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SIYE Time:13:56 on 28th March 2024
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This is How the Old World Falls Away
By Rae Vertudez

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Category: Post-OotP
Characters:Harry/Ginny, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley
Genres: Angst, Drama
Warnings: Death, Violence, Extreme Language
Story is Complete
Rating: PG-13
Reviews: 31
Summary: And so the old adage is true: love conquers all.
Hitcount: Story Total: 5256







ChapterPrinter


Author’s Note: Thank you to Eunice, my beta, my friend, my Harry Potter fanfiction trading partner.






You first notice her eyes.

During your fifth year--the year of dissipated crushes--you lock gazes with each other often. She’s more comfortable in your presence now, no longer under the spell of a silly schoolgirl infatuation. She’s not afraid to tell you off for being a complete prat, nor does she listen to your orders for her to stay behind while you go off to play the part of The Boy Who Lived. She’s got spunk, that one, and it shines in her eyes. There’s fire in them when she stubbornly refuses to be treated as Ron’s little sister, there’s laughter as she witnesses Luna’s dazed speech and behavior, there’s mischief as you all covertly make plans for the D.A. She shares secret jokes with you with these eyes of hers.

More notably, she shares comfort and warmth with them. Sirius’ dark eyes, though they shined a bit in the presence of his godson, were overwhelmed with grief and the sense that they had seen enough pain and misery to last several lifetimes. Hermione’s are fraught with constant anxiety and worry, and Ron’s--though they have a good dose of Weasley mischief in them for most of the time--hold a faint yet growing sadness. A sadness you cannot really put into words, but you suspect it has something to do with a quickly deteriorating childhood and time of innocence. Which you blame yourself for, of course, so your heart aches slightly every time you catch that glint of sorrow.

Ginny’s bright brown eyes, however, put you at ease. This is important, for your fifth year was also the year you lost your last chance at a proper family behind a mysterious veil.

When you find yourself at Number 12, Grimmauld Place for the latter part of the following summer, you are surrounded by sympathetic faces and hushed voices. You want to scream. You want to tell them all to piss off and leave you alone because you bloody well know now more than ever that the biggest mistake you could ever make is to care about someone so they all should just go the fuck away. You don’t want to be the Boy Who Lived anymore.

You want to die.

But you see Ginny, and there is not sympathy in her expression, but empathy. Though she has not witnessed the destruction brought about by Voldemort that others have, she literally knows firsthand how he can slither into your soul and drown it with emptiness and helplessness. She knows what it’s like to be a pawn in some senseless game of death and destruction. She knows what it’s like to blame yourself for events you had absolutely no control over.

When she looks at you with those unguarded eyes of hers, she knows you.

And your heart lifts a little.

And you know you have to keep on fighting.





Ginny makes it onto the Quidditch Team as a Chaser, and it’s no surprise to anyone, what with the splendid flying skills she displayed last year as an emergency Seeker and a family legacy of House players. Though she is a definite asset to the team, there are drawbacks. For instance, Ron’s overprotective nature comes out full-force.

“Jack Jenkins, that pervy git,” you hear him say to the youngest Weasley after one particular match. “He felt you up when he was trying to get the Quaffle from you. Next time, Ginny, don’t be such a lady and just knock him off his broom. Give him a good kick in the crotch if you can manage it.”

Hermione rolls her eyes and shoots him an exasperated expression. “I don’t know much about Quidditch, Ron, but I daresay that might be against the rules of the sport.”

“And what if I don’t mind Jack Jenkins all that much?” Ginny adds with an impish grin.

WHAT?” he explodes, much to the amusement of the rest of you.

Another disadvantage to Ginny’s presence is how distracting it can be. Not that you fancy your best mate’s baby sister or anything. You don’t, and you can’t. It’s her hair that’s the distraction, to be frank. It’s not the bright and garish red of her brothers, but rather a more subtle yet still vivid auburn. It quite brilliant to see something resembling a golden stream of fire zoom towards the goals. So brilliant, in fact, that a Bludger almost knocks into you during a practice session as you stare at the ginger blaze.

“Oy, Potter, get your head in back in the game!” Andrew hollers after he hits the iron ball away from you. It’s a bit embarrassing, really, since you’re the captain and the one who’s supposed to do the hollering. But you shrug it off and attempt to focus again on finding the Snitch.

You and Ginny spend a lot of time together, especially with her being on the team and Ron and Hermione’s growing responsibilities as prefects. “I’d much rather stay here with you, honestly, but I have to go babysit the midgets,” Ron groans from time to time, mostly to make you feel better about being the odd man out in the trio. But you don’t mind so much anymore, particularly because you how much Ron secretly enjoys the golden role. And also because Ginny keeps you company.

You play Exploding Snap and Wizard chess, which is truly more enjoyable when you actually have a chance at checkmating your opponent. You devise plays and maneuvers for Quidditch, most of them outlandish and thought up just for the fun of it. You talk about various things, and sometimes you even tell her about your nightmares of those hours in the Department of Mysteries. Sometimes she tells you about the bad dreams she still has of being possessed by He Who Shall Not Be Named.

You share jokes and you discover her wicked sense of humor. “I think we should charm their mouths shut so we can get a moment’s peace ‘round here,” you say to her as Hermione and Ron have another row about Merlin-knows-what.

“I think we should lock them in a closet and let them have a go at it,” Ginny giggles.

You have a running bet as to when your two friends will snog already.

You enjoy these times where it’s just the two of you talking about important things or just pure rubbish.

On Christmas Day at Grimmauld Place, you and her are sitting before the fire while the others are scattered about the house. She’s sharing what she’s read so far in Witches and Quidditch, a gift from Hermione, but you are only half-listening during this particular conversation. Not because what she is relaying to you is dull, but because the firelight has the most splendid effect on her hair, softly highlighting her long red mane and casting a sort of golden aura around her head and shoulders.

At one point, she leans in slightly to emphasize a statement and a strand of hair falls loose and swings in front of her face. Without thinking, your hand reaches out and sweeps the disobedient strand back behind her ear. She’s startled by the gesture and goes a bit pink for a moment. But she quickly recovers with a small smile and returns to her story with only the slightest stutter. You respond with a shy grin, and your heart beats a tad faster than usual.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Remus in the doorway with a strange expression on his face. Before you can properly greet him, however, he turns and walks away.





Your conversations with Ginny are a source of much-needed comfort and lightheartedness. Your sixth year noticeably lacks the usual death threats and heroics, but there is still the ever-lurking, impending sense of doom. Dumbledore believes that Voldemort is slowly and quietly devising a strategy and gathering the support and materials he needs for a battle to end all battles. Every day that goes by without so much as a pinch of pain from your scar or visions from the viewpoint of the Dark Lord, your shoulders become a tad tenser and thoughts about hunting the bastard down yourself increase. Tonks, who has taken up residency at Hogwarts as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor, tries to get you to work out your aggression in private tutorials, during which you can take your anger out on unwanted creatures discovered in the nooks and crannies of the school. But these lessons aimed at perfecting your curses and countercurses only make the urge to fight even stronger.

Even a Valentine’s Day with butterbeer and friends instead of over-perfumed tea shops and crying Ravenclaws, frequent visits to Hagrid’s hut, another Quidditch Cup win under your belt, and regular trips into Hogsmeade don’t seem to sufficiently lift your spirits.

“Oh, Harry, please do try to enjoy yourself,” Hermione, of all people, says to you on one particular journey into town.

Ron nods, acknowledging a rare moment of agreement between them. “Really, mate, I know this is the quiet before the blizzard and all, but we should have some fun while we can.”

“The calm before the storm, Ron,” Hermione corrects him, and they begin to launch into another verbal spar.

But one night in early June, you wake up with a start, your head overwhelmed with most intense pain your scar has ever induced. You hear loud laughter in your mind, a sick, horrible-sounding mirth that makes you want to vomit. You cry out in agony. You try to rise from your bed, only to stumble to the floor and black out.

When you regain consciousness, all you can say to the headmaster is, “He’s happy,” your voice shaking with anger and disgust all the while.

You are then informed that Professor Trelawny has been missing since yesterday evening. He tries to reassure you that the Order is doing all they can to recover her.

“It’s beginning again, isn’t it?” you ask in a hoarse whisper, not needing him to give you an answer.

Your answer comes in the form of Sybill Trelawney’s dead body lying on the steps before the entryway of the castle.

You are walking with Neville towards the dormitory when you first hear the screams. You run together down several moving flights of stairs; once you are outside, you push past several students, immobile and staring in horror at what lays before them. You see young girls in hysterics. You see older boys with a mixture of shock, revulsion, and fear on their faces. You see Hermione sobbing into Ron’s shoulder and the redhead boy dazedly trying to soothe her.

You see Professor Trelawney, her skin as pale as a ghost, her glasses askew, her eyes frozen in a terrified stare. On her tattered periwinkle robes are six words written in blood.

THE FULL PROPHECY HAS BEEN REVEALED.

The world stops for a second.

Suddenly, you hear Ron’s voice boom out among the clamor, “Everyone inside! Come on now!” Bodies begin to move away, but you remain rooted to your spot even when Dumbledore and the rest of the staff rush out to take control of the situation.

You see Ginny standing a few feet away from you, also refusing to budge. Like several of the girls she is crying, but her tears are ones of anger and hate. With her long, fiery hair waving in the wind and her mouth set in a grim line, she resembles a woman warrior about to set off on a mission of a vengeance.

You catch her eye and the two of you share a knowing look.

It’s beginning again.





You are in trouble. And not just in the usual Voldemort-has-returned, the-time-has-come-to-save-the-day fashion. It’s the sort of trouble a normal teenage boy, Muggle or not, finds himself in.

You return to Privet Drive for the loneliest summer of your life. Your uncle, aunt, and cousin--now that they know that they should dare not harm you in their usual Dursley manner and risk the wrath of “those people”--have decided to ignore your presence altogether and leave you up to your own devices. So now you can move around the house as you please, with only the occasional glare and grunt of disapproval. You do not miss their scathing remarks or shrill orders, but you miss some acknowledgement of your existence.

You get regular owls from Hermione and Ron, and though they let you in on as much as they know as stealthily as possible, the letters do little to fill the void. Those from Ginny, however, do brighten your days a bit. Often they’ll only have one or two lines, such as, “The twins visited today and Ron made the mistake of eating a candy lying around in the kitchen. Mum is trying to get his head to properly face the front again as I write this.”

Every time Hedwig elegantly flies into your bedroom with a new post from Ginny, she gives you a meaningful look. “Quiet, you. We’re just friends,” you insist.

But as times slowly goes by, even you don’t believe these words.

You miss all of your friends, but you miss Ginny terribly. You miss how she can put you at ease with her jokes and conversation, how you can laugh with her over Ron and Hermione’s fumbled romance, and how she knows when to leave you alone and when to yell at you for being a wanker and “such a boy.” You miss how she sometimes links your arm with hers companionably as you walk through the corridors together.

Other than your nightmares of Voldemort and Deatheaters and all sorts of wonderful things, you have lovely dreams of a lovely girl with lovely eyes and lovely hair and a lovely smile and lovely… girl-parts.

The night after another lonesome birthday, you wake up from one particularly intense Ginny dream and admit out loud to no one in particular that perhaps you do fancy your best mate’s baby sister. And then you try to smother yourself with your own pillow.

You spend a lot of the summer trying not to think of her, yet thinking of her anyway. For what seems to be the eight-hundredth time, you desperately wish that Sirius were here. He’d be able to give you advice about this sort of thing. He’d be able to help with everything else as well.

Several members of the Order come by one night to retrieve you and bring you to Grimmauld Place for the final week of the summer. Darkness enshrouding you and cold air prickling your skin as you fly towards the destination, you’re a bundle of nerves. By the time Mad-eye Moody is finally convinced that it is safe to descend--or, rather, when the other travelers are so irritated with his paranoid antics that he finally gives in to their frosty complaints--you have thoroughly convinced yourself that whatever romantic notions you have of Ginny Weasley are a result of missing her physical presence in your life and the hormones of a seventeen-year-old boy.

But after you’re attacked with smothering hugs and hearty pounds on the back from Mrs. Weasley, Hermione, Ron, and a few of the older Weasley brothers, Ginny suddenly appears before you and envelops you in a warm embrace. She is silky hair and soft skin and the scent of cinnamon cookies.

Your breath catches and you realize again that yes, you are in trouble.





You decide that Ginny has the nicest smile you’ve ever seen. It’s the perfect blend of sweetness and wickedness, of innocence and impishness, and you don’t know why you’ve never noticed this until recently. Then again, her smile has never made your stomach do somersaults before.

Her lips are also rather nice.

Ugh. You tosser. You bleedin’ idiot. You’re staring at Ginny Weasley’s lips when your destiny’s ‘round the corner and it’s literally “do or die.” When plenty of her brothers are around and are likely to rip you apart or tease you mercilessly if they catch you ogling her. When Hermione is here and she can easily figure out why you’re such moody prat whenever Ginny’s not in close proximity. Because she’s not exactly dim or anything.

But you can’t help it.

And you also begin to think that perhaps Ginny never gave up on you after all. The way she grins a little wider when the smile is directed at you, the way she holds your gaze a little longer than necessary. The way how one night during dinner she leans in close enough for your shoulders to brush slightly as you talk to her about your plans for the Quidditch team this year. You hope nobody notices this subtle yet intimate moment, and how an uncharacteristic blush has swept across your cheeks.

But you feel someone’s gaze on you and you spy Remus at the other end of the table, looking in your direction. He’s watching the two of you, his tired-looking eyes betraying a wistfulness that confuses you. That is, until you notice that his mouth is twisted into a small, sad, nostalgic smile.

It is then that it dawns on you that you and Ginny remind him of another raven-haired boy and redhead girl, who perhaps also sat quite closely together and whispered as if they were sharing the secrets of the world.

And your stomach unsettles.

You resolve to put an end to something that never really began.

You begin to avoid Ginny. Not completely avoid her, only situations where it’s likely that it’s just going to be the two of you. This is not exactly difficult, considering the Black family home is full of summer occupants and is often overrun with visitors. It’s even easier at Hogwarts where it’s damn impossible to find the time and place for a private moment. But it doesn’t take her long to notice that you’re frequently steering clear of her. It comes to a point when she pulls you into an empty classroom and confronts you, her voice irritated, angry, hurt. She demands to know why suddenly you can’t stand to be around her.

You want to confess everything, but instead you lie to her and tell her that you’re just busy. You have to captain the Quidditch team. You have to bury yourself in books and prepare for your N.E.W.T.s You have to spend more time with Ron and get your friendship back to how it was now that he no longer has prefect duties. You have additional, exhausting private lessons in D.A.D.A. and Occlumency. You have to prepare for an inevitable battle. You simply do not have enough time for everything and everyone.

She doesn’t believe you, and storms out when you refuse to give any other explanation.

Weeks go by, and her anger slowly gives way to sorrow. She doesn’t mope around the castle; that’s not in her nature. She goes on with her life, but whenever you cross paths she greets you with a solemnity that stings your own heart. It pains you to know that you are causing her sadness, but doesn’t she see that you’re doing this for her?

Hermione eventually takes you aside one afternoon and tries to talk to you about it, but you give her the exact same list of reasons, putting extra emphasis on your N.E.W.T.s studies. She doesn’t believe you either, but she also gives up trying to pry out a proper response. Mostly because you divert attention away from yourself by asking her why her lips look so swollen, making the Head Girl mumble a half-arsed explanation and run off to Advanced Arithmancy twenty minutes early.

More weeks pass, and you immerse yourself in school texts and private studies. Rumors begin to swirl about mysterious Muggle deaths and wizard disappearances and their supposed connections to Voldemort. Though no report is backed up with anything substantial, anxiety and fear build with each new tale, and soon curfews and safety rules for the wizarding community are established. Classes, however, go on and you are still able find diversion in Quidditch, thought you expect at any moment for it to be cancelled.

After one particularly smashing match against Slytherin, festivities are thrown in the common room. Although your opposing team was missing Malfoy and other key players--several students in that particular house had not returned for this school year, for reasons you can very well guess--a victory against a rival is always something to be celebrated, especially in times such as these. Your fellow Gryffindors mingle with each other, laughing with and teasing one another, drinking hot butterbeer and loads of sweets that seem to have mysteriously apparated onto the tables, momentarily forgetting weekend homework assignments and petty quarrels. You can’t help but absorb some of the mirth as you sit near the fire and chat with Hermione and Ron. But occasionally your eyes wander over to a gleeful Ginny several feet away and you feel the familiar pangs of pain and loneliness.

Your other dormmates remain in the common room, highly engrossed in a tournament of Exploding Snap, as you and Ron tiredly head up to the room. About ten minutes after you both have settled into your beds, he calls out from his side of the quarters, “Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Whatever’s happening with you and Ginny right now… if it’s… if it’s because you’re worried about what I’ll think…” He stops for a moment as if contemplating the best thing to say next. “Well, don’t be.”

“What?” is all you can reply.

Rather than repeating or clarifying what he’s just said to you, he continues, “I don’t care. I mean, I do care, but not nearly as much if it were some other bloke and not you.”

You take a moment for what he is telling you to sink in, and another to think about how to respond. A million thoughts run through your mind, but it is difficult to reach out and grasp one that is suitable enough to explain your feelings. Finally, you say quietly, “It’s not about you.”

Several seconds of silence pass before Ron replies solemnly, “I figured as much.” He doesn’t say more than that, and you’re grateful to him for it. Because as thick as he can be sometimes, he knows when not to press you any further and when to leave things alone.

You decide that since you’re already having a sort of serious talk between mates, this would be a good opportunity to ask the question that’s been pestering you for about a month now.

“Ron?”

“Hm?”

“How long have you and Hermione been snogging?”

Another moment of quiet fills the room. Although you can’t see him, you know his face is turning almost red enough to match his hair and you can’t help but snicker.

“Sod off, Harry,” he says with some annoyance, but you can detect suppressed delight in his tone.

“Night, Ronniekins,” you say teasingly.

“Good night, you tosser.”

You hear his sheets rustle for a bit until soft snoring indicates his slumber. You, on the other hand, are still wide-awake, envying his ability to fall asleep so easily and thinking about what he’s said. Thinking about everything, really.

And so another restless night begins.





Your last Hogwarts Christmas is not a quiet one. Many of the students are spending the holidays in the castle, though not for a pleasant reason like a yuletide ball. Several parents have decided that in this time of great anxiety and panic, their offspring are safest on the well-protected grounds under Dumbledore’s watchful eye. The students do not complain about being separated from their family for very long, however, for the headmaster has ensured that the castle be festooned with every decoration and ornament possible and that extra time and effort be put into already delicious meals. Snowball battles are organized and Honeydukes chocolates are given out to the most creative snow sculptures. When night falls, people huddle together near the fire and play long game tournaments and craft holiday cards to owl to their loved ones. In short, every measure to make Hogwarts a shelter from a storm--both literally and metaphorically speaking--is taken.

Ron and Hermione are more comfortable in their status as a couple now, often holding hands in the corridors and even sneaking in quick kisses every now and then when they think no one is looking. They continue to bicker, but with less intensity, and they forgive and forget much more quickly. But perhaps the most notable change you notice is the change in their demeanors. Ron seems less awkward and a bit more self-confident, while Hermione has lost much of the fretfulness that seems to constantly plague her. Funny how with just the simple act of acknowledging their feelings for one another, they seem more comfortable with themselves.

They do their best, again, to not make you feel like an outsider. Yet, through no fault of their own, your sense of loneliness and discomfort only become more acute as you sit across from them in the common room on Christmas Eve. They’re not snogging, goods gods no, they’re not even holding hands or making eyes at each other. But their obvious happiness and the way their faces glow in the presence of one another make your heart grow heavy. You excuse yourself as discreetly possible and make your way through the portrait hole.

As you round a corner of a corridor, you nearly run into Ginny. The near-contact sends a shiver down your spine and you restrain yourself from visibly expressing this. You mumble an apology and she gives you a ghost of a smile as you begin to move past each other.

But as you take another step, you find yourself walking into what feels like a very hard, invisible wall. You glance at Ginny, who is also standing still, examining the nothingness before her with a bewildered expression.

“Why--” you start to ask, but suddenly her eyes look upward. You follow her gaze and see an obscenely large, glittery and gaudy bough of mistletoe.

“Oh, bloody hell,” she groans. “Snogging Sprigs.”

“What?”

“Enchanted mistletoe,” she explains in an exasperated tone. “New seasonal item in Fred and George’s store. I can’t believe someone brought one in here.” Usually Ginny is amused by her twin brothers’ antics and inventions, but she clearly finds no humor in this.

“So we have to kiss before we can pass through?” you realize out loud.

She nods, careful to keep her freckled face blank. You want to knock the twins’ heads together and then perform a variety of hexes on them. That, or give them hearty handshakes and thank them for their utter brilliance.

The two of you stand awkwardly with each other for what feels like an hour before she finally says, “Well, we should go and get it over with then,” the casualness of her tone not matching her obvious discomfort with the situation.

“Mm-hmm, yes,” is all you can say in return, your voice a few shades higher than usual.

You lean towards each other and your lips brush together ever so slightly and very quickly. Blushing furiously, the two of you try to pass through the invisible barriers again, but to no avail.

“Ho ho, there!” an obnoxiously cheery voice coming from the mistletoe calls down to you. “That wasn’t a proper kiss! Go on, give each other a nice one.”

You both glare at it vehemently. You’ve never wanted to cause so much harm to a plant before.

You and Ginny brush lips again, a few seconds longer this time, but this is still not satisfactory for the mistletoe from hell. “Oh my, even Professor Snape and Madam Pomfrey were more passionate than that.”

Your nose wrinkles and Ginny fails at suppressing a giggle. You look at her, laughter dancing in her eyes, and you can’t hold back your chortles. “I’m going to hex the hell out of Fred and George when I next see them,” she declares.

“So will I, for giving me that lovely image,” you say, sending her into another of giggles.

She looks so happy, so beautiful, so very Ginny, that you can’t help yourself any longer. You step closer to her and raise your hands from your sides to cup her face. Her skin feels smooth and velvety under your fingers. She blinks at you, startled by the sudden contact, but she says or does nothing to deter you from what you so desperately want to do. Instead, she slowly moves closer to you and wraps her slim arms around your waist, tilting her head slightly for easier access to her pink, plush-looking lips.

You discover that your lips move together in perfect harmony, that her hair feels like silk in your hands, that her lips are just as soft as you’ve imagined, that she makes nice little sounds when your tongue makes contact with hers. She tastes like Pumpkin Pasties and comfort and home. You wonder briefly what you taste like. Probably Chocolate Frogs and frustration and fear--

You break away from her embrace.

“Now that’s more like it,” the Snogging Springs says contentedly.

But the two of you pay no attention to these words. Your eyes have drifted down to the floor, concentrating on the patterns in the stone tiles, but you can sense the confusion and disappointment radiating from her. When you finally muster the courage to look at her, there’s so much sadness in her brown eyes that your heart aches with an intensity that makes you fear it will burst and shatter into a million pieces.

“I… I can’t do this,” you manage to choke out. “I want to do this… so much… but I can’t, Gin.”

For a moment, she looks torn between telling you off and saying that you bloody well can in typically Ginny Weasley fashion and running away in tears like the sixteen-year-old girl she sometimes isn’t allowed to be.

She settles for a sad yet firm nod, turning and walking away from you in a steady pace.

She understands you now. She always understands you.





Months pass, the snow melts, but the walls around your heart remain tall and erect. You’ve locked yourself in an emotional prison that neither Ron nor Hermione can break you out of, and loneliness and anguish settles around you like a thick fog over ocean waters. One day, as you step through the portrait hole and head towards your room, you spot Hermione and Ginny sitting near the fire, deep in conversation. You watch for a moment as the bushy-haired girl pleads with her younger friend--for what, you do not know--and Ginny shake her head, not wanting any part of it.

You leave before either of them has the chance to see you.

Sometime in early April, you begin to overhear snippets of gossip about Ginny and a boy from your year in Hufflepuff, and you refuse to let it affect you. Instead, you submerge yourself even further in your N.E.W.T.s studies, Occlumency lessons, and private D.A.D.A. training. Ron insists on accompanying you to the latter and learning what he can. Tonks is fine with us, delighted in fact, believing in strength in numbers; it’s you who needs the convincing.

“Friends ‘til the end, mate,” Ron says simply. And that’s that.

You and him spend countless hours in that old classroom, tightening up your cursing and countercursing. With Quidditch cancelled earlier that year, much to the surprise of no one, you both throw yourselves into the sessions. Tonks is impressed with the progress the two of you are making, and you can’t help but be stunned by and incredibly pleased with how quickly Ron has turned into a forced to be reckoned with. Hermione worries for you both, of course, but you can see the pride that flushes her face when you and Ron enter the darkened common room after a long evening of training.

For many nights, you lie awake in your bed, wondering where the last battle will take place. The Forbidden Forest is one obvious option with its endless expanse of dark, unexplored regions and myriad of mysterious creatures. You even think of the streets of Hogsmeade as the setting of a showdown, like in a Muggle western.

You never imagine it would take place within the walls of the building that you call home. Yes, one previous encounter with Tom Riddle did occur in the Chamber of Secrets, but that room was tucked away underneath the school, far away from the living.

You think, you believed, that castle cannot be touched by evil.

You are wrong.

The school is given little warning when Death Eaters and Dementors manage to infiltrate the grounds and make their way towards the haven on a hill. It is the early part of dinnertime, with the sun recently set and students scattered about the castle.

Luna is the one who first notices their advance. Precariously perched on the edge of the Ravenclaw tower and searching for the latest Quibbler creature in the sky with a pair of magical binoculars, the girl with the sixth sense instead catches sight of death approaching.

When she runs into Great Hall, her usual dreamy and vague demeanor is replaced with a panicked disposition. “They’re here, they’re here!” Luna screams out. All eyes are on her as the staff rushes toward the young witch and ask her to explain herself.

Hardly anyone believes her; Snape brushes her off as a “silly girl with a wild imagination.” But Dumbledore gives her the benefit of the doubt and disappears with Professor Flitwick to investigate her claim.

She is soon proven correct.

The terrified students are advised to go to their dormitories at once. Hermione and Ernie MacMillan frantically try to get those in the Great Hall out and on their way with as little fuss as possible. The staff is quickly dispersed with instructions, but when you approach Dumbledore, the wizard simply tells you, “We do not know what the night holds for us, but right now your place is not outside the castle.”

Anger and frustration overwhelms you at these words, but Ron, Ginny, and Neville pull you aside before you can explode at the headmaster’s disappearing figure. “There are kids everywhere, Harry,” Neville says worriedly. “What if people don’t make it back to their towers before… before…”

The four of you separate to quickly check the hiding places and snogging spots of the castle, Ron and Neville covering the first three floors while you and Ginny take the rest. You want to tell Ginny to leave this to you and to go to the common room, but you know it’s an argument you will lose and don’t even have time to have to begin with.

You manage to locate one couple, who are at first greatly annoyed at your intrusion but soon scurry off to their respective towers when you inform them of current events. Upon reaching the seventh floor landing, the sound of muffled crying draws you to the Room of Requirement.

You swing open the doors and step into another world.

You both light your wands with incantations of “Lumos!” and slowly walk inside, Ginny closely behind you. “Hello?” she calls out softly.

The crying you have heard before seems to have disappeared, but you and her continue to move cautiously into the front hall of what appears to be someone’s home. With no walls separating it and the living room, a large expanse of dark space lies before you. You peer at your surroundings. The room is simply furnished, yet appears comfortable and lived-in: there is a fireplace several feet away from you to the left that is adorned with framed pictures, a cozy-looking sofa and matching armchair sitting nearby, and a few toys littering the rectangular rug lying in between. A set of mostly empty, oak bookshelves stand against a wall between two open doorways. To your right, a staircase leads to a second floor.

“Is this a Muggle home?” Ginny asks, a bit amazed at what she is able to make out.

You nod, a bit in a daze. Although you cannot place where you are, your surroundings evoke a haunting and unsettling familiarity. You walk towards the fireplace to view the photographs.

When your eyes land on three very familiar faces, your heart stops.

“Ginny, get out of here, it’s a trap!” you shout.

The red-haired girl makes a run for the door, but a low, menacing voice utters Colloportus to seal it shut. You quickly call out Expelliarmus towards where you think the sound emerged. Nothing happens.

Expelliarmus!” the voice pronounces twice from the shadows, successfully forcing the wands out of your hands. A tall, hooded figure materializes from one of the doorways, and you hear a gasp from Ginny as his features become visible in the light of his wand. His pale, reptilian face and his large, crimson eyes are enough to make anyone horror-struck. “My my, what do they teach in school these days?” he sneers as he approaches closer.

You, however, refuse to be intimidated. “Let her go,” you say, your voice even and resolute. “This is between you and me.”

The scarlet slits narrow even more. “What? So Miss Weasley can go fetch help? That wouldn’t be wise.” He looks over at the trembling girl, and his thin lips grow into a sinister smile as he adds, “Besides, this will be more fun with an audience.”

Anger boils inside of you as the Dark Lord turns his attention back to you and continues, “It’s really quite a shame more people aren’t here to witness this great event. The defeat and death of the famous Harry Potter.” He pauses to emit a cold laugh. “I must say I’m going to enjoy this. Did you really think you would win? Against me.”

Through gritted teeth, you respond with as much venom you can muster, “If you’re really such a great and powerful wizard, Tom, then why I am still here?”

“That will change soon enough,” he snarls, raising his wand. “I wonder how you’ll die: stubbornly like your foolish father, or sniveling like your Mudblood mother?”

“You son of a bitch.”

The statement startles both of you, and you look over at Ginny. She is no longer shuddering with her back pressed against the wooden door. She now stands tall, hatefully staring at the man who has caused her and her family and friends so much anguish and turmoil.

“What did you say?” Voldemort demands.

“You. Son. Of. A. Bitch,” she pronounces each word with tremendous malice.

Ginny, what are you doing? you want to scream at her.

“You’re one to talk about Mudbloods,” she continues, each syllable making Voldemort more enraged. “Your whore of a mother shagged some Muggle who didn’t want anything to do with our world.”

As he inches closer to her, the light of his wand suddenly makes an object visible. Lying several feet in front and to the right of Ginny is your own wand, just waiting for it to be called to you.

She’s trying to distract him.

“It’s a good thing she died,” Ginny declares, not breaking eye contact with her adversary. “She was a disgrace to us all and didn’t deserve one more breath.”

Rage overwhelms his snake-like face and he raises his wand at her.

You know it would be foolish to risk your life without taking Voldemort’s first. You know that to destroy him or to be destroyed by him is your fate. You know that without you in the world and with him in power, no one you love stands a chance.

You know all of this, and yet you still run towards Ginny and throw yourself in front of her.

Your weight against her slim body pulls you both down to the floor as he pronounces the last sound of an Unforgivable Curse. Clutching her safely in your arms and your eyes tightly closed, you brace yourself for the pain that never comes.

For a second, brilliant green light bathes the two of you like a loving caress. But as quickly as it arrives it moves in the opposite direction.

A piercing scream fills your ears, and you pry open your eyes to witness a ghastly sight. Voldemort’s body now lies on the ground, but an unearthly form is being ripped from it, causing dark blood to stream onto the white, scaly skin and releasing the pungent stench of torn, rancid flesh. As the shape begins to ascend towards the ceiling, screaming in agony, you swiftly summon your wand and rise to your feet. You point it at the ghostly figure above you and open your mouth to call out the words that will seal you destiny.

Avada kedavra!” you cry out, the anger and torment of sixteen years pouring out of your soul and through eleven inches of holly towards its target.

Green light, more intense and blinding than before, emerges and the screams become more deafening and shrill. The walls and ground begin to shake violently, and the sky begins to fall.





You stare out of a large window of Dumbledore’s office, looking out onto the grasses that surround the lake and currently contain many of the students and their visiting families. Early in the morning, when news broke of the previous night’s events and the school’s triumph against Voldemort and his supporters, owls came in by the droves from parents demanding to know if their children were all right. Dumbledore quickly invited them all to Hogwarts to see for themselves and gave them instructions to various Portkeys. With classes cancelled for the day and families arriving by the dozens, an impromptu schoolwide picnic is held.

You search the crowds looking for heads of flaming red hair but see none, and you deduce that their owners must be in the hospital wing calling on their sister and daughter.

When Professor McGonagall found you and Ginny after the attack, you were huddled together on the floor among the rubble, skin scratched and bruised and robes dirtied and frayed, holding on to one another for dear life and determinedly looking away from the rotting corpse that lay several feet away. You were both far too terrified, too emotional, too exhausted to speak or move. When you finally brought your eyes up to view the doorway of the Room of Requirement, you were startled to see your usually composed and reserved professor struggling to hold back tears.

Ginny was whisked away to the infirmary to get some much-needed rest and to be shielded from the inevitable storm of questions from her peers. You, on the other hand, were led to the familiar entrance to Dumbledore’s tower and told to wait for him there. It was still night, with quite a few hours before the sunrise, so light shining from the fireplace and several candelabras cast the room in an eerie yet comforting glow. The various headmasters and headmistresses snoozed within their picture frames.

When the wise old wizard finally appeared and sat himself across from you in his desk chair, looking quite tired yet undeniably in good spirits, you were suddenly overwhelmed with how surreal the situation was. So many times in the past have the two of you met after some great trial, both hope and despair lingering in the air together as if they were born entwined, talking in relief about the past and uneasily about the future.

But now that the future has come and gone, you didn’t know what to feel.

Dumbledore first quickly recounted the night from his point of view, telling you how he and several of the staff managed to fend off the Death Eaters and Dementors decently enough until Remus and the rest of the Order arrived for a stronger defense, how the burst of green light and the ear-splitting screams from the castle made Voldemort’s supporters lose resolve, how eventually they were all contained and sent off to an unrevealed location to be “properly dealt with.”

When he finished his tale, he leaned forward slightly--putting his hands together and resting them on the surface of his claw-footed desk--and waited patiently for your account.

And so, in a hollow-sounding voice that even you did not recognize, you told him everything, the details flowing out of your mouth with such detachment it was almost as if you were listening to someone else giving the report. He listened attentively, keeping his face calm and serene. When you concluded your story, the room was filled with a heavy silence. You realized he was waiting for you to bring up a question to which--deep in your heart--you already knew the answer.

“Sir, how did…” You stumbled over your words, not sure to how it ask it. “When he performed the Killing Curse, we should have--I should have… Why didn’t I die?”

The corners of his mouth tugged upward slightly, and he took a deep breath before responding. “Can you recall what I said to you, after you had defeated Voldemort a second time, all those years ago? I told you that the one thing he could not understand was love. He never understood it, because he never received it. Not from his father, who refused to accept magic into his life. Not from his mother, who died before she could give it to him freely and unconditionally, as any mother would. Not from anyone in the orphanage, not from anyone in this school, because he was too proud take it from them. And so your mother’s love for her son shielded you from the pain he wanted to inflict.” A sad smile grew on the wizard’s face. “He also did not understand love because he never gave it. To truly comprehend its power, one must not only be its recipient, but its source.”

He stopped a moment to let these words wash over you, and then continued, “Your mother’s love saved you when you were a baby, but it was your love for Ginny that completed the circle and saved us all.”

You then asked him if you could spend the rest of the night in his office, explaining that you were not ready to face everyone. The weight of the world being lifted from your shoulders left you feeling empty, exhausted. The wizard nodded his consent and left you to attend to various matters, the primary one being the announcement of the final defeat of Voldemort. You were thankful to him for not leaving that burden to you. At his exit, Fawkes swiftly moved from his usual perch and landed onto the arm of your chair, as if he had been waiting for a considerable amount of time for the chance to do so.

“’lo, Fawkes,” you tiredly greeted the phoenix as he began to tend to your wounds with his magical tears. You fell into a deep, dreamless slumber as the powerful liquid soothed your skin.

You woke up to bright sunlight streaming into the room and the sounds of laughter and happy conversations. After rubbing sleep from your eyes and stretching out your limbs, you walked over to an open window and surveyed the merry scene in front of you.





Instead of walking down to the lake to join the fun, you find yourself drawn to the hospital wing. When you gently open the door of the infirmary and quietly step inside, you are surprised at how crowded the room is. At one end, the adults sit with one other, cheerfully chatting and exchanging jokes. Mr. Weasley sits on a stool with his arm around Mrs. Weasley, and the two appear engrossed in a jovial conversation with Hagrid and an exhausted-looking yet chipper Remus. Tonks stands nearby with the three eldest Weasley brothers as the twins gleefully display and explain their latest and greatest products for them. You are astonished to see Percy, but the shock quickly turns into satisfaction as you witness Bill throw an arm around his younger brother and Percy fail at suppressing an amused laugh at George and Fred’s merchandise. Lying on the bed closest to the window is Ginny, munching on Chocolate Frogs with Luna and Neville as they watch Ron and Hermione play a game of Wizard chess at the foot of her cot. Mad-eye Moody stands apart from all of the action and simply watches those around him, but you can’t help but notice that his usual paranoid twitches have been substituted with an unnervingly toothy grin.

You stand there in the doorway for a minute, watching all of them. Your family, you think to yourself. The emptiness you felt only minutes before is replaced with a warmth that extends from your heart to the tips of your toes and fingers.

Suddenly, Ginny looks up in your direction and soon other heads follow. Ignoring the pleas of her mother--“Ginny, Madam Pomfrey said you needed rest!”--she darts out of bed, runs over to where you stand, and unabashedly throws her arms around you. You release a breath you didn’t you realize you were holding in and let the scent of cinnamon cookies overwhelm you. You hold her closely to you, your head resting on top of her silky, auburn hair, her own head resting in hollow of your neck.

You feel everyone’s gaze on the two of you, and out of the corner of your eye you see Mrs. Weasley reaching for her husband’s handkerchief. But you only concentrate on Ginny in this moment. Your Ginny.

“All right?” you softly ask her.

Though you cannot see her face, you feel her smile against your skin. “Never better,” she whispers.

This is how the story ends, much like how it began: with a raven-haired boy and a red-head girl locked in a loving embrace, the universe falling into place with this simple, tender touch.

This is how the old world falls away, and a new one begins.


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