Title: In The Light of Power
Author: Loony4lupin
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: Light R for language
Warnings: DH Spoilers, some swearing, first person, and a light, barely, if you squint H/G but only because it’s canon.
Prompt: 149. Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that frightens us most. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and famous?' Actually, who are you NOT to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that people won't feel insecure around you. -- Maryanne Williamson.
Summary: -Love does not stop; it may go dormant in times but will not be laid to rest completely. And the power that it gives is truly enough to save the world if we are willing to embrace it.- I would really like to think my beta for this piece such-heights. I would have been lost without the help since I have never written anything like this before. Feedback is really appreciated. Enjoy.
Some nights I can’t breathe.
It pulls me out of sleep, dreamless and drugged, to the sticky wet heat of my room. The moonlight streaming in without permission. I gasp for breath, my chest heaving and my fingers clenching and releasing the sheets.
I wish there were a mirror above my bed, so I could see what I looked like in blue.
It reminds me of a muggle film I watched at Hermione’s…. Something about Africa, oh it doesn’t really matter now but the heroine was beautiful, and she wore blue the day the Nazi’s rolled their tanks into Paris.
I wore blue the day The Boy Who Lived took my brother and my best friend away.
And now I wear it on my skin, I can imagine the way my face looks; contorted, wrinkles at the crease of my eyes and my brow furrowed and high, my mouth hanging open with a taunt jaw, my teeth exposed- trying to escape the lack of oxygen.
Just for a moment, a lovely moment, I feel the life leave my body. And I feel free. Released from the burden of life, because I don’t know how to live my life now. I’m a tangle of motions but not one action. I am limp and unrecognizable.
And I am currently walking down the stairs of my parent’s house for a cup of tea.
I love the way the floor boards creak. It’s ironic, how as a child I would creep with as much stealth as my youthful body could attain down these stairs, praying that my feet wouldn’t hit the creaks and wake my mother, even if it was only for a glass of water. Because it was a game and I loved to win. Eventually, I memorized the inner workings of these stairs and my body would naturally avoid the spots of noise without thought. Now as I walk down the stairs, my night dress clinging to the backs of my thighs, I deliberately walk on every part of every board that I know will creak.
But nobody in this house stirs.
Part of me wants so desperately for my mum to come barreling down the stairs, and hold me and make me tea and for once in almost a year, we would talk about me. We would talk about how I never eat anymore and how I spend all my time in the garden, digging up plants that always grow back against all my efforts, or how I can’t breathe or how I have yet to open the letter that is stuffed between my mattresses that was given to me so long ago by Dumbledore.
Part of me wants her to stay in bed, wrapped around Dad, because she is unworried and if she had any idea what was going on with me, it would probably send her into serious heart palpitations. She has enough to worry about. All her babies are off fighting a dangerous war, they all have a purpose that is more frightening then anything she has ever known, except maybe Grandma Weasley… and I…
Well, I’m here… getting a spot of tea from the kitchen of my childhood home. Alone.
The fact that we are in the house at all is a surprise. We’ve been moving locations every few weeks to throw off the scent of the Ministry. I idly wonder how Hogwarts is doing with the Carrows punishing everything that moves and Snape whirling around like an over grown bat but part of me is glad to be away from all of that, even if it is un-Gryffindor like. It was hard to be there without… well, without people who ought to be there.
The house's cooling charms are slowly wearing off, making the upper levels of the house unbearable. Who has the time to recast them when I’m the only one who spends any amount of time here? Even though Dad stopped going to the Ministry months ago, he spends most of his time helping what’s left of the Order or messing around with muggle contraptions, watching Mum worry takes its toll on him too.
But the kitchen is completely different from the rest of the house; a cool breeze is sweeping in from the window above the sink, making the curtains flutter and the tiles feel so nice against my bare feet. And for one moment, everything seems all right. My eyes slide shut as I enjoy the tingle of coolness and the breeze in my hair. The smell of summer is here and it lingers on my senses, seeping into my skin until it its my brain and I slowly process.
It’s almost my birthday, in only a few months I will be 17.
I shake my head to clear my thoughts; because they have often been betraying me. They seem to stray from me, taking their own turn into places that I can not deal with right now. I just can’t do it. A stab of fear shoots through my chest and resonates in my toes, warming the tile there and dulling the pleasure I felt only moments ago.
The clock that normally resides in the living area chimes twelve times, for now it’s sitting in an abandoned knitting basket upon the kitchen table, the sounds are the only true normality of the clock, and the hands do not tell the time. No, not at all. Each hand of the worn clock, a clock that seems to define our family, is piled onto Mortal Peril. It’s crowded, and the hands bend forward to accommodate all the names… all except one.
My own hand, my name in my mother’s neat handwriting, is not where the number twelve should be. My name is pointed at lost. It had been at lost since just after Bill’s wedding. And no one but me has noticed. Even though my mum carries the worn clock around with her as she bustles, doing laundry that is not dirty and cleaning dishes that aren’t plagued with bits of food; her only concern is on the hands that move. Not on the ones that stay stationary.
Me and my purgatory. Bugger off.
It’s not that Mum doesn’t care, because I know she does. But she knows I’m not going anywhere, can’t really. I’ve got a trace on my wand and anyone working for Voldemort would love to get their hands on me, blood traitor and mouthy brat. I know I can’t go anywhere, which I didn’t before; before Christmas when me and Mum would have rows every two or three days about me leaving Hogwarts and then about me going to find Ron. But now that I’ve accepted my pitiful life, Mum can relax and worry about people whose lives are in danger. Certainly not mine… if I truly had one.
I turn away from the sounds of the clock, towards the stove where a brass kettle lay; a kettle that has comforted more souls then probably the whole of Britain. Every scraped knee, broken bone, prank gone wrong, crushed heart and pretty much everybody on this side of the war has met this kettle in one way or another. Moody got it in the head, after he blew up the front door during the Order meeting before he died, because he thought it was cursed.
My heart twitches a bit in memory of him, but I’ve grown too tired mourning for those who are already gone.
I pull my wand from behind my ear and tap the kettle idly.
But the kettle doesn’t stir.
And so I tap it again, with a whispered spell… maybe it’s getting too old for non verbal. But the kettle doesn’t whistle, nor does it steam with boiling water. It sits on the stove as if I have done nothing to it but tap it with a stick.
The kitchen seems to narrow exponentially. And my whole world contains my hand, a piece of wood and this kettle. A kettle that has never betrayed me, a constant supporter of my heart and my childhood won’t respond. I feel empty and my skin seems to be burning, the heat is unbearable and before I can stop it my lungs are heaving. I can see my face contorting in the reflection of the kettle and I feel like a volcano is erupting in my stomach. All I can see is blinding lights and the room swirling, the dull pain in my knees from hitting the ground seems distanced, as if I was having sympathy pains, before I feel pain in my chest as if someone was pounding on the inside of my chest cavity, starving for oxygen. And the flow of unfamiliar magic courses through my body like wild horses.
*
The light peels in from the windows as I open my eyes and rub my knee cap. I can see the bruise start to form, even if it has only been a few hours. The newly risen sun is casting warm sunlight into the kitchen and my eyes slowly adjust to the light.
I cannot believe my eyes. There are hundreds of cups of tea… everywhere in the kitchen. I can see the pantry bursting with the clanking of china and I can not see the table top between all the cups and saucers.
What the hell happened?
The clock on the table chimes five times and my eyes are drawn to the moving of my hand on the clock. It is a subtle movement, almost unrecognizable, but I can feel it. My hand has moved two ticks towards home.
Two ticks away from lost.
And not five hours ago I lost control of my magic and conjured about a hundred tea cups while I was unconscious.
If anyone were in the kitchen right now, I would ask them how the hell that made sense. I can’t decide whether I want to cry or rage, but I don’t have any time to decide, because if I don’t clean up all these bloody tea cups someone will come down those stairs and know. Know that I am losing my mind. And my magic. And that maybe the war won’t kill me with a bright green light but the subtle slip of sanity and the knife of inadequacy may.
I search the floor with sweeping eyes until I find my wand, poking out underneath a cabinet. The wood is old and worn, my finger prints almost embedded into it. It was my own wand, not a hand me down, because boys wands don’t work very well with girl magic. Or at least that was what Mum had said when I had entered Hogwarts and bought me my own wand.
I close my eyes, flick my wand and say “Evanesco”. And my eyes open to find all the tea cups smirking back at me. This is worse than I thought. Why can't I make them disappear? Why can't I get rid of the evidence of my unraveling? Why?
I repeat the incantation, clearly… almost with anger. But it doesn't change the result and I feel my frustration building. This isn't supposed to happen to me. What is this?
The hot sting of tears only causes me to flick my wand sharper and say my words louder, firmer. With the same blank reaction… they say the definition of insanity is repeating an action multiple times while expecting a different result. I remember teasing Hermione that maybe the method of insanity wasn’t the best to use for Ron.
She said she couldn’t help it. And now I can’t either.
I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, the pain in my arm is fierce from all the waving and flicking until I can’t control the cramping in my fingers and my wand soars across the room and hits a clock off the wall. In silent desperation, I wish the tea cups away and I feel it again; invading my body and coursing through like lava.
“Ginny?” My eyes snap at the sound of my mum’s voice. She is standing at the foot of the stairs, her face a picture of concern for her only daughter, in her worn night gown and fluffy slippers. She doesn’t even say a thing about my tea cups.
Because there are none. They’ve gone.
I can’t help but gaze in wonder and confusion around the room. Because it all seems so unbelievable, I wished them away; like some muggle on a star. And it worked.
“Ginny, darling, are you okay?” Mum’s voice brings me back to her face, which is now so much closer to mine, her fingers tracing my hair line. I cannot stand her touch, so gentle in a time of so much confusion.
“I- I’d like some tea.” The words escape my mouth before I can even vocalize my emotions. She just nods and taps the kettle. I struggle to keep standing.
*
Most of the day has passed without me leaving my room. After tea this morning, I quickly excused myself before Mum had a chance to question me about my behavior or the broken clock. I clattered up the stairs so fast; I left my wand lying on the ground just feet away from the scattered pieces of the clock.
Not that it matters, since I can’t seem to use my wand anymore.
The sun is just now setting, slowly releasing its unrelenting hold on the temperature of the day. I can almost hear my body sigh in relief, the heat in my room had been sweltering all day and now that the sun was slowly setting a cool breeze was starting to pick up and stumble through my open window.
I let out a sigh and haul myself off my bed, peeling the sticky t-shirt over my head and tugging my muggle shorts off. No one will see me, what does it matter if I’m in my unmentionables? I laugh at the thought of mum barging into my room to see me hanging out the window in my knickers.
But the laughter dies in my throat. Mum doesn’t really have time to go barging around into any place these days. She’s up at all hours of the night with the Order and when she is home, she spends too much time cleaning about the house to release tension that she hardly notices her daughter. Not that I really mind. It’s just that, I’m so used to the nagging that the silence is deafening.
The feeling of loneliness that I’ve been pushing away all day has finally broken through; I can feel it settle in my bones. I curl my legs closer to me on the sill of the window, running my fingers over the grain of the wood. Part of the house that used to never be silent seems to chant comforting tones to keep its occupants from going mad.
I’m not sure it’s really helping but the breeze has picked up and the sky has turned a wonderful sort of purple. The tops of the trees seem to glow orange as the darkness seeps into the sky. And for some reason, Luna Lovegood slips into the forefront of my mind. Where have they taken her?
I wonder if she would sit at her house on days like this and think about everybody… or desperately try not to, like I do. Or would her days have been busy with writing stories for the Quibbler? Maybe she would write in her diary, the one with purple lace all about it that she had at school… I find myself missing her company. I haven’t seen her since they took her away on the train. The look of her eyes, still so bright and hopeful is imbedded in my mind. How someone could still feel alive when our world is filled with such consuming filth is beyond me, how she could still look like there was something left to fight for when they were taking her away is beyond my comprehension.
So many things are these days. Like whether Luna is dead, whether she has paid for her loyalty in blood.
I close my eyes and try for the life of me to stifle the feeling of faith, the urge for action. My mind seems to chant some times when it wonders where and why and how; I do not have control. I need to open the letter. But I dismiss it again, and as my fingers dare me to reach between the mattresses and pull out the small white envelope, I quickly dart further down. I reach underneath my bed a pull out a pack of cloves.
Part of me wants to put it back, because it is the last pack I have. Who knows when Tonks will be around again to buy more, being a mother now… I hardly see her and her letters are written in haste and the meaning behind her words are always the same: There is nothing I can tell you to make things better, so it’s better if I say nothing at all.
Every once in a while though, a line about her and Lupin and their new born son, Teddy, will creep in and it almost makes the sun shine hit my skin. But a thought that often accompanies Teddy blocks out the son, how Lupin has asked Harry to the Godfather and how he has accepted. I hate them just a bit, because Tonks didn’t even bother to note anything about the exchange.
But the thought of Teddy’s Godfather makes me decide against being good, even if it is for conservation of my rebellion. A deep breath and I’m scurrying around my room looking for my muggle lighter, an unlit clove in my left hand.
I find it in an old shoe, probably from the last time I smoked, out by the garden when I had seen an owl too familiar to bare anything but bad news.
Settling back into the windowsill I light my clove, closing my eyes to the burn of hot orange and the crackle of the burning paper; I inhale, the stick putting the most soothing pressure on my lips, letting the smoke dance in my lungs. I hold it until it burns, letting the smoke out slowly. It is a thick gray, so light against the twilight and as I close my eyes, finally allowing my mind to truly think about what is happening to my magic.
This unfamiliar magic… what is it? And I can’t stop myself from wondering… who’s is it? A shudder runs down my spine at the thought of someone else’s magic pumping through my blood. Could it be?
A picture of Harry fills my mind as if it has always been there; waiting for me to realize its significance in this puzzle I call my life. And I begin to think of all the shivers in the sunlight, all the awakenings in the dark with feelings and images I could not explain, of all the intuition and green I’ve been experiencing over the last year…
Not possible. I shake my head, as if the simple jostling of my head will make the thoughts… magic escape.
My clove is almost done, the orange glow terribly close to the filter and my chubby hands. I never had long, slender hands like the rest of my family. My hands don’t even look female; they look as if they belong to a boy. Plump but calloused, small but round. They don’t really match my body.
I snub the filter out onto the sill and flick it into the night air. I watch it tumble to the ground, I can almost make it out in the grass below me, right next to he over grown shrub that likes to eat rabbits. And I am idly reminded of a picture in a book Luna once showed me. It was a picture of a woman who had just leapt from a muggle sky scrapper, and had fallen to her death. Her limbs were buckled and blood seeped from her head like a halo. But the picture focused more on the look on her face; one of complete bliss.
I wonder if it had to do with the final feeling of the wind across her face before she closed her eyes and made impact.
I long to feel the cool wind against my face again, but flying is out of the question; even I am not wound tight enough to ignore the safety issues with it. But that does not stop the intense longing, the feeling of belonging. The groove of the broom between my thighs and the glide on my palms around it; in complete control of what I’m doing and where I’m going; I have yet to find something that quite compares.
Well… that I can hold onto and won’t leave me.
I refuse to acknowledge the tears. I am so tired. But the night has just now settled around the Burrow, I love it when it’s like this; alive with sounds and shadows. It’s the only time I don’t feel alone. The fact that Mum only knocked on my door once today, to see if there was any post and Dad not at all seem to echo my thoughts of…
I’m honestly not sure how long I can keep this up… or why.
I can feel the letter hum at me from between the mattresses. But I refuse to let it have the satisfaction of my distress, so I sit and stare into the dark sky. The starts truly are beautiful here, away from the lights of the city. It is clean and innocent here, where toads and crickets make noise steadily in the night with always the promise of dawn and a pristine layer of dew. As if the sins of the day before had been washed away, leaving a blank canvas for the day.
But I don’t wake up with a fresh layer of dew. I am not forgiven. I cannot be trusted. I cannot be endangered. I cannot use my wand and I am certainly not in control of my own magic any more.
I slip off the sill and walk to my bed without purpose.
What will I wake up to in the morning? An empty house filled with empty memories or even worse… a full house with empty people?
My last passing thoughts are of green eyes and tea.
*
The smell of food brings me out of my sleep.
The sun is barely streaming through the windows and there are noises in the kitchen. Familiar… but distant and I scramble to my feet and throw on yesterday’s clothes, too hot for a robe and bound to the door. I pause.
My wand is downstairs… I’m defenseless.
It is only a flutter of a thought before I’m moving down the stairs, barely paying attention to the creeks in the floor boards.
The kitchen door is cracked and the sliver of space reveals someone unexpected.
Charlie.
I hope it is Charlie, doubt crashes into my mind like a thousand tiny splinters. My heart is pumping blood into my ears as he prods the stove with his wand, presumably stirring his breakfast. If I barge in asking questions, I will have no way to defend my self from the answers that I dread. My sweaty palms slide against the jam and my feet twist in anticipation.
Only one thing for it then.
I burst threw the door but move no more than the table and as Charlie jumps to spin towards me, wand raised…
I wish it out of his hands and into mine.
The feel of the wand in my hand is oddly comforting, beside the fact that I have no use for it. And I only slightly marvel at the fact it worked before pointing it at Charlie.
“Gin-“ His voice is tight and surprised. Did he expect no one? Or perhaps someone else?
“Prove it.” My voice is strong and out of place in the cozy kitchen, the sun lazily streaming through the window and the sounds of birds chirping seem to complete the scene. Charlie’s wearing an apron. He blinks in response to my question and raises and eye brow at me.
“You’ve got a scar on your hip, that you tell everybody was from when you fell off your broom as a kid. But really, it’s from when you fought off that git in the Chamber.”
My arm relaxes. I only told Charlie what happened in that Chamber. I throw his wand back to him and slump into the nearest chair.
“What are you doing here?” I can’t keep the edge out of my voice and I faintly wonder when I lost that ability as well.
“I should ask you the same, sis.” Charlie turns back to his cooking, quickly plating two servings of breakfast before sitting down next to me. I watch him move his wand lazily, summoning tea from the stove and juice from the counter.
I can only stare blankly at my plate before meeting Charlie’s eye. He has not changed at all since I last saw him. He is a bit thinner, always being rather short and stocky but his eyes still glint and burns on his arms always make him look more handsome then ugly, although on any other man I think it would be different.
“I didn’t expect anyone else to be here.” I can only raise my eyebrows. Where has my voice gone? “Well, Mum said I’d have the house to myself for a while.”
I can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes me, I take a sip of tea before meeting Charlie’s concerned eye.
“I guess I’m not really here enough for her either.” I tip my head toward the clock, positioned on the floor next to the egg collecting basket where Mum must have left it earlier this morning, which is still stuck between ‘home’ and ‘lost’. I study his face… his brows knit together and the half smile that is always on his face slides off and part of me is glad. Part of me is happy someone notices that I’m not… well, that I’m not what I should be.
“What-“
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I stab a piece of bacon with my fork, but only push it around on the plate watching it make paths in the grease.
“Nonsense.” A sudden rush of anger floods through me and I slam my fork down and find myself narrowing my eyes at my older brother, for in his own right, looks slightly scared.
“Don’t fuck with me, Charlie. Now is not the time… I can even… I can even-“ And I’m in tears. Not the kind of silent tears, no. The wailing, screaming, lung wrenching tears that rack my whole body with huge convulsions and I’m banging my hands against the table.
But Charlie doesn’t move to comfort me. He sits beside me and watches me implode.
Minutes or hours could have gone by… I cannot remember, only feel the burn of magic familiar but not my own flicker through my body and I will it to behave. But eventually the tears have stopped falling and although my breaths are shaky, they are complete. My vision is blurry with wetness but Charlie is still there. I wipe my face with my hand, noting the red and swollen palms.
“I can’t control my magic.” It’s a whisper. Do I really want to tell him? Do I want to tell him I can feel someone else’s magic humming inside my body? And that I can no longer use my wand any more?
His hand covers mine.
“I can feel…” I can feel my chest grow tight. If I finish this sentence, it makes it real… do I want this to be real yet?
It’s been almost a year now. War is about as real as I can get.
“I can feel someone else’s magic…” Charlie’s face is alight with fear and he squeezes my hand, I sudden feel like I should assure him. “Not like Tom’s, no. It’s different, Charlie. Not like someone is draining my power as much as… I don’t know, sharing?”
My voice is foreign in my ears. Who is this girl sitting next to my brother?
I’m not sure what I expect Charlie to say, or do for that matter. He’s dropped in from Romania for peace and quiet and here I am with my magic and my issues and my nothingness just erupting in his hands like a badly made Muggle science project my father tried to get me to make when I was the only sibling left in the house, the year Ron went off and met Harry Potter.
The year I met Harry.
But I guess I didn’t expect Charlie to do nothing but nod his head twice and get up, not letting my hand go and completely ignoring my protests as he drags me out of my chair and through the back door into our garden that I have been mangling in tension relief. It still looks as if it has never been touched. He leads me past the pond and to the broom shed.
A place I haven’t been since the day before they left, without saying a damn goodbye.
We are silent as we sort through brooms. Charlie manages to find his Comet from his Hogwarts years and I… well I manage to find Ron’s Cleansweep. Did he forget to take it? It doesn’t matter now, but I’d like to think it mattered to him at the time. Even though it is insignificant in the grand scheme of war and survival, I’m it would have made him happy to have it. Charlie leads the way out of the shed and towards the field where we used to play Quidditch as a family. The sun is warm and gentle, not yet high in the sky and smoldering. We mount our brooms simultaneously.
Charlie’s hand finds my shoulder, his long calloused fingers curve and grip the edge of my collar bone underneath my shirt. His eyes are masked by the sunlight but the ends of his mouth are clearly visible in a lopsided smile.
And we take off.
For the first time in so long, I can’t breathe and I love it.
I can’t say how long we flew or even if we did anything but fly fast and hard without a purpose in the world.
But I guess that maybe I realized that there is a purpose and a choice…
An Order patronus interrupts our flight but I don’t get the achy feelings of regret and anger that usually accompanies the flight of one of my companions. The smile tugs at my face and Charlie sets off to the wall to the distant apparition point with a look of concern and only a busy apology to me.
I can’t really stop smiling as I make my way into the kitchen, pulling off my sweaty clothes and setting them into the hamper. There is no one here to scoff at my nakedness. I walk up the stairs, lightly, as if I were trying to keep a secret from the house, and turn into the bathroom. A shower sounds good.
The hot water feels wonderful on my skin and I allow myself to close my eyes, imagine how his hands would follow the droplets as the roll down my skin. And my body hums with magic. Deep and green and wonderfully comforting. I wash my hair twice, covering myself with shampoo that I know he likes. Not that it will make a difference, but it’s a choice I like making.
The walk to my room is nice; the warm breeze that floats through the Burrow and dries what water is left on my body.
My room is disorderly, clothes are strewn everywhere. I quickly pick through them, a green t-shirt and jeans will do fine. They hang loose on my body but I’m not sure anyone will really notice that detail until it’s all said and done.
It.
I can feel the smile tug again at my lips and I let it envelop my whole face. Maybe it’s time for me to stop hiding. I let the magic build in me and before I know it, my clothes are magically put away and a rucksack is in my hands, full with clothes and supplies for a week or so.
The only thing left is the letter.
My hand pulls the letter out from beneath the mattress before my magic can. It’s funny how one afternoon can get me calling these feelings scorching through me my own magic. But it is, it’s our magic. A magic we made together when he decided he deserved love and I willfully gave him mine. And I think of that as I watch my hand pull the muggle lighter out of the night stand…. And watch the letter go up in flames.
Dumbledore’s handwriting curls with the black and orange flames. It’s good to be free.
I wonder if Joan of Arc felt this way before she led herself into battle. I don’t need anyone to tell me that he needs me to save the world. I don’t need anyone to tell me that the fate of the rest of the world might actually stand on my decision to go, if only to see him, to inspire some sort of sanity and maybe some sort of future.
A letter from an old man will not make the knowledge in my heart any truer.
I let my feet take me to the apparition point in front of the house. But before I can even say goodbye to my childhood, Fred and George appear trying to explain in rapid twinspeak about how Harry is at Hogwarts and a battle of massive proportions is brewing.
But I made the decision before I was summoned. I make all my decisions now.
Yes. I think now was the perfect time to conclude that I really would like to be the hero. I am so much more than a princess in a tower…
I’m going to save the world.
N OTE: JK hates me. In book two she says that the family clock with all the names is a grandfather clock but on page 85 of the American Hard Cover version of HBP she states that this clock hangs on the sitting room wall. Take it all for what you will. Also, the concept of Ginny and Harry sharing magic is not canon. But I would like to think that love was what kept Harry going in the darkest of moments
