a/n: my last chapter for this story! Wow, this is so bizarre! So many thanks to everyone who has continued to read this story since it's conception and supported it through their reviews. I couldn't have done this without you. I'm leaving for college tomorrow, so I probably won't be updating any of my stories for some time. However, I will be working out the plot lines for a sequel to this story, if anyone is interested. Well, on we go!

Chapter 33: The Elements of Love

On a dark Halloween night, many families were busy with several things. Muggle children ran about in theatrical costumes, gathering candy. Petunia and Vernon Dursley were cooing over their son, Dudley, dressed in a bumblebee costume. Gretchen Mundie was applying her lipstick and adjusting the collar of her dark blue robes. Tonight was particularly special for her; after years of dancing around one another, she finally had a date with Sirius Black. A werewolf sat alone in his flat, staring moodily at the moon and dreaming of the wind and violet eyes. The owner of the violet eyes sat in her window at an undisclosed location, staring at the same moon. A particularly large family of redheads was handing their most recent addition, a little girl-surprisingly-by the name of Ginevra, to their oldest son. Magical parents were tucking their children into bed with tales of Halloweens past.

A ravaged house stood silently in the English countryside. It had a ghostly quality to it. A feeling of a cemetery. Hallowed ground. The door had been blown off its hinges. A family portrait sat over the fireplace, the smiling faces of a family burning. Fingernail marks climbed the wall up the stairs to the top floor. A body lay in front of another door, messy black hair blowing gently in the October wind. The nursery was brightly coloured, with pictures of times past and walls covered in quidditch logos and snitches. Scorch marks marked the hard wood floors. A crib that once was a beautifully carved cherry was crumbling into pieces in the corner. A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, unaware of the destruction around it. The pristine, deathly beautiful body of a mother lay near the crib. Her long auburn hair spread in a fan around her pale skin. Her lips were caressed in a soft smile.

The thin cry of a child broke the silence. A small boy, only a year old, clutched at his mother's hand. Blood had clotted at his forehead, hiding a cut that, if cleaned, would be in the shape of a lightening-bolt. The same emerald green eyes that had first intoxicated his father with his mother filled with tears.

Harry Potter would never truly remember his family. He would never remember his first birthday party, where Sirius gave him a ride as Padfoot. The party where his mother had scolded his father for buying him a toy broomstick. He would never remember, or feel again, the warmth of his mother's fire against his face, or bury his face in Prongs' soft coat of fur. He would be sentenced to a life of neglect and sadness for 10 years.

But he would always carry with him a feeling of love. The love his parents shared, and his mother gave him; the love that saved his life.

They protected him, comforted him, saved him, and died for him.

For these, as we all know, are the Elements of Love.