Moonlight poured in through the window of Harry Potter’s room at Number 4, Privet Drive. Harry stood by the window, a photograph clutched in his hands.

The photograph was of his parents, two smiling, happy people in each other’s arms. They looked up and then back into each other’s eyes, love the only emotion Harry could discern. He pondered over the emotion; love, what was it? How could it be the key to Voldemort’s downfall?

Harry shook his head. He couldn’t think of that right now.

He stared at the picture, wondering just how much time had passed after it was taken before his parents had been murdered. Did they know they were marked? Did they know that Wormtail had already sold them out to Voldemort?

Harry shook his head again. Pessimism was so often entering his thoughts now. He sometimes wondered when he would meet Voldemort again. When would his suffering end? When would he stand in a circle of foes, a crown of thorns, and stare defiantly into those eyes glaring menacingly at him? When would he hear the cold, cruel, high-pitched laughter and that voice, dripping with hate and venom, call out Avada Kedavra, call Harry to his death?

When would Voldemort no longer interrupt his thoughts?

Here he was again, allowing that snake to slither his way back into his thoughts. How he ached to forget it, all of it, and live the life of a normal seventeen-year-old wizard! He knew, however, that this was impossible. Voldemort had marked him, Harry, as his equal and the two would forever be locked in combat until either died.

A single tear slipped down Harry’s cheek and splashed onto the glass protecting the picture. He would die or he would kill Voldemort. It was inevitable; he would be victim or he would be murderer.

Harry looked at the photograph again and pushed the pessimism from his mind, choosing, instead, to think of his deceased mentor, Albus Dumbledore. The old man had been closer to him than any other single person in the world, even Sirius. Dumbledore was almost a… a… a grandfather to Harry.

Though he had been close, Dumbledore had left Harry many cryptic messages and questions, few of which Harry had been able to answer, most too difficult for him to even touch. Thinking was Hermione’s strong suit, not his. She would be able to find the answers he sought, he needed, he wanted. His best friend Ron, on the other hand, would be as stupefied as Harry himself, if not more. Neither, however, was with him, at least not now.

Harry looked away from the picture and out the window, into the full, bright, white moon. It was an object of purity and simplicity, an object that held so much meaning and impact on humans, but was seldom thought of. Thinking of purity and things not often pondered over, another person was brought to mind—Ginny Weasley, Ron’s younger sister.

Harry and Ginny had fallen for each other and, in an effort to protect Ginny, Harry had forced himself to distance her. He knew it was a bad, horrible idea, but it had to be done.

Ginny had to be protected.

Harry turned away from the window and sat on the edge of his bed. He glanced at the photograph again and thought Voldemort will pay. He lay down and slowly drifted off to sleep, the moonlight shining over his body.

The characters and setting of this story are the creative property of J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended.


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