Back to the Start

By She's a Star

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JKR.

Author's Note: Ahhh, this here fic. I started it awhile ago, and it feels like something different for me for some reason. Could be because it's not romance-centric, which is definitely a rarity among my work. The idea randomly popped into my head, and I got quite interested in it. This takes place at the very end of 7th year, and there isn't much of any back story at all explaining what's happened since OotP. I did this deliberately; I wanted to focus more on the people in Harry's life and his relationships with them rather than a well-defined plot. I also tried to make my writing style more distinctly Rowling-esque for this – there's even, true to form, a random 'twelve' reference in this chapter. Let's see who can catch it. ;)

I think this'll turn out to be around five chapters. And . . . I've done enough rambling, haven't I?

I hope you like it. J (And I just know that's a J. Darn Ff.N and its manipulative ways. It's supposed to be a smiley, dangit!)

Nobody said it was easy.

No one ever said it would be this hard.

-'The Scientist' by Coldplay

One

            It all began with a prophecy.

            Which, come to think of it, wasn't anything new. Harry was getting a bit sick of them, actually. Every time a prophecy came along, it meant nothing but danger and destruction.

            And this time was no exception.

            This time, as a matter of fact, was something special – danger and destruction increased tenfold.

            Straight from the mouth of Professor Trelawney herself, Harry would face Lord Voldemort in two days' time, armed with all the power necessary to destroy him, and one of them would die. He supposed it was a bit considerate of her, to reinstate the prophecy he'd found out about in his fifth year – at least that way he could be sure that there wasn't a chance that both of them could come out of it completely unscathed. Or, well, dead.

            The odds, he supposed, seemed more or less in his favour, but he really did wish that the prophecy had at least gone so far as to mention which one would be doing the dying.

            Otherwise, it was quite nerve-racking, and not just for him. Every time Hermione looked at him, she appeared to be holding back tears. Ron wasn't making sarcastic comments nearly as often, and Ginny was strangely silent.

            Maybe he should have been more scared, he thought uneasily as he witnessed his friends' behaviour. Maybe it was unnatural that he wasn't.

            But sometimes it seemed like he had lost so much that it didn't matter if he lived or died.

            That was selfish, of course; his life wasn't the only one in jeopardy. The fate of the entire wizarding world was in his hands. And yet somehow he felt almost relaxed. Maybe it was because he had simply surpassed extreme panic a long time ago. It was hard to tell, now.

            He had the weapon – the spell devised by some of the world's best witches and wizards solely to destroy Voldemort. All he had to do was say the words and it would be done.

            Of course, he couldn't speak that aloud or he knew he'd be reprimanded.

            "Now, Potter," Professor McGonagall had said sternly after he had first found out about it, "this isn't merely . . . saying a few words. You have to truly feel the power – allow it to possess you, and mingle with your own strength, and then . . . well, it should work," she'd finished, rather lamely.

            It was nice to know that he inspired such confidence in everyone.

            "It's not that we don't think you can do this," Lupin had told him last week over butterbeer at The Three Broomsticks. "It's just that it's a big responsibility, and some very advanced magic. If you don't feel prepared, there's still time to find another way . . ."

            "I'm ready," Harry had cut in, feeling exasperated. It got a bit old, to hear day after day just how much everyone was sure you'd wind up mucking things up somehow.

            But now he wasn't entirely sure. In forty-eight hours, he would be facing Voldemort for the last time. Everything came down to then.

            He repeated the words of the spell inside his head over and over, not daring to speak them aloud for some reason. McGonagall had told him time and time again that they would only become active against Voldemort, but Harry thought it best to be cautious anyway. After all, if everything that had been put into that spell - the spell that Dumbledore had given his life for so that he, Harry, could beat Voldemort – somehow got wasted, they'd be defenseless.

            All of this was going through his mind while he sat in the library, doing a bit of last-minute studying for the N.E.W.T.'s. He didn't have to, according to his teachers. As Flitwick had so delicately put it, "We certainly understand if you have priorities which must be placed above schoolwork."

            Professor Snape hadn't been quite as sympathetic.

            "You will show up to my class and take your exam, Potter, or expect a failing grade."

            Some things never changed. Harry figured that he may as well make an attempt at getting a decent mark, as it had been a struggle to get into Snape's N.E.W.T. class to begin with. But when Professor McGonagall had declared two years ago that she would help him become an Auror if it was the last thing she did, she clearly hadn't been making idle proclamations.

            Not that any of it would matter at all if he didn't triumph over Voldemort in two days' time.

            He frowned, tried to banish the thought from his mind, and focused on page two hundred and forty-six of his Potions textbook.

            "I still can't believe Snape's making you take the exam," remarked Ron from where he sat across the table. "What with all you've got going on. Right mental, he is."

            "Ron," Hermione said composedly, "I'm sure that Snape has his reasons-"

            Ron fixed her with a very skeptical look.

            "All right," said Hermione shortly. "Fine. He's a complete prat."

            "That's more like it," Ron said with an approving nod.

            Hermione rolled her eyes and went back to her gigantic stack of History of Magic notes.

            Harry stared down at the page for a moment, but found he couldn't make any sense of the words on it. Deciding that Snape would simply have to live with the fact that Harry's top priority was not getting an O on his Potions exam, he slammed the book shut and stood up.

            Hermione and Ron both looked up at him, surprised. There was an underlying nervousness in their expressions, and Harry suspected that perhaps both of them half-expected him to go mental at any second.

            "I'm going out to the Quidditch pitch for a bit," he offered as an explanation, then gathered his things and left the library. He could hear Ron and Hermione murmuring quietly as he left.

            Go on, then, he thought, a bit bitterly. Keep muttering about how ickle Harry's not going to be able to defeat the Dark Lord.

            He began to increase his speed in an attempt to let off a bit of anger, and as a result slammed right into an oncoming student.

            "Sorry," he muttered brusquely, but stopped when he saw that it was Luna Lovegood he'd walked into.

            "That's perfectly all right," she replied, dreamily unaffected as always. "I expect you're a bit distracted because you'll be facing You Know Who so soon."

            Harry nodded, a bit awkwardly. He wasn't used to people speaking so openly on the subject, but he should have known that Luna would. She wasn't exactly one to beat around the bush.

            "I don't think you should worry," she continued airily. "After all, you've beat him before, and good always seems to win in the end. Have you seen the new edition of The Quibbler?"

            "No," Harry said.

            "Oh," she replied, unperturbed. "Well, Dad's put a little note in about you, and how you're sure to beat him. It's right after the exposé on Celestina Warbeck and Gilderoy Lockhart's secret wedding – a Peruvian Vipertooth performed the ceremony, did you know?"

            Harry shook his head, smiling a little. "I didn't know they could, actually."

            "Oh, yes," Luna said vaguely. "Well, bye then. Good luck."

            And she drifted off down the hall.

*

            It was warm outside, but the sun was completely absent. Perhaps it sensed the aura of foreboding that seemed to have surfaced lately, and decided it didn't want anything to do with what was to come. Harry, who glanced absently up at the sharp grey clouds, couldn't blame it.

            Clutching his Firebolt in his right hand, he neared the Quidditch pitch, which was, thankfully, empty. He didn't feel up to any encounters lately; not when everyone seemed to be staring at him in a mixture of awe and worry. It was strange that the entire school seemed to know about the prophecy in the first place. Secrets were never secrets for long at Hogwarts.

            Harry stared for a moment up at the Quidditch stands, and remembered the countless occasions where they had been filled with people, cheering for Gryffindor, for him. (Or booing, in the case of the Slytherins.) There wouldn't be any more Quidditch matches.

            He sighed, and was about to mount his broom when a sharp, scathing voice came from behind him.

            "Scared, are you, Potter?"

            Harry groaned and turned to face Draco Malfoy.

            "Annoyed, more like," he replied, deadpan. "Wonder why that is."

            "So you're finally going to defeat the Dark Lord," Malfoy said, scowling. "Of course. The precious prophecies all point to Harry Potter to end the war."

            "The war's not over, so long as scum like you are still around," Harry responded coldly.

            Malfoy glowered silently for a moment before saying, "I hope you do kill him."

            "What??" Harry asked, taken aback.

            Malfoy rolled his eyes and repeated, as though he were talking to a very young child, "I – hope – you – do – kill – him, Potter."

            "Why?" said Harry suspiciously.

            Malfoy laughed shortly. "The son of a bitch killed my parents." He paused. "Or have you forgotten that, Potter? I suppose they were too dark and dishonest to merit any of your sympathy."

            What Malfoy was saying was true, of course. Harry had never considered Malfoy's parents worth mourning, and with good reason. Over the years, Lucius Malfoy had done more terrible things than Harry could count. And yet somehow he felt uncomfortably guilty to hear it spoken aloud.

            "Thought you'd know what it's like, Potter," Malfoy said sarcastically. "As your parents are dead, too. My mother, she never did anything. They still tortured her for hours until she couldn't stand it anymore. And guess who got to watch?"

            Harry didn't know what to say. He was tempted to threaten to sic Ginny on him with the Bat Bogey Hex if he didn't go away, but at the same time, he couldn't very well tell him to shut up. Not when his mother had died, just the way Harry's own had.

            It's different, he thought defensively. His mum was wicked, and nasty. Even if she never killed anyone, she still . . .

            "I hope you do kill him," Malfoy repeated simply, then turned and started off toward the castle.

            Harry didn't feel much like flying anymore. Instead, he sunk down onto the grass and found himself staring up into the sky until the rain started to fall.