His Eyes

Ginny Weasely had forgotten to get over Harry Potter. She was so preoccupied with worrying about him, watching him, praying for him, and admiring him that she had simply forgotten she should have gotten over her crush.

Ginny watched his clear and intelligent eyes as they swept over a room when he entered. She watched his eyes as they froze on something interesting. She watched his eyes as they lit up every time he saw one of his friends. She watched his eyes as he laughed and she knew she would never remember to stop liking him. But Harry never knew about any of this. He was always sort of silent and quiet and even a little slow when it came to what other people were thinking. He liked keeping to himself, with only Ron and Hermione to confide in.

When his two best friends started going out, they kept it quiet. They tried their best to avoid leaving Harry out of their lives even as they snuck up to the Astronomy Tower. But they really needn't have. Harry never felt left behind or forgotten. His friends were so obviously in love and he would never trivialize that with feelings of his own sadness. He was happy for them in all of their bliss. He was happy that two of his closest friends could be together and find a peace that he desperately lacked since Cedric's death.

Harry was actually the one who carefully pushed them in the right direction. He was the one whom neither should have worried about being jealous. And eventually they learned that, even if it was a tad too late. Harry never questioned his two best friends being together. It made sense when you watched the way they walked together, ever conscious of where the other person was and making sure to make room. It made sense when you saw the way that one of them would glance out of the corner of their eye, only to see the other watching them. It made sense when you looked at them.

Beginning in his fifth year, all of Harry's housemates still found time to worry about him. Some worried because they thought he was dangerous, some because he seemed so secluded, some because it seemed he could never forgive himself for something, some because they didn't know what really happened that night in fourth year, and one because she saw a new determination in his eyes when he came back from the Third Task and she worried that it would kill him.

No one understood what Harry went through his fourth year. Even as friends surrounded him day and night, in the years to come, they never learned what it had been like to be surrounded by Death Eaters. They never learned what it was like to feel an Unforgivable Curse pounding on their very souls. They never learned the fear and joy in seeing a shadow of their parents. They never learned to deal with the echoes of death in their sleep. They never learned what was like to live every day with his memories. They never learned, nor he hoped would they ever, what it was like to be Harry Potter.

Even as he laughed with his friends and flew with his team, Harry knew he was alone. He couldn't even bring himself to explain to his two best friends what he had been through on the night of the Third Task. He had tried to, once, and failed miserably. He tried to just let it flow and found a clog in his throat. He tried to force it out but that just seemed to break it. He had tried to cry it out and found it drown by his tears. He had been through too much in that graveyard to have come out the same person he was when he went in and he didn't know how to explain that.

Even before the death toll got to the hundreds, Harry knew not to blame himself. He knew that Voldemort and Wormtail were the guilty ones but that knowledge didn't stop him from flinching each time he saw Cho Chang. That knowledge didn't stop him from avoiding her gaze. He couldn't bear to look upon her questioning face. He couldn't bear to look into her eyes and see a reflection of someone who wasn't him. He couldn't bear to see her crushed hopes. He couldn't bear to see another victim.

He had wanted to tell her what happened that night. He wanted her to know everything. He wanted her to know even more than he wanted Ron to know. He wanted her to know what had happened to Cedric.

He didn't want to tell her excuses. He didn't want to tell her he could have done more. He didn't want to tell her whom she should blame. He didn't want to tell her so she would forgive him. He didn't want to tell her so she could bare the load with him. He wanted her to know so she could finally put an end to the questions Harry knew had to be running through her head. He wanted her to know so she could say goodbye. He wanted her to know that Cedric died bravely. He wanted her to know because it was the truth and that seemed the only important thing anymore. When he did tell her, she cried. She cried for a long time and Harry didn't know what to do. He only knew that somehow he felt lighter and as though he might be able to be completely happy again.

Eventually Harry did find happiness. Eventually. But when fifth year came to a close it was not with thoughts of his own feelings. It was not with thoughts of praise. It was not with even the most remote sense of accomplishment. When fifth year ended Harry wanted nothing more than to be able to change one decision, one choice, one idiotic mistake he had made in Third Year. He wanted a dead rat. Yet even as he thought it, he knew he didn't mean it. Even as he remembered the silvery hand, Cedric's dead body, his owns mothers ghost, and Sirius' twelve years in Azkaban, he knew he didn't want anyone dead. He never wanted anyone dead. That was what made him a hero. That was what made him a legend in his own time.

So sixth year came and passed, testing Harry more than he would have guessed. He was challenged physically and emotionally by too many things to count, but in one way above all. Harry fell in love his sixth year and had absolutely no idea what to do about it.

Harry was the type that would fall in love only once but that would be enough. He was caught unawares as suddenly the sight of a small redheaded girl made him smile for no particular reason. He found himself waiting to hear her laugh, see her walk, gaze into her eyes, and smile at her. He might have even wanted to kiss her if things hadn't gotten as desperate as they had as quickly as they had.

With the disappearances growing in number and the death toll rising, Harry threw himself into his studies. He searched for an answer to a question he didn't know. He searched with a silent ferociousness that no one except those closest to him saw. He knew deep down inside that Voldemort was his problem to deal with- his and no-one else's. He felt terribly alone.

Dumbledore died during Harry's sixth year never to be reborn in flames as his trusty Phoenix tended to. He died giving the last of his strength to the castle that he so dearly loved. All that remained of Albus Dumbledore stayed in his old office: a picture of himself waving at the students as the other headmasters slept, a phoenix named Fawkes, and a bottomless bag of sweets connected directly to Honeydukes. But before he died Dumbledore had given Harry a most precious necklace. One that Lily Evans had worn with pride from her third year till her death. On it hung a single silver Phoenix charmed to move its head ever so slightly; on one of its wings it bore the inscription: To My Beloved Sister Lily, from Petunia. Harry carried it with him forever after. Even after his aunt tried to steal it from him the first time she saw it.

With Dumbledore gone Harry found a resolve in himself that he didn't know he had. He determined that he would win this fate-filled war. He would live for Ginny. They would have a family and go over to Ron and Hermione's for tea on Tuesdays and the Burrow for dinner on Sundays. He would play Quidditch with his son and teach his daughter how to dance. These were his sixth year wishes and he carried them with him just as he did his destiny and the necklace, with wariness. It gave him only the faintest of hopes but still it was hope.

In his seventh year there came a time for him to perform a duty that no one else could. Only Harry Potter, the infamous Harry Potter, could finish the job. He wasn't forced to. He wasn't begged to. He wasn't even asked to. It was simply understood that he would do it.

His reasons for going were too precious, too close to home, too true for him to have been able to tell people. He went because his mother loved him, because his father was proud of him, because Ron said he shouldn't and in the end couldn't stop him, because Hermione had cried before silently nodding, because Ginny had said she trusted no one else to, because Dumbledore had died telling him he could, because if Hagrid had been alive he would have approved, because Snape said he would help, because Sirius was unconscious and unable to stop him, because Remus hadn't been able to utter a word, because the world trusted him to, because even Rita Skeeter and Draco Malfoy believed he could. So Harry went.

The Death Eaters came in waves so quickly that even the greatest defenses of Hogwarts couldn't repel them. And as the students and staff fought side by side for their lives, with only the first and second years being rushed to the secure exits, Harry Potter stepped into the Great Hall. Voldemort was there calling out to Harry in Parseltongue. When Harry arrived it was to a nearly empty Hall. Only two red eyes stared back at him. Two red eyes that Harry could remember from as far back as his first year and reaching forward until sixth year, and as he remembered them he stood a little taller with his destiny surrounding him like a blanket.

The other fights came closer and closer to the two greatest fighters. Some battles were even spilling into the Hall, but Harry knew he had only one duel to focus on, one duel that matter, one duel which could end his life, and with it the world, in an instant. He knew he was the one chosen to beat Voldemort. Dumbledore knew it when Harry was only a second year. Calling Fawkes into the Chamber of Secrets had been the sign. With that single action Harry had fulfilled the first of Trewlawney's Prophecies- the Prophecy of the Order of the Phoenix. Yet Harry had questioned the truth behind it. He had questioned his own skill. Even with his mother's necklace laced around his neck he wondered back to all of the times when luck and love and friends and teachers had saved him, and for that one instant he questioned the people around him for trusting him that much. Then he caught sight of those red eyes once again and remembered his doubts didn't matter.

Voldemort stood just as tall and proud as Harry and when their eyes met, they both knew with a certainty how this battle would end. Harry had no chance of living unless he joined the Death Eaters. He had no chance of fulfilling the dreams he'd made for him and Ginny. Voldemort knew it and he smiled sincerely. Harry knew it and he suppressed a shudder.

The bond that connected them was stronger than anyone could have guessed. Voldemort's death would kill Harry. And Harry's death would only slow down the Dark Lord. That last battle was a risk not just for his life but also for the world.

As all of these thoughts ran through Harry's head he could think of nothing but a small redheaded girl that he had met his second year- the one with the chocolate eyes that took his soul in them before gently handing it back. He thought about the fight that she would never stop fighting. Harry then did something that Voldemort never guessed he would, he took Professor Dumbledore's wand from his pocket and began to duel.

Harry's mind grew sharper as the battle raged. He thought over his years at Hogwarts, thought about the twins, thought about Crookshanks and Scabbers, thought about Fluffy and the journey to the stone, thought about Blastended Skrewts, thought about Rockcakes, thought about Dobby, thought about Ron, thought about Hermione, thought about Ginny, thought about Dumbledore.

In first year Dumbledore had told Harry, when he asked, that Voldemort could not truly die because he was not truly alive. Harry's heart had sunk at the words, believing his last attempts fruitless. But in the midst of the battle Harry almost smiled, remembering the look of triumph in his mentor's eye that night in forth year. Maybe he did have a chance. What was it?

Then it all came to him. Voldemort had become human that night in fourth year. He could have been immortal if he hadn't performed that ceremony. But he had. Harry was suddenly filled with the knowledge that the man in front of him could die just as Dumbledore had, never to return. Harry would never let him come back. It didn't matter what it took. Nothing mattered to heroes more than saving those that they love. Not even their own lives- especially their own lives.

Harry and Voldemort dueled for a long time. How long they could later never guess. Tom Riddle, Headboy of 1942, the Dark Lord, leader of the Death Eaters, Voldemort lay nearly beaten after hours of fighting. Harry had chanced a look around at the people that had brought their own fights into the Great Hall. He saw Hermione and Ron fighting back to back, Parvati Patil and Professor McGonagall cornering some Death Eaters, Professor Snape having pulled back his hood, was fighting next to Professor Hooch, Draco Malfoy jumped in front of a curse aimed to hit Blaise Zabini. The roof was beginning to crumble and the people on both sides were falling at an amazingly fast rate, and through it all and in that instant only one person forced Harry's eye. Ginny was looking directly at him. She nodded only once.

Harry Potter turned and killed Voldemort and himself with a single curse.

The wizarding world celebrated together as the news hit the papers. People in Asia, America, Europe, and Africa poured drinks and laughed together when they learned that they were free of the Dark Arts once again. Voldemort was gone, completely and utterly gone, and the world had never known a better day. Even the day seventeen years before seemed to pale in comparison. The only thing stopping the day from being perfect was the front page of the paper carrying the news of another death, that of their savior. And while the world celebrated, a small group of friends cried. Even the death of the greatest evil could never make up for the death of one so loved.

Two best friends mourned the loss of their third half.

A Potions Master lost his last chance at redemption.

A broken man lost his best friends child.

A group of Gryffindors lost a friend.

The world lost their hero.

And of all of these people, none cried longer or harder than a small redheaded girl curled into a ball, crouching in the corner of her much too big seeming room, in her much too big seeming house, that poured tear after tear onto the paper she held in her hands smudging the eyes of the one she loved.