Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, nor the world that the story takes place in. I only own the plot.

Prologue

Harry lay on his back, eyes turned toward the stars as he bled deeply from a wound in his chest. His eyelids fluttered momentarily, before closing for what he was sure was the last time. As the star-streaked night sky was blocked from his vision, he had a fleeting thought: now he would finally see his mother and father. Weakly, Harry struggled to stay alive. Turning over on his side, he forced his eyes open, revealing the robe that once belonged to Voldemort only three feet away from him. He couldn't help but smile as he died slowly. That robe belonged to the creature that was no more.

The war was finally over.

And he, Harry James Potter, had been the one to put an end to him. That final battle was the reason he was dying now. Harry closed his eyes again, relishing the victory as a low moan escaped his parched lips. A sudden sharp pain knocked the wind out of him, making him gasp for breath. He knew it was the end. All around him, the bodies of dead Voldemort supporters decorated the vast country field. Harry felt his heart quiver, then stop completely. His vision became black and fuzzy around the edges.

"Quick, he's over here," a male voice whispered anxiously. Harry recognized that voice as his lungs stopped functioning. Heavy footsteps could be heard beside him.

"He's dying," the same voice stated plaintively, swiftly taking a pulse from Harry's wrist. "Stand back; I'm going to give him the Breath of Life."

A collective murmur surrounded him, but complied with the speaker's orders. The voice muttered a few words, and Harry felt a sudden warmth to his body.

That warmth turned quickly to fire.

He felt as if he were burning, his skin melting in the unbearable heat. Right then, Harry knew he was dead; even wished he were. As quickly as that fire came, though, it was gone, replaced with a trickling cool sensation.

Harry sensed his heart tremor, then beat once. Twice.

He felt himself being lifted into the air, and placed on a hovering stretcher. The stretcher was then attached to a broomstick.

"Step back, Weasely, I'm taking him," this time the voice sounded possessive, protective. Recognition hit Harry almost instantly. It was the voice of the one he loved. He tried to turn his head towards the source of the voice.

A hand stroked his cheek, caressing his jaw line. "You can move around soon enough, love, but for now you must rest up." Harry smiled into the warm hand, feeling safe. He felt cool lips brush over his. "Soon enough."

Harry smiled again. He knew the one he loved would come and save him.