Wednesday, 23 January 2013

What's Your? - Confession Day 3 *UPDATED*

Wooookay! Day 3! =D
You can know about the routine here.

So today's confession would be about THE PART IN HARRY POTTER WHICH MADE YOU CRY. OKAY. Yeah, fine, I cried at a point too. Confess it! [FACEBOOK PEOPLE YOU CAN JOIN IN TOO]

You can write your confessions on your respective blogs, mail the links for the same at
OR, if you don't want to reveal your identity, and think your story might embarrass you, no problemó! You can mail your confessions to me, and I, and only I would be witnessing your confessions. They would only be posted on my blog - no identity revealed. I'd be your confession box.

The post will be updated late night. You can even have the morning to yourself, if you wish.

Almost every night. 
The last few chapters of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows are my silent haven. Every night, I read those last couple of chapters bit by every bit. Without fail - so much, I know it like the back of my hand. Each night, holding the book close, intaking its almost archaic essence with every breath, I remind myself. Remind myself of the heart I still have. Remind myself that my strength can weaken somewhere.
The black stone with its jagged crack running down the center
sat in the two halves of the Snitch. The Resurrection Stone had
cracked down the vertical line representing the Elder Wand. The
triangle and circle representing the Cloak and the stone were still
And again Harry understood without having to think. It did
not matter about bringing them back, for he was about to join
them. He was not really fetching them: They were fetching him.
He closed his eyes and turned the stone over in his hand three
He knew it had happened, because he heard slight movements
around him that suggested frail bodies shifting their footing on
the earthly, twig-strewn ground that marked the outer edge of the
forest. He opened his eyes and looked around.
They were neither ghost nor truly flesh, he could see that. They
resembled most closely the Riddle that had escaped from the diary
so long ago, and he had been memory made nearly solid. Less
substantial than living bodies, but much more than ghosts, they
moved toward him, and on each face, there was the same loving
James was exactly the same height as Harry. He was wearing
the clothes in which he had died, and his hair was untidy and
ruffled, and his glasses were a little lopsided, like Mr. Weasley’s.
Sirius was tall and handsome, and younger by far than Harry
had seen him in life. He loped with an easy grace, his hands in his
pockets and a grin on his face.
Lupin was younger too, and much less shabby, and his hair was
thicker and darker. He looked happy to be back in this familiar
place, scene of so many adolescent wanderings.
Lily’s smile was widest of all. She pushed her long hair back as
she drew close to him, and her green eyes, so like his, searched his
face hungrily, as though she would never be able to look at him
“You’ve been so brave.”
He could not speak. His eyes feasted on her, and he thought
that he would like to stand and look at her forever, and that would
be enough.
“You are nearly there,” said James. “Very close. We are . . . so
proud of you.”
“Does it hurt?”
The childish question had fallen from Harry’s lips before he
could stop it.
“Dying? Not at all,” said Sirius. “Quicker and easier than
falling asleep.”
“And he will want it to be quick. He wants it over,” said Lupin.
“I didn’t want you to die,” Harry said. These words came
without his volition. “Any of you. I’m sorry—”
He addressed Lupin more than any of them, beseeching him.
“—right after you’d had your son . . . Remus, I’m sorry—”
“I am sorry too,” said Lupin. “Sorry I will never know
him . . . but he will know why I died and I hope he will understand.
I was trying to make a world in which he could live a happier life.”
A chilly breeze that seemed to emanate from the heart of the
forest lifted the hair at Harry’s brow. He knew that they would
not tell him to go, that it would have to be his decision.
“You’ll stay with me?”
“Until the very end,” said James.
“They won’t be able to see you?” asked Harry.
“We are part of you,” said Sirius. “Invisible to anyone else.”
Harry looked at his mother.
“Stay close to me,” he said quietly.
And he self off. The dementors’ chill did not overcome him;
he passed through it with his companions, and they acted like
Patronuses to him, and together they marched through the old
trees that grew closely together, their branches tangled, their roots
gnarled and twisted underfoot. Harry clutched the Cloak tightly
around him in the darkness, traveling deeper and deeper into the
forest, with no idea where exactly Voldemort was, but sure that
he would find him. Beside him, making scarcely a sound, walked
James, Sirius, Lupin, and Lily, and their presence was his courage,
and the reason he was about to keep putting one foot in front of
the other.
His body and mind felt oddly disconnected now, his limbs working
without conscious instruction, as if he were passenger, not
driver, in the body he was about to leave. The dead who walked
beside him through the forest were much more real to him now
that the living back at the castle: Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and all
the others were the ones who felt like ghosts as he stumbled and
slipped toward the end of his life, toward Voldemort. . . . 

Wrapped in work, and hunger-struck,


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