took only a minute before all living traces of the Dark Lord had gone, leaving only a pile of black robes and a long wand lying on the ground.
Years later, when Harry thought back on those chaotic moments following the fall of Voldemort, he didn't remember the few half-hearted jinxes that flew over the crowd before even the most loyal Death Eaters disapparated. He had no recollection of the insistent orders of the few Aurors who had actually paid heed to the disappearing Death Eaters. He couldn't even recall the cheers that rose as understanding passed through the crowd.
The pain in his scar disappears so suddenly and completely he may have imagined it in the first place. Dazed, barely daring to believe that the end has come at last, Harry looks over the crowd.
A few of the faces he sees are soaked with tears, some open with joyous smiles, but most display a seamless combination of the two. Neville Longbottom, who looks shocked, is standing beside Luna Lovegood, who looks completely unsurprised. As Harry watches, Luna turns toward Neville and pats him on the arm, smiling peacefully. Some distance to Neville's left, Mr. Weasley is kneeling beside a plump figure who is lying on the ground and bleeding from a cut in her leg, but she is breathing, moving, running a hand through her husband's hair. On the other side of the circle, near the banks of the lake, Fleur Delacoeur is kissing Bill's scarred face over and over, peppering his forehead, cheeks, chin and nose. Harry's eyes land on Hermione, who has fallen to her knees near the front of the crowd, and is holding one shaking hand over her eyes. A short way behind her, Ron is running full-speed, knocking people aside in his haste. He reaches her before long, and collapses to his own knees beside her. She lowers her hand, and for a moment they simply look at one another. Then they melt into each other's arms and fall back against the grass, showering one another with tears and laughter.
Harry feels something behind him - a whisper, a brush of energy - and he turns, feeling a momentary rush of panic that dissipates in a whirl when he sees the figure running toward him. Red hair streaks behind her as she runs, tears stream from her eyes, which blaze with determination and happiness. She says nothing as she reaches him and throws her arms around him, and Harry is lost in a sea of red, a flowery smell, and a flood of heat.