Just a Little

Harry

It may seem like suicide, but I know what I'm doing. I think. Only my great faith in Hermione - and the power of what she, Ron and I share - has convinced me this will work. Either that or I really am nutters.

That hellish smile splits Voldemort's face again, his reptilian eyes ablaze with triumph. He thinks he's going to be the winner in this event. He points his wand at the dead-center of my chest.

It's all I can do not to wet myself in fear. Intelligent people do not challenge Voldemort to kill them. Fools and idiots do what I've just done. Just because Hermione says this will work doesn't mean I'm not scared shitless.

The power - our combined power - is now thrumming beneath my skin, waiting impatiently for release. Any other time, this could make great foreplay. Hmm, we'll have to try that sometime....

"I won't make the mistake of going for your head this time, Potter," Voldemort declares. "All things considered, I didn't think you'd make it this easy for me to kill you. I had expected a challenge, not for you to roll over and die like a whipped puppy." He throws a patronizing glance at Ron and Hermione before adding, "Though whipped may not be far from the truth."

In the seconds before he actually casts the spell, a thousand thoughts run through my head. First and foremost is "What the fuck am I doing?" and that is closely followed by "Have you lost your fucking mind?" Common sense tells me I shouldn't stand here and let Voldemort try to kill me. Faith tells me I should stand very still and concentrate.

But it's not really an easy way out or suicide-by-Voldemort. The three of us have something he doesn't have, nor does he understand: love. It's what spared me the first time around. Hermione theorized it can work again when all three of us are involved.

When I hear "Avada" I use the power inside me to cast the strongest shield spell Hermione could find. We've been practicing for months so I could cast it quickly, effortlessly and silently. At "Kedavra" the green light I see in my nightmares bursts from Voldemort's wand and hits me in the chest, right over my heart.

Then blackness consumes me.

Ron

When the curse strikes, I pain rips up my arm, fusing my hand to Harry's ankle until the green light dissipates. As Harry collapses, I hear Hermione scream. I want to turn to her and tell her it will be okay, but I can't tear my eyes away from Voldemort.

Our plan seems to have worked much like we expected. The shield Harry built using our combined power reflected the curse back upon its caster.

I can only imagine that what I see now is a echo of what must have happened nearly twenty years ago when Voldemort attacked the Potter family.

The Killing Curse rebounds, more powerful, off Harry to strike Voldemort. Unfortunately for him, the three of us are stronger. The green light envelops him, wrapping around him like a shroud. Once he is fully enclosed within, the light implodes. One ear-splitting shriek and loud crack! later, Voldemort is dead. His body falls unceremoniously to the ground.

I blink.

That's it? After all the fucking hell - the torture, the starvation, the rape threats, the death threats - he's put us through in the last week...that's it? No fanfare. No "I will rise again." Nothing.

Finally, I turn to look at Hermione. Her eyes loom large in her overly-pale face. Two pools of brown drowning in tears. The few freckles she has scattered across her nose stand out in sharp relief. We hold eye contact for a long moment, overwhelmed.

It's only when I try to flex my hand that I realize it's still wrapped around Harry's ankle. Using my left hand, I pry the fingers of my right off his leg, then help Hermione loosen her grip. Blood is on both Harry's ankles. I turn my hand palm upward and am shocked to see a lightning bolt etched into the skin, bleeding lightly.

I grab Hermione's hand and look at her palm. The same scar is marring her palm, also bleeding.

So, anyone surviving Avada Kedavra gets a lightning bolt scar, not just Harry. Nobody knew - can't really experiment about that sort of thing. Blinking rapidly, I realize that we are now the only three to ever have survived the Killing Curse. Does that make us The Idiots That Lived?

"Ron?" she gasps. I look up at her, then follow her gaze downward to Harry's back.

A large pool of blood, growing as I watch, is beneath him.

Hermione

The pain in my hand is nothing compared to the pain in my heart. Harry can't die. Not after everything we've been through.

Scrambling as fast as my aching body will allow, I roll Harry onto his back. Ron stares dumbly at us for a long moment, then pulls his shirt off and presses it against Harry's chest to try to staunch the flow of blood.

I reach up to Harry's neck with my unscarred hand, feeling for a pulse. I finally find one, weak and thready.

"He's alive," I tell Ron, my voice raw from screaming. Relief floods through me until I look down again. His shirt is soaked through.

Wordlessly, I pull my shirt off and offer it. Ron presses it hard against Harry's chest. We are silent until Harry stops bleeding. I don't realize that I'm crying until Ron lifts a bloodstained hand to my cheek and wipes tears away.

Ron carefully pulls my shirt from Harry's chest. Burned into the skin there, right over his breastbone, is another lightning bolt scar.

A smile lifts one corner of Ron's mouth. "At least he can cover this one up." Despite everything, I giggle. Ron is always good for a little cheer. Beyond that, I'm trying not to think. If I do, I'll start screaming again.

Ron places a hand on Harry's chest, feeling his heartbeat. After a moment, he turns wide blue eyes up to me, and whispers, "I think he's getting colder."

I shake myself out of my cocoon and really look at Harry. Ron's right. His lips are turning slightly blue, but he isn't shivering.

"Is he dying?" I ask, not really expecting an answer. Like a mantra, I repeat in my head, Harry can't die.

"Not if he knows what's good for him, the wanker," Ron hisses. He places both his hands on Harry's chest. "Hermione, put your hands on him." I stare at Ron. "Not like that, Hermione, get your mind out of the gutter."

"I didn't say it, you did."

"You were thinking it."

"How do you know?"

"Because that look is usually in your eye before you pounce on one of us." Ron actually blushes as he says this. I didn't know that was still possible. Glaring at me, he clarifies, "Put your hands on his chest."

I do, feeling a curious combination of things emanating from Harry: his normal body heat, cooling ominously, and also a tingling feeling creeping up my left arm from the new scar in my palm. Bringing my eyes back up to Ron's, I wait.

"We're the only healers he has right now. Concentrate on healing him. Think about using your hands as your conduit instead of a wand."

Following directions, I try to gather my good thoughts into one, much like I summoned my power into one thread to let Harry tap into it. Once I've done that, I push that healing power into Harry. Almost at the same time, Ron does something similar.

Having never done something like this before, I don't know what to expect. I watch my power, my healing thoughts, coalesce in a golden pool of light and energy that pours into Harry through his new scar. Ron's energy, bright red, does the same. The threads twine together and spread themselves out underneath Harry's skin.

"Holy fuck," Ron whispers in awe. For once, words fail me.

After a long while, when the threads of our power have worked their way under Harry's skin and throughout his body, he moves. Just a groan and a twitch of a hand, but it's enough.

Tears of joy cascade down my face. Smiling at Ron, I see tears sparkling on his cheeks as well. I throw myself against Harry, kissing his neck and crying. I kiss my way up to his mouth.

Harry's eyes flutter open, the green deeper than usual. A wry grin turns up the corners of his mouth when he finds me crying on him.

His voice is harsh and scratchy when he asks, "What happened?"

Before Ron can say anything, I can't resist. "You've been mostly dead all day."

Harry blinks at me. Then he begins laughing, groaning at the pain in his ribs, but laughing.

It no longer matters that we're still locked in a cell, that we're with the most wanted dead body in many decades, or that we're all bruised and bleeding. We're together.

© 2003 Trisha Masen 1 0 July 2003