"I
am a wizard, not a baboon brandishing a stick."
When there's
strife and when there's trouble
Call on Peevsie, he'll make double!
- Peeves
"'Excuse me, are you the imprint of a departed soul?'"
-
Ron
"Harry, that's it - get lucky!"
-
Ron
But he understood at last that Dumbledore had been
trying to tell him. It was, he thought,
the difference being dragged being dragged into the arena to face a battle to
the death and walking into the arena with your head held high. Some people, perhaps, would say that there
was little to choose between the two ways, but Dumbledore knew - and so do
I, thought Harry, with a rush of fierce pride, and so did my parents
- that there was all the difference in the world.
Harry looked around; thee was Ginny running toward
him; she had a hard, blazing look in her face as she threw her arms around
him. And without thinking, without
planning it, without worrying about the fact that fifty people were watching, Harry
kissed her.
And Harry saw very clearly as he sat there under
the hot sun how people who cared about him had stood in front of him one by one,
his mother, his father, his godfather, an finally Dumbledore, all determined to
protect him; but now that was over. He
could not let anybody else stand between him and Voldemort; he must abandon
forever the illusion he ought to have lost at the age of one, that the shelter
of a parent's arms meant that nothing could hurt him. There was no waking from his nightmare, no
comforting whisper in the dark that he was safe really, that it was all his
imagination; the last and greatest of his protectors had died, and he was more
alone than he had ever been before.
His hand closed automatically around the fake
Horcrux, bit in spite of everything, in spite of the dark and twisting path he
saw stretching ahead for himself, in spite of the final meeting with Voldemort
he knew must come, whether in a month, in a year, or in ten, he felt his heart
lift at the thought that there was still one last golden day of peace left to
enjoy with Ron and Hermione.
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