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Morning Comes in Light
By jamsel

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Category: Post-OotP, Post-HBP
Characters:Harry/Ginny, Harry/Ginny
Genres: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama, Romance
Warnings: Violence
Story is Complete
Rating: PG-13
Reviews: 6
Summary: As Harry fights for his life in the last few minutes of his final confrontation with Voldemort, he finally understands how powerful love is.
Hitcount: Story Total: 5233



Disclaimer: Harry Potter Publishing Rights © J.K.R. Note the opinions in this story are my own and in no way represent the owners of this site. This story subject to copyright law under transformative use. No compensation is made for this work.



Author's Notes:
A/N: The title and opening quotation are taken from the Sufjan Stevens Song “For the Widows in Paradise, for the fatherless in Yipsilanti.” The song is suggested listening for this work.

A Special thank you to Belovedranger for being such an awesome beta.




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I have called you children
I have called you son
What is there to answer, if I’m the only one?
Morning comes in paradise, morning comes in light
Still I must obey, still I must invite
If there’s anything to say, if there’s anything to do
If there’s any other way
I’ll do anything for you


I

A thousand cracks echo like trees exploding in the coldest of winter as tiny white snowflakes dance across the bleak battlefield. Evil has disappeared into the air, molecules to be lost to the skies, to the world, to a thousand places, a thousand people whose rugs have been pulled out from under their beliefs. They will wander aimlessly; they will try to find a new leader; they will lie and cheat their way back into their former lives; they will waste away, clinging to the futility of their existence.

They will never mean anything again.

Good stands and listens to silence for the first time. The plains echo, wind howling, winter slowly falling down upon them, keeping them from the spring they so readily deserve, the new beginning they have been fighting for. Good slowly rises like a phoenix from the ashes, casting eyes around for loved ones, staring at the horizon, clasping hands tightly around power, afraid that it isn’t over.

Good will spend time playing the mother: cleaning up the mess they didn’t create with tired eyes and wrinkled fingers. Good will live onward in defense, always resisting an enemy that is as solid as oxygen, as permeable as butter. They will always succeed.

II

The marked boy lies in the grass, his entire frame emanating a golden glow, a force field keeping the frosted green spears from tickling the back of his neck the way they usually do. The boy cannot open his eyes. He awakes to a cracking noise and he is afraid he’s witnessed the sound of his own skull being blown apart, or worse, the skull of a fellow. He attempts to move his head, to recognize his own humanity, his ability to move, to feel, to live and he cannot. ‘Concentrate,’ he attempts to mutter. His lips will not form words, his mouth, sounds.

He focuses on his right index finger that has grown slightly crooked, leaning to the left. He isn’t sure why. ‘Come on,’ he commands, sending all of his energy flowing down his torso, his leg, down his foot. ‘Move,’ he begs in his mind, his lungs filling shallow, leaving him gasping. Moments later when his finger wiggles on command, he finds himself near tears, gasping with relief as the confirmation that he is, indeed, alive washes over his body like the warm rain in July.

III

Her arm is bending at an oblique angle, yet she stands high on the hill unable to truly feel the depth of physical pain that should be harassing her. Healers begin to appear on all sides and she knows the tap of a wand from one of them will be enough to make her useful, but she cannot bring herself to set things in motion. He is alone, somewhere, either his soul wandering towards the veil and his body lost and abandoned on the battlefield or he is alone, soul and body united as a being that should no longer be unaided. She should be near him.

Leaving reason to the snowflakes, she ignores the calls of others she always knew would survive and she starts walking, wading through the wasteland of bodies and shattered talent, keeping eyes face forward, knowing that when she nears him she will know without looking. It is the least rational decision that she has ever made. She blames it on the broken arm, but fears that soon she will have to blame everything on a broken heart, a lonely heart. This is something she cannot afford to do. She keeps walking.

IV

Moving is a slow progression of pain, relief and fear playing over and over again in an endless cycle until he has bent his torso enough to shove himself into a sitting position. Suddenly, his eyes spring open out of his control and a cruel voice echoes throughout his mind, causing every muscle in his body to spasm uncontrollably. “So,” the voice hisses, unmistakably the enemy he was sure he had vanquished. “You thought you were rid of me.”

He falls onto the ground, his muscles contracting and expanding, blood coursing through his body like acid, singeing him from the outside. “Lord Voldemort lives on in you, Harry Potter.” Evil whispers all over his body, lessening his muscle spasms and slowly starting to place pressure around his skull. He screams aloud as the hold grows tighter, almost sure he is about to burst, praying for the end to come, just so the pain will go away and leave him to rest. And as soon as the pain is there, it evaporates into the whirling darkness.

“You forgot what I left inside of you, Harry.” He feels the voice slowly building to a crescendo, knowing the end of the tirade will only cause him more pain, more anguish, more suffering. Instantly the pain hits him again like a ton of bricks, invisible iron bands forming and grasping at his lungs as he chokes, rolling over. As the oxygen supply grows smaller and smaller, he is incapable of any true thought: memories muddle and mucked, attempting to fight through to no avail.

He knows the end is near.

V

When she reaches the top of the hill that surrounds the black lake, the sky is beginning to darken, the snow flakes growing harsher and crueler than ever before. Her arm throbs at her side as the cold wind slices into her eyelids, causing tears to dribble uncontrollably down her cheeks. Squeezing her eyes together, she aims her wand at her arm and whispers, ‘Reparo.’ Her scream rips across the lake as her bones grind clumsily into place. After a moment the pain is whittled down to a slow, pulsing burn. She knows that the spell, in the long run, will cause more harm than good but to her the consequences are merely a means to an end.

Fruitlessly wiping her tears away with her sleeve, she squints down at the lake and notices a gold glow emanating from Dumbledore’s white tomb, completely unmarred by the events of the night. She stumbles down the bank, feet sliding beneath her as she runs with reckless abandon. As she nears the glow, she slows to a halt.

Beneath the light he lays, completely enrobed in shimmering warmth, his entire body twitching and convulsing. He is pain and suffering, complete agony embodied in a human, the lines of pain etched like engraved marble on his face in a fantastic display of destruction. She stares down upon him, at a complete loss. Her knees buckle and she unconsciously falls to the ground, his name tumbling from her lips.

“Harry.”

VI

His surrender is creeping upon him like the evening tide, creeping and crawling, filling every nook and cranny with fear and pain and submission. He feels his back arch at an impossible angle and suddenly feels removed, a mere droplet of vapour lost in the cloud that has descended upon him. “Harry.” A voice cuts through the din slowly, and he’s slammed back into his body, consciousness and mind coupled, greeted by the searing sting of evil. A voice tries to fight its way through the din again and he hears another whisper of light. “Harry.”

He tries to react but his lungs are constricted, the metaphorical bands forcing him to breathe shallow, teasing him, giving him moments of release, of hope and then reclaiming their hold tighter than before. “Harry!” the voice says, louder, more persistent and a memory starts to push its way through. He knows this voice. He likes this voice.

“Don’t even think about it,” Voldemort snarls, pushing and fighting from the inside.

“Harry!” the voice screams and he’s enveloped in a memory brought upon him without control.

Running his fingers through silky, red hair, losing all sense in brown eyes and picnic baskets, and green grass days by the lake. A flowery scent, kicking off from the ground. The Burrow. Ron. Hermione. Bushy haired and freckled, the Keeper, the genius. Ron and Fred and George, the joke shop, Charlie, Bill, his sacrifice. Mr. Weasley, Mrs. Weasley. Mother’s love. Sitting, chatting, Tonks, Lupin, the Patronus, Sirius, his godfather. Lost.

“No!” Voldemort screams through the flood of images assaulting his senses from all sides, beyond his control; the warmth they carry slipping in between the iron bands and loosening their hold on his lungs.

Lily, his mother, the sacrifice she made to save her son who would save the world. James who died for bravery and love and care. The parents who found him one night in his dreams and told him they were proud and they cared and they knew what he had done and was doing and he had to keep going because he could. Dumbledore, the mentor, the friend, who died so he could understand; his teacher and his friend who believed so deeply in his ability to love and be loved in return.

Love.

The red haired image floats across his mind and is lost again. Grasping a Snitch, kissing, clean air, mown grass, Hogwarts and Hagrid. Ginny. The name flies back and fills his body. Ginny.

He knows how to fight back.

VII

He thinks hard and can feel her near him. The way her thick, red hair can get so easily tangled in his fingers. How she shivers when he runs his fingers along her collarbone. They way she playfully chews on his bottom lip after they’ve been kissing so long their lips are numb and raw. He remembers her panic when Ron was missing, her tears when Percy revealed he’d been spying on the Ministry, her joy the first time they truly came together. Her smile when he whispered in her ear the sweet nothings that were so full of truths he was to afraid to articulate anywhere else. Her giggle when he tickled her belly, her gasp when he kissed her neck. The love that her eyes betrayed when her lips would not. The hours he spent agonizing over her safety and his stupidity, all for love.

The pain continues to diminish, encapsulated by the golden glow that surrounds him and slowly sinks into his skin, expelling the evil, extinguishing its presence for good. No thoughts linger, as the pain recedes and he knows that this is truly the end.

And all he can do is smile.

VIII

She continues to chant his name; mud, dirt, water, blood, the remnants of war soak through the knee of her robes as she watches him grow calmer and calmer until the most peaceful smile spreads across his lips.

The glow begins to recede inside him, as if drawn to something inside, a magnetically driven tide of feeling. She doesn’t know what to do.

Crawling down closer to him, unable to judge her own safety, she grabs his hand in a quick and thoughtless motion. It’s remarkably warm to the touch. She tightens her grip, noticing that any snow that comes within feet of him evaporates. Suddenly, she feels a squeeze, warm fingers tightly grasping her own. Bending over his face, unable to contain her own smile she leans down over him, staring at the calm that has descended over him. “Ginny,” he whispers, finding his lips and she grins as his eyelids flutter, finally opening for the first time in what feels like centuries.

“Hi,” she whispers back, unsure if he is entirely conscious of the world around him. He reaches up and traces the line of her cheek, leaving a trail of warmth along her jawbone, a tickling line down to his lips.

He has never felt more alive.
Reviews 6
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