10/02/2017 6:00 PM
I saw a dream. Call it a beautiful nightmare.
It’s pitch black, the sky, covered in clouds. Time is running patiently, a moment an hour, and slower each moment. He stands still, ” . . . expecto patronum!” he forces the words out and they diffuse into the silence. Numbness runs around him, through him. His fear is precipitating, mixed with tears, through his skin. Under those big round glasses, his ocean blue eyes shine despondently. The spell plunges out like a lightning bolt. His shaking hands manage still, a firm hold onto his wand, the core of thestral tail hair, fifteen inches long, elder. He’s aged through the agony of losing Albus yet again. What was he, twenty one? How they sucked the life out of him, how he fell off the Astronomy Tower, yet again. And all the other people Harry loved all his life, including Ron, the brother he found in the clumsy red haired he met on his first train to Hogwarts.
It’s only been a week since that horrible night when the doom fell upon the wizards and muggles alike. Hermione stands beside. And her son, Hugo, oh how much his face resembles Ron’s! This reminds Harry of the days they battled Voldemort, and the pain intensifies. He’s bleeding crimson through his grey hair, a rib probably fractured too. The pain catches his attention. He looks down for a moment, and in an instant, sees all the corpses rendered joyless, lifeless by the dementors that kissed them. Their hollow eyes plead him to help them rest in peace under Earth. The spell hits and pushes back a few dementors. The flash shows the swarm approaching from all the directions. Hermione swings her wand, the otter saves them some time.
Harry closes his eyes, and he’s that eleven years old boy standing in front of the mirror of erised and his parents by his side . . . and then . . . Ginny letting him hold Albus as the boy holds onto Harry’s fingers . . . and amidst all the gloom, the utter sadness, he opens his eyes, he smiles and with all the might he could summon, he says those words again, louder than ever, “EXPECTO PATRONUM!” The stag, enormous, bigger than a full grown Hungarian horntail, glides through the air and graciously circles them to create an enchanted shield around them. The swarm is now all over them, and each one that touches the stag, vapourises into a golden doe of glowing ash. A few of the clouds let only strings of sunlight sip through them. The rays hit their faces and time just freezes.