“Voldemort himself created his worst enemy, just as tyrants everywhere do! Have you any idea how much tyrants fear the people they oppress? All of them realize that, one day, amongst their many victims, there is sure to be one who rises against them and strikes back!”
Let’s tell a story about
Voldemort’s death, but it won’t be the story in which a green eyed boy comes
back from the dead to defeat his enemy with his own wand. In this story, Harry
dies and doesn’t come back. When Narcissa stands up, her tangled words are not
a lie. The body Hagrid carries, trembling hands and shaky knees, his face wet
with tears– does not wake up. Did he just give up, decide not to fight anymore?
Or was he not given a choice this time?
Maybe he simply died, like that
redheaded boy did just before him, his last laugh still schoing in the air.
Because, in this story, death comes and strikes and opens wounds and leaves
scars. In this story, death is not a privilege nor a punishment. And it is
definitely not a choice.
But let’s get back to our story–
Molly’s light still hits Bellatrix right in the chest, her laughter spinning
around madly after her body falls to the ground. Neville still stands up, a
defiant look in his eyes. He still cuts off the snake’s head. He’s still a
hero. Even though he wouldn’t like being called that.
What about Ginny? She is finally
facing the monster who whispered in her head, alive in her nightmares. That
monster who killed her brother. That monster who killed Harry. That monster who
tried to eat her from the inside, slowly stealing her life until she became a
ghost. Well, you didn’t do a very good job. Would a ghost fight back? Because
she fights– she shouts and hits and hurts and kills– because right now she’s
made of rage and fury and desperation and she can’t hold it back anymore, so
she explodes and blows up the world.
Ron is there too, and his best
friend is dead and he is trying, so hard, to be good enough.
And Hermione is crying, whispering spells that hit their targets with precission,
her voice caught in sobbing but her hands steady with ruthlessness. Do you see
that blond girl over there? She’s named after the brightest light in the night,
and she’s the only thing that remains in all this madness.
In this story, there’s no trick and
no decepcion. There’s not a triumphant return from the dead, there’s no wand
refusing to kill its true owner because its true owner has already died.
In this story, there’s Neville
stepping forward, straight shoulders. There’s Ginny standing by his side, tears
running down her cheeks and fire in her eyes. There’s Ron, who has always been
quite good at being a hero, even though he hasn’t realized that yet. There’s
Hermione, who knew this could happen all those long nights when she couldn’t
sleep back in the woods. There’s Luna, and she’s still believing; and Dean and
Seamus, just behind her. There’s Parvati, and she’s not sure she’ll be able to
cast a proper spell ever again. There’s George, and he is ready to try.
In this story, there are kids, and
when a single curse comes out of their mouths and the whole world turns green
for a second, none of them feel like one.