The End And A New Beginning

Prolouge

Sitting alone in the library at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, twenty-nine-year-old Harry Potter sat at a small desk. Quill pen in his hand, a blank sheet of parchment on the table, he was ready to write.

Almost.

Harry would be turning thirty years old the next day, and he wanted his story written by then. The whole true story of his life for the world to learn. Of course, he hadn't written a thing. It was difficult to write your autobiography when you were still going through life experiences, while dealing with previous ones from your past.

Harry adjusted his round, thick eyeglasses and cleared his throat. He knew he was stalling, but the story had to be told. He didn't have a choice. He was the last of his kind on the earth - wizards, by all means. No other wizard or witch had survived the terrible battle fought against the evil, fearsome Dark Lord Voldemort. None. Except for him.

That's why even though he was over aged and had graduated, he was back at his old school. For the most part, Hogwarts hadn't survived the war, either. Most of the huge, mysterious castle had been burnt to the ground by the Death Eaters - Voldemort's inner circle followers. The library was one of those lucky rooms which survived the fire. Only a small section of the library had been burnt - the section which used to be forbidden by all students because of the dangerous books it kept on its shelves. Those were all gone, too.

Harry stared out the window across from his desk. The beloved Quidditch field he used to play the wizard sport on while in school was also gone, completely burnt. The Burrow, Diagon Alley - all familiar wizard places had been burnt by the huge gleaming fire which destroyed nearly everything and everyone.

Harry himself had started the fire. He didn't mean to - it was just the only way he could destroy Voldemort and the Death Eaters. The fire was supposed to be a very controlled one, he enchanted it to make sure. But for some reason, he lost control of the fire, and it spread quickly and vastly throughout the wizarding world, deminishing everything and everyone in its path.

The Burrow...

Thinking about the Burrow made him queasy, the Burrow had been the home of Harry's longtime, childhood best friend, Ron Weasley. It had also been one of Harry's most favorite places on the entire planet, because it was the home of the other Weasleys besides Ron. The Weasleys had been Harry's all-time favorite family. They were Arthur and Molly Weasley, the parents. Bill, Charlie, Percy (Harry even missed stuck-up Percy), Fred and George (the twins who were always causing up trouble), Ron, and finally Ginny, the only Weasley daughter. The Weasleys' flaming red hair and tall figures formed vividly in Harry's mind. It was pretty easy to spot a Weasley. Very poor, but very loyal to those who deserved it. Harry then chuckled to himself, remembering the time when Fred and George had played a prank on his Muggle cousin, Dudley Dursley. While visiting the Dursleys, Fred and George had left behind some trick toffees, which Dudley, being the fat pig he was, made a grab for. Unfortunately for Dudley, the toffees made your tongue grow very, very long if you ate them.

The Dursleys had also died in the war, which was funny considering the Dursleys were in no way from the magical world. Harry had lived with the Dursleys for seventeen years up until the final battle. He got the shock of his life when the Dursleys started helping him defeat Voldemort. They just weren't those kind of people - especially toward him. They had risked their own lives to save Harry.

Finally they did something right - and I didn't even get a chance to thank them, Harry thought sadly.

Even Hogwart's headmaster, the great Professor Albus Dumbledore, didn't survive, but he had been very old. Dumbledore told him it was time for him to die, anyway. But Harry didn't want to believe it. So many people Harry loved and cared for had already died, and he didn't want to lose Dumbledore, too. But he had.

Sirius Black, Harry's godfather, had also perished in battle. All these people had risked their lives to save Harry's in one way or another. Even Draco Malfoy, Harry's arch rival in school, spared his life to fight off Voldemort. It was especially difficult for Malfoy since his own father, the vicious Lucius Malfoy, had been one of Voldemort's loyal followers. Malfoy had to choose between following his father and becoming a Death Eater, or fighting against Voldemort's evil.

Malfoy chose the correct path, Harry assured himself silently. I know he did.

Then there was Hermione Granger, Harry's other best friend after Ron. In school, she had been one of those know-it-all students, always giving the correct answers in class and always reading. Always trying to do her best and trying to do the right thing. Hermione was a Muggle-born, but quickly managed to fit in with the rest of the wizards and witches. She died in battle, too.

And Hagrid, Hogwart's gameskeeper. A half-giant, one of Harry's best and first friends. Hagrid was usually misundertood by most, mainly because of his huge size and love for all strange, sometimes deadly and dangerous creatures. But he had been one of the most friendliest creatures on the planet - always giving Harry helpful advice and being concerned about him.

But now that was all over. For the last twelve years, Harry had been living alone in his misery. Living away in a small cabin deep in the middle of the once Forbidden Forest behind Hogwarts castle. Far away from Muggles of all sorts and the busy life of the Muggle world.

How he longed for the day when he would find another wizard or witch who had survived the battle. Perhaps, if it were a witch, they could start a whole new breed of witches and wizards. But of course, that wasn't possible right now. Harry was both glad and angry to be alive. Glad because this means he could still get a chance at life. Angry because he knew that nobody else had lived and would get that same chance.

Harry yawned, he was tired and it was late at night - around ten. Then suddenly, an idea about how to start came to him. Quickly picking up his Quill and dipping it in the black ink, he started scribbling away on the sheet of paper.

It was time for him to tell his story...