𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒-ℍ𝕒𝕣𝕣𝕪 ℙ𝕠𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣❥

𝐃𝐇 𝟏𝟔

The sun was coming up: The pure, colorless vastness of the sky stretched over him, indifferent to him and his suffering.

Harry sat down in the tent entrance and took a deep breath of clean air. Simply to be alive to watch the sun rise over the sparkling snowy hillside ought to have been the greatest treasure on earth, yet he could not appreciate it: His senses had been spiked by the calamity of losing his wand. He looked out over a valley blanketed in snow, distant church bells chiming through the glittering silence.

Without realizing it, he was digging his fingers into his arms as if he were trying to resist physical pain. He had spilled his own blood more times than he could count; he had lost all the bones in his right arm once; this journey had already given him scars to his chest and forearm to join those on his hand and forehead, but never, until this moment, had he felt himself to be fatally weakened, vulnerable, and naked, as though the best part of his magical power had been torn from him.

He knew exactly what Hermione would say if he
350 expressed any of this: The wand is only as good as the wizard. But she was wrong, his case was different. She had not felt the wand spin like the needle of a compass and shoot golden flames at his enemy. He had lost the protection of the twin cores, and only now that it was gone did he realize how much he had been counting upon it.

He pulled the pieces of the broken wand out of his pocket and, without looking at them, tucked them away in Hagrid's pouch around his neck.

The pouch was now too full of broken and useless objects to take any more. Harry's hand brushed the old Snitch through the mokeskin and for a moment he had to fight the temptation to pull it out and throw it away. Impenetrable, unhelpful, useless, like everything else Dumbledore had left behind —

And his fury at Dumbledore broke over him now like lava, scorching him inside, wiping out every other feeling. Out of sheer desperation they had talked themselves into believing that Godric's Hollow held answers, convinced themselves that they were supposed to go back, that it was all part of some secret path laid out for them by Dumbledore; but there was no map, no plan.

Dumbledore had left them to grope in the darkness, to wrestle with unknown and undreamed-of terrors, alone and unaided: Nothing was explained, nothing was given freely, they had no sword, and now, Harry had no wand.

And he had dropped the photograph of the thief, and it would surely be easy now for Voldemort to find out who he was. . . . Voldemort had all the information now. . . .

A sharp crack echoed through the early dawn air. Harry jerked upright.

Then he saw her.

Emily stepped into view, a soft smile lifting her lips as though the night had never touched her.

"Bit jumpy, aren't we?" she teased lightly.

Harry exhaled, shoulders loosening. It never failed to astonish him—how she could endure so much darkness and somehow still carry light. Emily had lost family, safety, and pieces of herself he could only guess at... yet here she was, still standing, still smiling. A quiet strength radiated from her that made him feel small sometimes—like every fear he cracked under was nothing compared to what she'd already survived.

And somehow she still found the heart to lean in and kiss his cheek.

They sank back down onto the cool grass together. Harry draped his arm around her instinctively, drawing her in. Emily rested her head against his shoulder as though it belonged there.

In silence, they watched the horizon brighten—streaks of gold clawing their way into the sky. A new day breaking, even after a night like that.

He held her just a little tighter.