Title: In Memory I

Author: Becka

Interlude: Of Fairytales

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From the time I was a baby, my father told me bedtime stories about the Boy-Who-Lived. I once asked him when he started, and he confided that he whispered them to me in my crib.

My earliest memory was of one such story. I couldn't have been more than four or five, and I don't remember what happened that day. But I do remember my father's strong arms around me as he carried me to my bed. I remember the smell of his clothing, cypress and musk, and his velvet laughter as he tucked me snugly beneath my sheets.

And his smile, warm and full of pride, when I asked him to tell me a bedtime story.

His voice, soft, gentle, wove me the most marvelous tale about a boy with bright, green eyes.

I remember my father's shoulders, wide and sturdy beneath his robes, and the way that they filled my vision when I was too tired to keep my eyes open, but his story followed me to my dreams. And it began, as all fairytales do, with the words, "Once upon a time."

"Once upon a time," my father said to me, "there was a vast land known as the Broken Kingdom. A beautiful land filled with marvelous things. The Broken Kingdom had a king who was a fair man, a just man, a man full of ideals and the will to see them through."

His voice dropped low then, as he said, "But there was a curse upon the kingdom, an ancient curse, a terrible curse – the Broken Kingdom could only be ruled by a Broken King."

With the shadows of the torches flickering eerily across my walls, dancing with the moonlight that shone through my window, my father's eyes flashed.

"The man was one of many men who hoped to break this curse," he murmured, thoughtful, introspective, "And for a time, he succeeded. He remained true."

"Time, power, the curse," he said, sadly, regretful, "they broke the man. The man became the Broken King."

"What did he do, daddy?" I remember asking, and when he looked at me, I saw tears in his eyes. I'd never seen my father cry before, and I've only seen him cry once since.

"Terrible things," he said, and his voice caught in his throat, and his eyes... his eyes were blank. He looked lost, and old, and so very tired. "Terrible things."

After awhile, he came back to himself, and he said, "For years the Broken King ruled, and the people were afraid, but no one could do anything at all. All who fought were killed, because he was so powerful. And then one day, three travelers came from far away who knew nothing of the Broken Kingdom. A mother, a father, and a baby boy."

"The father and mother saw the state of the Broken Kingdom, saw the horrors, and they went to the king and they said, 'Why?' And the Broken King looked at them and he said, 'Because I can,' and he laughed as he killed them."

My father's voice was no longer strong, but he continued to speak even as the words splintered in his throat. "The king looked down and saw that the mother still held her child in her arms, and the child looked up with the greenest eyes anyone had ever seen. His parents were dead, but he did not cry. And the Broken King looked down at the child, and he raised his hand, and everyone who watched thought the boy would be killed."

My father took a deep, shuddering breath, and he said, "But the king stilled his hand. It wasn't that he couldn't kill a child, because he'd killed countless children before. But he looked into the eyes of that boy, and the boy looked back, and maybe it's because the boy was truly innocent, or maybe there was some shred of decency left inside the man that the curse couldn't touch, but the Broken King was no more. The boy became the Boy-Who-Lived."

"Is that what really happened?" I remember asking, confused, wondering.

"No," my father answered sadly. "But it's what I like to think."

And every night thereafter, my father told me that story, and as the years went by, the Broken King became the Dark Lord, and the Boy-Who-Lived became Harry Potter. And somehow Harry Potter became Harry, and in my dreams I saw him.

My father's voice lulled me each night, into the arms of the Sandman, and I dreamed of a boy who was so innocent that evil could not bear to touch him.

All my life, my father told me these stories.

To this day, reporters ask me how I could possibly love Harry Potter.

And to the end of time, I will answer them, "How could I not?"

Draco Malfoy, age 19

Excerpt from In Memory I

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