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Horror strikes him down where he stands, then. He sways, stumbles to put his back to the living room wall. Harry is woozy in disbelief, watching the two words slashed into his chest in livid red just like the scar on his forehead. ‘AVADA KEDAVRA.’
He knows those words, the first he can remember, his earliest memory. It feels like he hasn’t breathed in minutes. When he comes back to the moment, he finds that perhaps he hasn’t. Harry gasps for air like a fish does for water, and doesn’t find it. His back has slid down the wall somehow and his hands grip his head, hair clenched in fists.
Then he realizes he’s actually panting, a ringing in his ears, blocking out whatever it is people are saying to him. Hermione crouches in front of him where he can’t possibly miss her, palms settling gently on his knees.
“Harry,” she’s saying. “Harry, it’s going to be alright.”
How?
How can it ever possibly be alright again?
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In a world where the first words you ever speak to your soulmate appear once both soulmates have turned seventeen, Harry receives a bit of bad news.
OR
In which Harry fashions himself into a war bride.
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Que hermosoooo omg!!
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