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Harry,

I am here.

Love,

Ginny

“Expecto Patronum!” The Dementor shot away from Harry and up the Northern Coast for what must have been the hundredth time. I wish you were here, he thought. He closed his eyes momentarily and pictured Ginny again, remembering the tender look on her face as she watched him read through the book.

“No,” he immediately said out loud, admonishing the discord in his mind, “I wish I was there.” He knew Ginny would be worried sick about him. And Ron, and Hermione, and Remus, and Sirius…maybe even Oliver. If there had been time to Apparate home and back, to get help, even to send an owl, Harry would have done it. But Dementors leave little time for such things, and Harry knew he was doing the only thing he could.

He figured someone from the Cannons’ scrimmage would let people know where he was, although he wasn’t sure whom. Maureen didn’t know any of his friends, and Oliver had Disapparated before the Dementor even showed up. He knew Sirius would be enraged, and very well might hop on a broom and go out looking for him. Not that it would do any good…Harry wasn’t even sure where he was. The small towns he had passed throughout the day became more and more sparse until they were gone altogether. Landmarks of any kind were few and far between now, but that was probably for the best. Harry wasn’t very experienced with Memory Charms, and he hoped the ones he had been casting would stick. Just as the sun had gone down, he was forced to cast a charm on an older bloke who had nearly tipped himself off a cliff watching in awe as Harry had frantically sped past his lighthouse, but he hadn’t seen anyone since, Muggle or otherwise. Maybe it was due to lack of sufficient light, or maybe just fatigue, but even his map seemed useless now. He had folded it up and stuffed it into his pocket more than an hour ago, and hadn’t consulted it since. North, he said to himself, just keep going north.

For the last several hours, he had tried to convince himself that this was a game…that he was a reserve beater and the Dementor was nothing more than a particularly stubborn bludger. But the thought never seemed to bring him any joy. Deep within him, he knew what he was really doing. He was driving away a creature that had the ability to end people. Not kill them, not injure them, not tear them limb from limb…but to end them. There was no other way to say it.

Harry’s thoughts unwillingly focused on Kitty Douglas, the poor woman who had been Kissed by the escaped Dementor in Stornaway. He didn’t know her, but the thought of anyone getting that close, getting Kissed, literally losing their mind and their heart and their memories and their feelings…it was too much to bear. And who knows where this Dementor would go if he let it escape? How many souls would be sucked before it was finally contained?

Harry looked up to see that the Dementor had slowed its retreat and was now threatening to turn back in his direction. He raised his wand and focused on a memory from his fifth year at Hogwarts. Ron was shaking him awake far too early that morning, and once Harry had come around, Ron told him he had finally kissed Hermione for the first time, even though Harry already knew. It was kind of awkward hearing all the details, but Harry had seen true joy in his best friend’s face that day.

“Expecto Patronum!” The Dementor reversed again and slithered north.

Harry was running out of happy memories, and the ones he conjured up always seemed to bring forth an aftertaste of sorrow. It was dark now…and cold…and Harry had no idea what time it was. He wondered if it was the air along the shore that was making him shiver, or if it was just the constant proximity to the Dementor. Either way, his teeth were chattering and his cheeks burned from the sensation.

It’s not fair, he thought, finally allowing himself to feel the anger he always thought made him petty and unappreciative. Why do I have to be the one to do this? Why can’t these things just go away and die and leave us all alone? And it wasn’t fair, really. They had all fought so hard, they had lost so much, how much more should they be expected to endure? And to think that the Dementors had once been used to protect people from dark forces.

To protect Harry.

Now here he was, chasing one halfway across the country because of the damage it could inflict on innocents. It would have been laughable, if it hadn’t been so infuriating.

Harry was exhausted. Drained. He thought of this morning—or was it yesterday morning?—how alive he had felt on that Quidditch pitch, and how, for the first time since the war, he realized what he wanted to do. And I should be allowed to do it, Harry said to himself, even though he felt a pang of guilt at the thought. The war is over, damn it. We won. Where are the parades? Where’s the fanfare? We should have people praising our names and immortalizing us in songs and erecting statues in our honour! Harry knew he didn’t really want such accolades, but the thoughts were coming faster than he could filter them now. He was having trouble focusing on anything at all, and the few coherent thoughts he tried to hold onto became twisted and garbled in his mind. But through all the irrational thought, through all the anger and resentment that was clouding his mind, one question kept popping up, and it was crystal clear. Why the hell am I still fighting?

Harry slumped his head forward and took a deep breath. The cold air nearly froze inside his lungs, but he forced it out and continued riding. He thought for a moment that he might inadvertently fall asleep right there on his broom and end up somewhere in the ocean. More than once, his eyelids had momentarily slid shut, and Harry had had to force himself back to consciousness with a jerk. Sleep would be so nice, so welcome. Giving into it almost seemed to make more sense than fighting it. But as much as he wanted to surrender, Harry knew he would stay awake. He had to stay awake.

His thoughts strayed back to Ginny, who seemed to be the memory that came up more than any other when it was time to cast his Patronus. Holding her hand the other night was a true comfort. The sensation of her fingers laced in his, however brief, somehow made the pain of watching the images of his parents on the Kinolia bearable. No, not just bearable. Enjoyable. He found that she—just by her mere presence—was able to make him feel better about nearly anything. Why was that? he wondered. Even when he saw her throw herself in front of Voldemort’s wand, even when he was certain he was about to watch her die right in front of him, having her there sent a wave of odd tranquility through him. But why? How could he have felt tranquil at a moment like that? Everyone he had ever cared for was about to die. And as he really thought about it, Harry realized, for the first time, he wasn’t truly afraid at that horrible moment. He had tried to push them out of the way, yes, but how hard was he really trying? Something inside him, something deep and intangible, told him not to fight. Told him to just let it happen...it would be alright. And that’s what he had done. He stopped pushing against them; he looked over their shoulders, stared Voldemort straight in the eye, and just waited for the curse. Even though he had no idea whether he would take another breath, even as Voldemort raised his wand and, with a deafening cackle, brought it down to speak the words that would have ended the last hope for good witches and wizards everywhere, Harry felt a surge of something he could not identify. It almost felt...peaceful. It didn't scare him anymore. Had he given up? Was he accepting his fate, allowing himself and his friends to just die right there on that spot? The guilt he felt at this revelation nearly consumed him. It wasn’t until he told himself he must have known—on some unconscious level—that Expecto Sacrificum would work, that he began to feel better about it. He convinced himself that the same love and sacrifice that had destroyed Voldemort must have permeated him, giving him an inexplicable feeling of contentment in the darkest moment of his life. Yes, that had to be it.

Harry thought for the thousandth time about that spell, and part of him wondered again how he had ever been talked into letting them all do it. Just thinking that Hermione and Ron, that Remus and Sirius, that Ginny could be…dead. Dead and gone, and all for him. Harry hated himself for even allowing the possibility of such a tragedy. Even if he had somehow survived that day, he knew he would never have been able to spend the rest of his life with the knowledge that he was alive, and they were dead.

But the truth was, they weren’t dead. They survived. Love survived. Love won.

Against greed, and power, and pain, and suffering, and hate, and fear, and wars, and death…love won. Because that’s what Expecto Sacrificum really was. It was pure, absolute, perfect love. Undying. Eternal. Ron loved him. Hermione loved him. Remus and Sirius loved him. And Ginny…

She had agreed to participate in the spell.

The spell had worked.

That must mean…

“Ron, please! Ron, I love you. I love you so much…please help me!” Hermione’s strained and desperate voice came crashing into his mind, and Harry had no idea why until he looked up. He had been lost so deeply in his thoughts that he had allowed the Dementor to turn on him, and it was now so close that Harry thought for sure he would crash right into it. In the blink of an eye, Harry lifted his wand, wrapped his brain around the love he had for all his friends at once, and…

“Expecto Patronum!” The stag shot forward from his wand, and Harry was almost as surprised to see it as the Dementor seemed to be. But it was successful…the Dementor was bucked away. Prongs dissolved into the night, and Harry was left in darkness once again.

~*~