The key to living well and good
Is doing as you must and should
Is seeing all that you may see
Is knowing all that is - ought be.
_My Blood Is Ink_ by Terry Aniston
The Choice
He wanted to recoil at the touch as the slim finger touched his forehead again, but he couldn't move.an awful picture, like a child's nightmare, had painted itself across his eyes and he was blind for it.
His own hand, extended and finger pointing - pointing and Ron and Hermione and Ginny and Remus - his lips moving, saying Take them, because they cannot do what I can. Damning his soul and killing his own friends. A sacrifice, Voldemort had said.
But there was another voice, another image trying to overcome the other. It was an image of Sirius holding the wand, and the look in his eyes shining pride and hope and honor. Hope because he knew that Harry could defeat the Dark Lord.
The images vanished and he was again staring at Voldemort, who was in turn staring at his own finger. Harry's blood was there - red and contrasting - and as he watched, Voldemort sniffed the blood, and then brought his finger to his forehead. Like a toddler making a finger-painting, he smeared the blood on his forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt.
Harry stared at the Dark Lord for a moment. Voldemort didn't seem to notice him for a moment, but then he turned his eyes to Harry and smiled, almost curiously, and for a split second there was no rage or hatred or derision in those eyes, there was only a sort of surveying acknowledgement. And then he threw his head back and began to laugh.
Harry shuddered, unable to so much as blink, just watching this being. Suddenly, in front of his eyes was no longer a hideous killer. All in an instant, he had become a sixteen-year-old boy with the same dark hair as he had - no more and no less than Harry Potter was or could be.
Harry felt his fingers curl around his wand, feeling life again, breathing, feeling the very obvious heartbeat in his chest. And he pointed the wand at Voldemort, and uttered one word into his puzzled and suddenly comprehending horrified face,
"IObliviate./I"
***** A.N. Ha! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Now just in spite of everything I'm convinced perhaps I should end it there.
What do you think? Feedback, my people! I am writing this for YOU! YOU are the true lord of the dance, no matter what those idiots at work say. YOU are the people who matter. Yes, I have a plan, but what do YOU think? Now my pinky is telling me it's time to stop capitalizing 'you' so I'm going to go. Goodbye, and feedback is a necessity! Oh, and did you like that Aniston poem? She rocks, she really does. Has anyone read her book?
_My Blood Is Ink_ by Terry Aniston
The Choice
He wanted to recoil at the touch as the slim finger touched his forehead again, but he couldn't move.an awful picture, like a child's nightmare, had painted itself across his eyes and he was blind for it.
His own hand, extended and finger pointing - pointing and Ron and Hermione and Ginny and Remus - his lips moving, saying Take them, because they cannot do what I can. Damning his soul and killing his own friends. A sacrifice, Voldemort had said.
But there was another voice, another image trying to overcome the other. It was an image of Sirius holding the wand, and the look in his eyes shining pride and hope and honor. Hope because he knew that Harry could defeat the Dark Lord.
The images vanished and he was again staring at Voldemort, who was in turn staring at his own finger. Harry's blood was there - red and contrasting - and as he watched, Voldemort sniffed the blood, and then brought his finger to his forehead. Like a toddler making a finger-painting, he smeared the blood on his forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt.
Harry stared at the Dark Lord for a moment. Voldemort didn't seem to notice him for a moment, but then he turned his eyes to Harry and smiled, almost curiously, and for a split second there was no rage or hatred or derision in those eyes, there was only a sort of surveying acknowledgement. And then he threw his head back and began to laugh.
Harry shuddered, unable to so much as blink, just watching this being. Suddenly, in front of his eyes was no longer a hideous killer. All in an instant, he had become a sixteen-year-old boy with the same dark hair as he had - no more and no less than Harry Potter was or could be.
Harry felt his fingers curl around his wand, feeling life again, breathing, feeling the very obvious heartbeat in his chest. And he pointed the wand at Voldemort, and uttered one word into his puzzled and suddenly comprehending horrified face,
"IObliviate./I"
***** A.N. Ha! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Now just in spite of everything I'm convinced perhaps I should end it there.
What do you think? Feedback, my people! I am writing this for YOU! YOU are the true lord of the dance, no matter what those idiots at work say. YOU are the people who matter. Yes, I have a plan, but what do YOU think? Now my pinky is telling me it's time to stop capitalizing 'you' so I'm going to go. Goodbye, and feedback is a necessity! Oh, and did you like that Aniston poem? She rocks, she really does. Has anyone read her book?