Chapter XV
Moksha
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. If I did, I would probably put him to use doing my housework for me and some stuff around the yard. It can come in real handy, owning someone who can transfigure grass clippings into cheesecake at your slightest whim.
Author's Note: Moksha (mohk-sha), n., from the Sanskrit mokṣa, meaning 'release, liberation'; 1. Spiritual salvation; bliss. 2. Freedom from the temporal, mundane mortal world of ordinary experience. 3. Nirvana; release from the endlessly repeating cycle of life, death and rebirth.
This is it. The final chapter of Time is the Fire. We're not quite done yet, though—the epilogue'll be posted in a day or two. After that, I suppose this story'll fade into quiet obscurity… though if you've been enjoying it, you can always add it to your Favorites list and help others find it. I've found tons of fantastic fics just by going through my reviewer's Favorites Lists, so don't think that it wouldn't help.
Is it wrong of me to take such sick, perverse pleasure in hearing from my reviewers that I've made them cry? 'Cause I do, Merlin help me, I really do…
Also, I've already started working out the plot of my next fic. The bad news? It's not a Harry/Hermione piece (Sorry!). The good news? It's a Severus/Lily piece, and I'm genuinely excited about the concept—it may have been just a tad obvious in the last chapter that I'm also a SS/LE shipper (for God's sake, the man used his dying breath to ask to stare into her eyes one last time… how could I NOT be a fan?). To the naysayers—I'm not expecting my writing style to change significantly, so you'll find more of the same goodness you've come to expect from Time is the Fire. If Sev/Lily isn't your cup of tea, no hard feelings, but if you're a fan of this story I'm hopeful you'll like my next one too.
And all that aside, I am a Harmony shipper all the way through, and I do of course hope to write more Harry/Hermione fics later on… I've just yet to be struck with a bolt of inspiration out of the blue. I've got high standards, and wouldn't post anything I wouldn't be willing to read, so you better believe that when I come up with my next idea, it'll be a good one.
Alright, enough of that. Let us step out into the night and pursue one last time that flighty temptress, adventure…
Soundtrack Note: The Face of Voldemort, from the Sorcerer's Stone soundtrack.
"Love vanquishes time. To lovers, a moment can be eternity, eternity can be the tick of a clock. Across the barriers of time and the ultimate destiny, love persists, for the home of the beloved, absent or present, is always in the mind and heart. Absence does not diminish love."
-Mary Parrish
She ran, heart pounding in her chest.
Dumbledore's office.
That's where he'd be. That's where he'd have to go, if he wanted to witness Snape's memories. He had to be there, had to, or she'd never find him in time.
He wasn't there, though. He wasn't there, and she wasn't going to be able to catch him. He'd already struck out for the forest, and she prayed to whatever god would listen that he'd somehow get delayed so that she'd stumble upon him on the way there and knock some sense into the thick, stubborn skull of his.
"Homenum Revelio!" she spat as she rounded another corner, running down the hallway at full speed. The spell rushed down the corridor, seeking ahead of her, but she saw nothing.
Harry wasn't here. She kept running, breath coming in short, sharp stabs. She was running out of time.
Less than fifteen minutes, now, until Voldemort's hour ran out. Less than fifteen minutes for Harry to sacrifice himself to save them all.
As if a life without him would be worth living.
She thought of the first time she'd ever met Harry as she ran down the Grand Staircase. Eleven years old, almost twelve, and on board the Hogwarts Express for the first time. She'd already performed a few simple charms at home, still entirely ignorant of what being a Muggleborn meant to the wider wizarding world. Bright and eager, burning with excitement and anticipation, thrilled to have discovered she was special, that there was a whole secret world out there that she would get to be a part of.
She'd babbled on nervously from the moment she first saw him. He was famous, after all. Even coming from a Muggle family, she'd known his name; he'd been in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century, and all the other kids on the train whispered his name like he was some kind of hero…
He was, of course. He was quite simply the most heroic man she'd ever met. He'd thrown himself at a mountain troll to save her, for Merlin's sake. He was a hero, all the way through.
And now he was going to die because of it.
"Neville!" she screamed as she ran into the boy at the base of the stairs. "Have you seen Harry?"
"Yeah, just a minute ago, what—"
"Where did he go?"
Neville was looking at her with wide eyes, a look of horrible realization crossing his features. "I don't—I'm not sure, he disappeared beneath that cloak of his…"
"What's going on?" called Ron, stepping out of the Great Hall. "Where's Harry?" he asked, as he caught sight of the look on Hermione's face.
"The snake…" Neville said, his voice barely a whisper. "He told me, that if I got the chance, I needed to kill the snake… what was he talking about?"
She was already running for the entrance, oblivious to the others following after her; she had to get to the forest, get to Harry, stop him, before it was too late…
"Hermione!" "Hermione, wait!" "Where is she going?"
She ignored them all as she charged across the grounds. No, no, it wasn't too late… she still had time… she could still make him see sense…
"Harry Potter is dead."
She froze.
The voice seemed to come from everywhere, and nowhere, all at the same time, and it gave her chills down her spine. It was Voldemort's voice, magically amplified, and it could be heard across the entire grounds.
"He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone.
"The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman, or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together."
Her hands were trembling, and she became dimly aware of the others around her, Ron, and Neville, Ginny and Luna… Dean and Seamus, Professors McGonagall and Flitwick… and they were all staring at each other's faces, the stunned disbelief they saw in each other echoed in their own…
The air was growing colder, unnaturally cold, and she knew that there were still dementors out there, drawing closer, could feel them, feel the hope that she still clung to desperately beginning to slip away…
No. He wasn't dead. She didn't believe that for a second. Killed as he ran away? Even Voldemort couldn't think anyone would believe that one. No, it was a trick, just a trick, she could still stop him in time…
"Miss Granger, no!"
Never before had Hermione blown off Minerva McGonagall, but now was not the time to do as your teachers told you. She had to save him…
"Hermione!" The voice was Ron's, and it snapped at her with such ferocity that she slowed, just for a second, and in that second a powerful hand seized her by the shoulder and spun her around.
Ron stood over her, hand on her shoulder, keeping her from running further, and he was staring in the direction of the forest, the most terrible look in his eyes. That jarred her, for not even when Fred had died had he looked so… haunted.
Slowly she turned her head to follow his gaze.
Black robed figures were approaching, clad in gruesome silver masks. The Death Eaters paraded forward, triumphant, and leading the procession was Voldemort himself. They marched towards the castle, and as they drew closer to the growing crowd of the castle's defenders, they spread out, forming a line, at the center of which stood an enormous figure, carrying something in his arms…
"No…" she whispered. The dementors' chill was at its peak now, and she could scarcely move, for all the despair she felt run through her. Soon she would find herself back in Malfoy Manor, seeing him die again…
"NO!" The scream was the more terrible because no one had never expected or dreamed that Professor McGonagall could make such a sound.
A mad sort of cackling came from across the divide, and the sound sent shivers down Hermione's spine. Bellatrix Lestrange…
But she couldn't think about that right now. She had to know…
The enormous man was Hagrid, and he was sobbing. Sobbing, and holding a limp, lifeless figure in his arms... a boy, no, a man, with dark messy hair and the very same glasses she'd cast Reparo on in the Hogwarts Express…
"No!" cried Ron, disbelief and horrible, horrible loss coloring his voice.
It couldn't be, it couldn't be… It was a terrible illusion, caused by the dementors, she thought wildly, showing her the thing that would fill her with the most dread…
"No!"
It wasn't him, it wasn't him… Voldemort had Transfigured someone to look like him, that had to be the answer…
"Harry! HARRY!"
The figure did not move, and she could see his face clearly now. It was Harry.
Her scream was louder than any she'd let loose at Malfoy Manor.
Losing him was far worse than any Crucio. It was worse than torture.
It meant the death of her soul.
Her cry acted as a trigger; as one the crowd took up the cause, roaring and screaming and yelling abuse at the Death Eaters, until—
"SILENCE!" cried Voldemort, and there was a bang and a flash of bright light, and silence was forced upon them all. "It is over! Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!"
Ron pinned her arms behind her as she screamed noiselessly under Voldemort's Silencio, keeping her from vengefully casting the Killing Curse as Harry's body was gently lowered to the ground; the redhead was trying to protect her, keep her from getting herself killed, she knew, but none of that mattered anymore…
Harry was dead.
Nothing mattered anymore.
"You see?" said Voldemort, striding back and forth. "Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!"
"He beat you!" yelled Ron, and the charm broke, and the defenders of Hogwarts were shouting and screaming again until a second, more powerful bang extinguished their voices once more.
"He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds," said Voldemort, and there was relish in his voice for the lie, "killed while trying to save himself—"
But he broke off midstream. Neville had leapt from the crowd, flinging hexes; there was a shout, a bang and another flash of light, and Neville was disarmed by the Dark Lord himself, his wand tossed aside.
"And who is this?" asked Voldemort in his soft snake's hiss. "Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?"
Bellatrix gave a delighted laugh.
"It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?"
"Ah, yes, I remember," said Voldemort, looking down at Neville, who was struggling back to his feet, unarmed and unprotected, standing in the no-man's-land between the survivors and the Death Eaters. "But you are a pureblood, aren't you, my brave boy?" Voldemort asked Neville, who stood facing him, his empty hands curled in fists.
"So what if I am?" said Neville loudly.
"You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble stock. You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom."
"I'll join you when hell freezes over," said Neville. "Dumbledore's Army!" he shouted, and there was an answering cheer from the crowd, whom Voldemort's Silencing Charms seemed unable to hold.
"Very well," said Voldemort, and hearing his voice filled her with a seething, impossible rage. This was the monster who had murdered the man she had loved. "If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head," he said quietly, "be it."
Voldemort waved his wand. Seconds later, out of one of the castle's shattered windows, something that looked like a misshapen bird flew through the half light and landed in Voldemort's hand. He shook the mildewed object by its pointed end and it dangled, empty and ragged: the Sorting Hat.
"There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School," said Voldemort. "There will be no more Houses. The emblem, shield, and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won't they, Neville Longbottom?"
He pointed his wand at Neville, who grew rigid and still, then forced the hat onto Neville's head, so that it slipped down below his eyes. There were movements from the watching crowd in front of the castle, and as one, the Death Eaters raised their wands, holding the fighters of Hogwarts at bay.
"Neville here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me," said Voldemort, and with a flick of his wand, he caused the Sorting Hat to burst into flames.
Screams split the dawn, and Neville was aflame, rooted to the spot, unable to move, and Ron was no longer holding her back, for he was snarling and thrusting out with his own wand, and she raised hers too, desperate to prevent any more death…
It happened faster than she could have believed.
Grawp raged out of the forest, flinging himself at the nearest giant with a massive bellow to rival any dragon's roar. The centaurs attacked, their first volley unleashing fresh death in the midst of Voldemort's army; and in one swift, fluid motion, Neville broke free of the Body-Bind Curse upon him, the flaming hat fell off him and he drew from its depths something silver, with a glittering, rubied handle—
The slash of the silver blade could not be heard over the roar of the oncoming crowd or the sounds of the clashing giants or of the stampeding centaurs, and yet it seemed to draw every eye. With a single stroke Neville sliced off the great snake's head, which spun high into the air, gleaming in the light flooding from the entrance hall, and Voldemort's mouth was open in a scream of fury that nobody could hear, and the snake's body thudded to the ground at his feet—
Hexes and curses rocketed back and forth, counterjinxes blazing and crackling in the nighttime air; the dread pull of the dementors filling her ears with screams and cries of pain she vaguely understood were coming from within her, rather than the battle around her…
The centaurs charged, wounded wizards and witches fell and screamed, Ron unleashing curse after curse, striking at the oncoming Death Eaters with savage ferocity… and the tide of the battle surged against them, pushing them all back towards the castle, and terribly, dreadfully certain knowledge filled her, gave her one last mission, one last purpose in the life…
The snake was dead.
Voldemort's last Horcrux had been destroyed. The Dark Lord was mortal once more.
He was mortal once, and she would kill him. Kill him, the way he'd killed her love.
That was the thing about the Unforgivable Curses. You have to really mean them… She'd never thought herself capable of casting such a spell, it went against everything she stood for, everything she believed… But there were no doubts left within her anymore, nothing left within her anymore. Everything had been torn out of her, ripped from her, killed along with Harry.
She would kill him. Lord Voldemort would fall by her hand.
She gave no thought to what she would do afterwards; that would come later, if at all. She did not want to think about that, think about the grief she would endure once the lust for revenge had been sated… She did not want to picture Harry's corpse, cradled in her arms, did not want to have to endure that heartache before she had to…
A Death Eater lunged forward, jabbing his wand in Ron's direction, and casually she sliced off the man's hand with a Severing Charm. He howled in pain, but it was drowned out in the screams and explosive noise of the battle. She ignored it all, fighting the press of bodies, paying scarcely any attention as she found herself in the Great Hall, where the duels themselves properly began…
She remembered what Ron had told her, first year, and her face was set in a grim line. She would show the Dark Lord the enormity of his mistake. He had taken from her the only thing she'd needed, and she would make him pay the price before he died. He would learn. He would soon know to fear her.
He would fear her, because she was scary.
Brilliant, but scary.
Voldemort was already on the other side of the hall, wielding the foulest Dark Magic, no one able to stand against him. McGonagall tried, as did Slughorn, and Kingsley, but they were clearly out of their league. Hermione did not care. Did not care that witches and wizards ten times her skill could not stand against him, did not care that he clutched the Elder Wand between his bony fingers…
Not even the Elder Wand would stand against her wrath.
She surged past Ginny, who herself had just narrowly evaded a fatal jet of emerald destruction. Her eyes were locked on Voldemort, and raising her wand she screamed, the tears running down her face, the grief and fury and numbness crackling up and down her skin like little bolts of electricity. She took one last step forward, gathering her magic, staring straight at her foe, her eyes ablaze.
A cry came from behind her, triumphant and diabolical, the screeching laugh of Bellatrix Lestrange, and then she was struck from behind, a gust of wind and bright green light and she tumbled straight forward…
Her last thought before the darkness claimed her was the mournful realization that she would never even have the chance to look into Harry's eyes when she died.
"Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"
He lived.
He'd stood before Voldemort, stared him in the eye, felt the silent tension of the moment stretch on for a seeming eternity, the Dark Lord's wand pointed straight at him.
And when the curse had been cast, and he had fallen…
A miracle had happened.
He'd found himself in King's Cross Station, staring into the twinkling blue eyes of the man who'd planned his death.
And he'd forgiven him.
It was impossible to be angry with Dumbledore after seeing him like this; the man had seemed to radiate happiness like light, like fire: Harry had never seen the man so utterly, so palpably content.
After all his resentment towards the man, how odd it had been to sit there, beneath the high, vaulted ceiling, and defend Dumbledore from himself, when he had told him that he could not possibly despise him any more than he already despised himself.
Dumbledore explained to him the story of his sister's death, of his youthful mistakes, of his own death at the hands of Snape, and ultimately of his hopes for Harry's own sacrifice. He recalled the night Voldemort had returned, and the flash of something like triumph he had seen in the Headmaster's eyes when he had told him that the Dark Lord had used his blood in the resurrection ritual.
Finally, he understood. The connection between the two went both ways. While the Dark Lord's unintended Horcrux existed in him, Voldemort could not die; but while his own blood flowed through the Dark Lord's veins, neither could he.
And so Dumbledore presented him with a choice: he could move on, board a train and pass on into the great beyond, or he could return to the world of the living. Return to her.
Rise again.
They'd made Hagrid carry him. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, to not give his friend any reassurances, any signs that he still lived, to endure the half-giants sobs and feel his hot tears rain down upon him.
Their cries were more awful than anything he would ever have believed. McGonagall, Ron, Ginny…
And then he heard her scream, her voice like nothing he had never before heard emitted from another human being. Despair and disbelief, loss and agony and the death of hope. He could not bear to let it continue, needed to cry out to her, to reassure her he still lived, but he forced himself to lie still, silently awaiting the right moment. Soon it would be all over.
He had felt magnificent awe at the onslaught of the Centaurs, at Grawp's fearless charge into the fray. And he had never been more proud of another Gryffindor in his life when Neville summoned Godric's sword and severed the head of Nagini, destroying the last Horcrux.
He made his move.
Chaos reigned. Death Eaters were everywhere, and from beneath the cloak he cast jinx after jinx wherever he saw them, the defenders of the castle fighting with such terrible urgency that whatever little aid he could give was washed out in the sheer onslaught of their spells. He was buffeted into the Great Hall by the press of bodies, humbled by Kreacher's rallying cry, the castle House Elves being urged onward in his name. Yaxley was slammed to the floor by George and Lee Jordan, Dolohov fell with a scream at Flitwick's hands, Walden Macnair was thrown across the room by Hagrid and slid unconscious to the ground. Ron and Neville brought down Fenrir Greyback, Aberforth Dumbledore Stunned Rookwood, Arthur and Percy Weasley floored Thicknesse, and Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy ran through the crowd, not even attempting to fight, screaming for their son.
He had witnessed Voldemort dueling McGonagall, Slughorn and Kingsley all at once, none of them able to match him.
And just when he was about to make his way into the center of it all, to duel the Dark Lord and finish it all for good, he saw her, cutting past Ginny, Luna and Mrs. Weasley.
Tears streaked down her red face, shaken and contorted by so many different raging emotions that it was a wonder it hadn't cracked: bereavement, anguish, raw, impossible fury…
He had seen no fear there, and to his horror she charged straight for the Dark Lord.
She screamed, and raised her wand, and was struck in the back by a jet of green light by Bellatrix Lestrange.
She fell. She died.
His howl was of such fierce grief that it overpowered the sounds of everything else, and the battle froze, as everyone tried to identify its source.
He cast no spell, focused on nothing in particular except the blinding red haze of vengeance he craved; he merely felt an overpowering desire to see the bitch die, and the Elder Wand was torn out of his Voldemort's grasp and flung into his own.
He thrust it out at Bellatrix, but to his shock she was nowhere to be seen. He craned his neck over the crowd, peered through the shocked figures of the petrified battle, staring at him in awe, his cloak fallen to the floor, forgotten. He did not understand…
Bellatrix Lestrange lay dead, her face fixed in a victorious sneer. Her corpse was immaculate, no more battered or bloodied than he had seen her appear when she'd still drawn breath in the Forbidden Forest.
She'd been struck with the Killing Curse, then.
His vengeance denied him, he whirled around to face Voldemort, who was staring at him in shock and horror. There was no witty banter, no final dialogue between foes. He did not gloat, or insult the villain. A quick stab with the Hallow and a flash of green and it was all over. The aftermath was filled with stunned silence and incredulous looks.
He had won.
He had won, but he had been denied his prize. He had won, but he had lost her.
They were staring at him, all familiar faces in the crowd, but he no longer gave a damn about any of them… didn't care about George, or Ginny, or Luna, or Hagrid, felt nothing when he saw any of them… he'd never feel anything ever again…
"H-Harry?"
Her voice rang out in the stillness like a bell.
Slowly, shakily, Hermione stood up, staring at him with the most bewildered expression.
He stared back, mouth agape. Her eyes… Merlin, those eyes… they bewitched him, held him in her thrall, bore into him with the most fiery intensity he had ever seen… Alien, unreadable, frightening, forceful.
He could live off of the intensity in those eyes, knew that that intensity would be all either of them would ever need again, because he knew that she must be seeing the same thing in him at that very moment.
And then she was in his arms, and they were wrapped around each other, his lips upon hers, and she dipped beneath him as he leaned into the kiss, and though he still did not understand how any of this is possible it certainly seemed good enough for the crowd, for the tumult broke around them as the screams and the cheers and the roars of the watchers rent the air.
The kiss ended, in time, though the roar of the victors did not; and suddenly they were swarmed, a thousand arms all reaching for them to pat them on the back or squeeze their arms or tussle their hair, a thousand jubilant calls and grateful words of thanks spilling out of their mouths…
He held her hand in his, squeezed it tight, afraid to let go, certain he would never ever be able to do such a thing again. She was solid in his grasp, solid and real. She was real, and she was alive.
She was alive, even though she'd been struck by the Killing Curse.
It came to him instantly.
"If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn't realize that love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign… to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good."
She had been marked. She had been protected. She had been struck with the Killing Curse, and it had rebounded upon her murderer, leaving Bellatrix Lestrange dead and unmourned on the floor of the Great Hall.
But how?
He realized that he really didn't care. Puzzling out the answer could wait for later. Right now, he just wanted to breathe in her presence.
Gradually the tide ended, the first golden rays of the dawn piercing the shattered glass windows of the Hall, and the place blazed with life and light, their cries of glee and victory still ringing in his ears, the roar of their celebration making the place come alive again.
And she stood at his side, her tearful smile filling him with a warmth like a thousand bottles of Felix Felicis…
They all demanded some of his attention, wanted him there, to direct them, or to give a speech of some kind, or simply to grace them with his presence, remain there as a symbol of leadership and salvation, or some other such rot.
He had other plans.
Squeezing Hermione's hand tightly in his own, he pulled her along with him and strolled out towards the doors. Hand in hand they walked to the Grand Staircase, the crowd trailing out of the Hall after them, but not daring to follow any further. Looking back over his shoulder as they began to climb the first steps, he saw Ginny looking up at them, tears in her eyes, a wounded look on her face; a pang went through him, and he knew he would talk to her, tomorrow, sit her down and try to explain… but now was not the time.
Ron stood next to his sister, his expression betraying some of his envy but his relief that it was all over and his adoration for his friends overwhelming it. Smiles gracing both their faces, Harry and Hermione both inclined their heads at him in invitation, and he hurried after them as they began the climb. He accepted Harry's outstretched fingers, and holding hands the three set off for the Headmaster's office, leaving everything else behind.
Somewhere in the distance they could hear Peeves zooming through the corridors singing a victory song of his own composition:
We did it, we bashed them, wee Potter's the one,
And Voldy's gone moldy, so now let's have fun!
"Really gives a feeling for the scope and tragedy of the thing, doesn't it?" said Ron, pushing open a door to let Harry and Hermione through.
In silence the three passed through the muted hallways, the portraits on the walls staring at them, whispering amongst themselves and running ahead through the frames to keep up with them.
Since he had last seen it, the gargoyle guarding the entrance to the headmaster's study had been knocked aside; it stood lopsided, looking a little punch-drunk, and Harry wondered whether it would be able to distinguish passwords anymore.
"Can we go up?" he asked the gargoyle.
"Feel free," groaned the statue.
They clambered over him and onto the spiral stone staircase that moved slowly upward like an escalator. Harry pushed open the door at the top.
He had one, brief glimpse of the stone Pensieve on the desk where he had left it, and then an earsplitting noise made him cry out, thinking of curses and returning Death Eaters and the rebirth of Voldemort—
But it was applause. All around the walls, the headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts were giving him a standing ovation; they waved their hats and in some cases their wigs, they reached through their frames to grip each other's hands; they danced up and down on the chairs in which they had been painted; Dilys Derwent sobbed unashamedly; Dexter Fortescue was waving his ear-trumpet; and Phineas Nigellus called, in his high, reedy voice, "And let it be noted that Slytherin House played its part! Let our contribution not be forgotten!"
But Harry had eyes only for the man who stood in the largest portrait directly behind the headmaster's chair. Tears were sliding down from behind the half-moon spectacles into the long silver beard, and the pride and the gratitude emanating from him filled Harry with the same balm as phoenix song.
His best friend on his left, the woman he loved on his right, looking up with joy at the kind old man he'd come to think of as a part of his own family…
It was all over. It was finished, and he was glad.
No. Not finished.
Just beginning.
He had the rest of his life to look forward to, and he knew exactly with whom he would be spending it.
