Dear Old 2008.

By quite an unusual stroke, I first present to you a poem not written by me.Robert W. Service,the poet, bids adieu to the Old Year in a way I never possibly could .This touching poem encompasses how optimists and pessimists view the transition from the year gone by, to the year yearning to be unveiled.This is dedicated to Year 2008, with its rollercoaster experiences of love, sorrow, pain and joy.

Goodbye, 2008.Goodbye forever.

My glass is filled, my pipe is lit,
My den is all a cosy glow;
And snug before the fire I sit,
And wait to feel the old year go.
I dedicate to solemn thought
Amid my too-unthinking days,
This sober moment, sadly fraught
With much of blame, with little praise.

Old Year! upon the Stage of Time
You stand to bow your last adieu;
A moment, and the prompter's chime
Will ring the curtain down on you.
Your mien is sad, your step is slow;
You falter as a Sage in pain;
Yet turn, Old Year, before you go,
And face your audience once again.

That sphinx-like face, remote, austere,
Let us all read, whate'er the cost:
O Maiden! why that bitter tear?
Is it for dear one you have lost?
Is it for fond illusion gone?
For trusted lover proved untrue?
O sweet girl-face, so sad, so wan
What hath the Old Year meant to you?

And you, O neighbour on my right
So sleek, so prosperously clad!
What see you in that aged wight
That makes your smile so gay and glad?
What opportunity unmissed?
What golden gain, what pride of place?
What splendid hope? O Optimist!
What read you in that withered face?

And You, deep shrinking in the gloom,
What find you in that filmy gaze?
What menace of a tragic doom?
What dark, condemning yesterdays?
What urge to crime, what evil done?
What cold, confronting shape of fear?
O haggard, haunted, hidden One
What see you in the dying year?

And so from face to face I flit,
The countless eyes that stare and stare;
Some are with approbation lit,
And some are shadowed with despair.
Some show a smile and some a frown;
Some joy and hope, some pain and woe:
Enough! Oh, ring the curtain down!
Old weary year! it's time to go.

My pipe is out, my glass is dry;
My fire is almost ashes too;
But once again, before you go,
And I prepare to meet the New:
Old Year! a parting word that's true,
For we've been comrades, you and I --
I thank God for each day of you;
There! bless you now! Old Year, good-bye!

A Lazy Dreamer

I came up with this silly, little poem the other day.Enjoy!

I want to be the owner of a Mercedes
Wear a pretty dress, dine at Hotel Ritz
Want to hear A.R. Rahman performing live,
Smell the best in fragrance-Chanel No. 5

Dream to be a writer by profession
There goes my blunt confession
Own a house in the heart of London,
And wear costly jewels by the ton

Learn French and off to Paris for a holiday,
Perhaps a shopping spree in the month of May?
Would love to do all this, maybe a lot more
‘Cause then, you see, life would never be a bore

The only problem which can here be devised
Is the great need for my budget to be revised
For only the richest can afford true luxury,
But I'm no Oprah Winfrey, as you can see!

The Necromancer

The crooked alley led through two neat rows of cottages with white-washed walls, which stood facing each other. Streetlamps with rusty, brass handles dotted the way, some so old that they served no purpose at all. Yet, they were left undisturbed by the aged—a feeble attempt to preserve their fading memory of a fairy-tale like countryside village that Vidalia had ceased to be.
Vidalia, a small village in the Eastern countryside of New England had been a dream vacation getaway, frequented by nature-loving tourists who had come down each summer in unbelievably large numbers.
Not anymore, though. With changing times came a fresh batch of “modern” residents who turned the cheery village into a seat of crime; Vidalia wasn’t safe anymore. Gone were the days when it could lure many a wide-eyed traveller with the fascinating, old-world simplicity it had retained for so long.
In the present, brutal murders and ambitious dacoities had bred fear and mistrust among the villagers, who now resorted to padlocking their doors with the coming of darkness. Even the most adventurous knew better than to step out after sunset.
Just like any other night, the streets were fairly deserted, save one individual. He was a tall, lean man with deep-set eyes, the fingers of his left hand curled around a silver bell, which rang shrilly at fixed intervals.
He turned a corner then paused hesitantly. His brows knitted together as he strained to see in the faint moonlight.
The cottages cast eerily elongated shadows on the road. A short distance ahead, he could make out a sturdy wooden fence—the lone demarcation between the village and the sprawling, wild countryside that stretched beyond.
The man stood still, considering. He rang the bell testily, his eyes observing. All of a sudden, he started and took a step back. He had sensed a spirit, lurking just beyond his vision, in the opaque darkness.
A few moments lapsed.
Mouthing a silent prayer, the man shut his eyes, took a deep breath and gulped. Normally, he would not be out at a time like this.
Tonight was different.

NIGHTMARE

I wrote the following "story" a few months ago, on a momentary whim.It was just one of those sudden,weird ideas,really-thoughts that "jump" into my head at a moments notice.

Critics observed that the story is inspired,albeit unconsciously, by an old Uttam Kumar film. Want to decide for yourself? Please read on...

She saw him, again.

Even as his mouth transformed into a long, needle-like shape, his entire face seemed to contour into a sinister, mocking smile. The now familiar pair of greedy eyes spoke of the inevitable danger as the dark figure stole towards her across the cold floor, overwhelmed by the desire to suck out every drop of blood circulating through her veins...
She let out a piercing scream that echoed through the empty night.

Early next morning, a young woman hurried down a New York sidewalk. With every step she took, she put up a fierce protest against the powerful wind that threatened to push her back.
The woman was Violet Isabel, a brown-eyed, raven-tressed damsel who spent the hours of daylight working as a lobby-receptionist at the grand Hilton hotel in Times Square and whiled away the better part of the night on the dance floor of elite clubs. From time to time, she glanced down at her wrist watch anxiously, a deep frown etched across her forehead. Lack of sleep the night before had left unsightly dark circles under soft, brown eyes, which shone with some secret fear.
Fifteen minutes later, the lights in a posh residential building were switched on.
“I’m glad you called, but at such an unearthly hour…” Dr. Jones spoke, his voice trailing off into uncertainty.
Miss Isabel was lucky, and she knew it. It was very seldom that a psychologist as renowned as Dr. Jones took so much interest in a case. So much so that they did not mind allowing the patient into the privacy of their home even in early morning, hours before the door of his chamber were opened to the usual crowd.

“Doctor, I am terribly sorry to disturb you” she said apologetically. “I simply had to see you. I saw IT again.”
These seemingly simple words had a dramatic effect on Dr. Jones.
An electrical excitement ran down his spine and he looked into her frightened eyes intently. Miss Isabel had been coming to him for a month now, with complaints of a terrible sight that left her sweating uncontrollably even on chilly, winter nights.

"Must have been pretty real, to have sent her running to me without any care for the time or place."
Even as he thought, he sprang up from his chair and bolted the gaping door behind him.
“I have no intentions of adding to your fear, Miss Isabel”, he explained, on turning around just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of renewed anxiety in the brown eyes. “I closed the door as assurance to discuss this serious matter away from anyone listening on the sly and also to, err, protect you from any devil waiting by the door with a raised dagger”
Violet permitted herself a faint smile.
“I am terribly ashamed of my cowardice, Doctor”; she said “I was terrorized by what I saw---“
“By what you think you saw” the psychologist corrected her. “For all the evidence you have, it might be nothing but a stupid nightmare after some hardcore drinking at one of the clubs you frequent, I suppose”
Had he said this a couple of weeks ago, Violet would have turned the brightest shade of tomato-red. But now, intense fear had erased almost every other emotion from her system. She looked into the doctor’s eyes pleadingly.
“You may think I’m imagining it, and it’s some sort of disease, but, believe me, Doctor, it was surreal. If only you knew what it feels like to look into the cruel eyes of someone about to kill you...and that needle-like thing in place of his mouth-one moment, he was smiling like a mad man, the next moment, his mouth transformed into a sharp needle, like...like...”
“Like this?” Dr. Jones inquired, advancing towards the slender figure resting on the patient’s chair, just as his mouth gradually transfigured into a long, needle-like form, his eyes blazing with the familiar feeling of uncontrollable greed...

That Night. (Continued)

Part IV

"Is everything okay,Officer?"

The sharp panic in Grandma's voice pricked through my numb senses, like hot iron on frozen flesh.

"Apparently,no".said Mr. Stuart, of the local police station.

Mr. Stuart had arrived a quarter of an hour ago,but it felt as though weeks had passed since I'd run into Dad in the corridor.Failing to recognize him in the dark, I'd thought the man at the window was after me!

As I was told later,Dad had woken up at my terrified screams and rushed out to see what had happened.
"The way you shrieked- I nearly jumped out of my skin! I thought you were dying" he now says.

After an unsuccessful search for the man in my bedroom,the entire family(for my screams had spared none-not even Tabby,the house cat),rushed out into the garden for one last try.

There we found him.

He was resting against the wall by my window,his eyes shut as though fast asleep.

I don't remember well,but that's probably when Mom called the police.

"Here,we found this in the coat pocket"said Mr. Stuart,placing something small on Dad's open palm.
It was a yellow torch.
Beads of sweat trickled down from my forehead.Something seemed to turn in my stomach.

"We also went through his bag",Mr. Stuart continued "Found a water container and an empty food can.We believe he was travelling far.had been walking a great deal, by the terrible state of his shoes", he added with a dry chuckle.

"Who is he?" Mom asked.

For some reason, my hands felt hot and sweaty.

"Was" The officer corrected Mom. "The man was completely exhausted when he came here.Looks like he wanted to rest in the garden.The experts' been checking him.Says he's been dead for at least four hours.Over fatigue suspected",he said impassively, as though he'd just been commenting on the weather.

"But,I thought you said he was at your window less than an hour ago?"Grandma's said,looking into my face.Her voice sounded strange and distant,though she was sitting right beside me.Her face strained to feign calmness.

I tried to nod,but my head wouldn't move.I thought of the stranger at the window,the steely gaze of a man who was supposed to be dead and cold.

Something sour oozed up my throat.I threw up on the carpet.

That Night (Continued)

Part - III

Seconds later, or so it seemed, I had the distinct feeling of being poked in the eyes with red hot ambers. I sat up on bed with a startle and looked around wildly, scanning the room for the sleep-depraving source of light. As the object in question gradually zoomed into focus, I stared.
A few feet from where I lay was the face of a stranger, looking in through the window.
My first thought was that my friends,those idiots,were playing some stupid joke on me.Squinting in the harsh light, however, a mere glance at the face ruled out the sweet possibility of my friends sneaking up to the house in the middle of the night,hoping to "scare the living daylights out of me".
It was the face of a man, the collars of his coat turned up to hide all but his steely, grey eyes, his raised hand gripping an electric torch that had jerked me from the gentle arms of sleep. The fine lines around his hard eyes was proof enough that he was much, much older than Jack, Davis or any of the other local kids I knew.
Here was a man at my window, his cold grey eyes boring into mine.
Pathetically unoriginal as it may sound, a cold shudder slithered down my spine. It felt as if someone had emptied a tray full of ice inside the back of my shirt. At that moment, the rest of the world seemed to heat up and evaporate; all I could remember was a pair of impassive, grey eyes commanding my gaze, penetrating my mind, uncoiling my deepest fears.
I hope that is justification enough for my next course of action.
“AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I could almost feel the warm air rushing out of the lungs and my vocal cords vibrating at break-neck speed. And with that, I lunged at the door and scooted out into the dark corridor as fast as my feet would go, preparing to crash into my parents room.

To be Continued...

That Night (Contd.)

Part II

It was an extraordinarily quiet night. Usually, I could hear the summer breeze whispering through the tall trees in the lane outside.
That night, however, it seemed as though nature too had fallen asleep. No hooting owls, no rat scurrying noisily across the garden outside, no neighborhood dog barking at a daring mouse out for a moonlit walk. The silence was all consuming—it felt as though some supernatural power had switched the world to “mute”.
I put down the Agatha Christie mystery I had been reading and looked up at the wall clock. It was half past midnight. I threw the book lazily across the room, watching it land on the mounting heap of books which I had borrowed from the local library but was yet to return.
I rose from bed and made my way to the window. The curtains were drawn apart and the inky blue night seemed to beckon from beyond. The silver Moon reigned over the heavens, her pale glow illuminating a cluster of houses not far from ours. My friends were somewhere out there, having a party, while I was made to stay at home like some pathetic five-year old.
I bit my lip to fight away the tentacles of envy that seemed to be groping their way into my mind. Not bothering to pull back the curtains, I switched off the night lamp and dropped down on the bed.In the sky, a floating cloud stole towards the moon and minutes later, the night drowned in darkness.

To be Continued...

That Night.

The following is based on a real incident that happened to a young girl not very long ago. Armed with a fascinating story to share, she decided to speak about it to fellow members of a popular website. I was captivated by the sheer extraordinariness of the incident, which turned out to be the sole inspiration for my next story,which I wil post in four parts:

PART - I

“See you later, Alligator!” croaked five voices as I went in through the little metal gate that set up a barrier between the dark lane and the front yard of my Grandma’s home.
“In a little while, Crocodiles!” I yelled back in reply.
In our usual goofy manner, the neighbourhood kids and I bade our farewell to each other as we parted for the night after a fun day comprising of volleyball, swimming and crisp fish fries at the beach.
My parents and I always flew down to Florida to spend our vacations with Grandma. This summer was no different. Considering I had been there every vacation for the past fourteen years, it was of little surprise that I shared a close friendship with most of the kids in the locality.
It was around quarter to ten in the night—not very unusual for kids to be out till then where my Grandma lived. However, my mother did not quite approve of some of the local kids, which explains why I had to go home even when all the rest were staying over at a friend’s house two stone’s throws away!
As I walked in through the front door (which was kept open till ten for my benefit), Grandma, who was sharing a large jug of hot cocoa with Mother, looked up and said, “There you are, young lady! How was your day?”
“Great! Of course, would’ve been better if I could stay over at Sally’s place” I answered, stealing a glance towards Mother.
“You want a cuppa?” she asked, waving her hand towards the cocoa drink.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I think I’ll call it a day” and I went up to the couch to hug them good night.
Little did I know that this was the night that would haunt me for years to come.


To be continued...

Enid Blyton: The Enchantress

It is most unfair that this celebrated author finds a place so late in my blog. Her stories have played a role of elephantine proportions in my childhood and I want to make my tribute to this fascinating lady truly special. But then again, a million articles on her would fall short of the appraisal she so rightly deserves.

Enid Blyton. A storyteller par excellence.
Should I talk about the enchanted winter nights, when her bedtime stories were my sole companion? Or the sweltering, summer mornings, when her cool-as-a-cucumber magicfolk brought me divine comfort? I am slightly lost, not to mention overwhelmed with anxiety that what I say will not do her any justice at all.
I believe it is one thing to write for wise, mature and at times rather skeptical readers. But to conjure stories for curious, tender, young hearts comes with a far greater responsibility, which Blyton so cleverly distinguished. Her books NEVER convey the impression of an adult addressing a child—a striking feature that sets her apart from the rest.
She brightened the face of every awestruck child. She gave wings to their imagination. She packed off little kids to the most amazing places, atop fairy trees, on enchanted carpets, in wishing chairs, through goblin mirrors, and everything else that triggered squeals of glee from her little readers. She willed brave Peter to flee from the clutches of the Green-Eyed Witch; she took birthday girl Bessie to the marvelous Land of Birthdays, she urged little Bets to solve a mystery all on her own and gave good ol’ Darrell the time of her life at “the best school ever!”, delighting the many Peters, Bessies, Sallies and Yashodharas who relived many an adventure through the characters she mould.
Her stories never failed to amuse, astonish and intrigue even the dullest of minds:
Know why you shouldn’t scribble on garden fences?
Or how to spell a spelling-spell?
And what to do when “Mamzelle” walks into class with twelve pins on her bun?
NO? Shame on you!!
Her childlike fascination for all things magical and adventurous, teamed with a mint-fresh approach to storytelling makes her a writer far beyond every possible comparison. It is therefore of little surprise that her stories are read and re-read even today, every narrative bringing to life the mystifying world of mystery-solvers, obnoxious policemen, elves, fairies, pixies, gnomes, goblins, witches and warlocks that had emerged from Enid Blyton’s pen decades ago.
Wonder what she would say about Harry Potter, though.

A poem for someone SPECIAL

The following poem,penned down by me, is dedicated to an amazing woman I was fortunate enough to be acquainted with.

QUEEN

The air you breathe is refreshing summer breeze
You are the beauty of the willowy pine trees
In the endless whirlpool of your dark eyes I see
The promise of unconditional love,
Stronger than my morning brew of tea

You smile like a blazing fire on a wintry night
Shedding warmth and forever glowing bright
Every sound that passes your lips— that with age are pale—
Will put to shame the music of any nightingale

You glide with the grace of a gentle swan
Yet hasten at times, like a spirited fawn
Of all sweet fragrance, yours is the most,
The smell of rich golden butter, dripping on a Sunday toast

Your greying tresses, flowing like a wave—
Your burning cheeks as you cook by the fireplace—
I remember them all— every sight is dear to me
And as for you, my Queen,
You are as precious as one can ever be.

In charge of my neighbour's pet.

Ever wondered what a dog-disliker has to go through when he's trapped with a pup for an entire week? Especially when it does not quite turn out to be a dream pet? Read on for the personal recollection of one such unlucky man.......


There is very little chance of me ever forgetting the day my neighbour, Mr. Chatterjee, made an announcement that he was going on a family trip to Goa,followed by a request to me to look after Scooby, his beloved pet dog ,for the entire week of his absence. Now, I have never had any particular likeness for animals, especially not towards those which have the habit of awakening the entire neighbourhood in the dead of the night with their irritating barks. However, Mr. Chatterjee, with his generous habit of inviting me to taste the lip-smacking delicacies cooked by his loving wife, struck me as an extremely likeable man and thus I admitted Scooby into the shelter of my home.
Scooby was a bull dog, and clearly boasted all the characteristics of his breed. He was short and grey, with a flat face that appeared to be the result of some unfortunate accident. I rated him quite high in the scale of ugliness and higher still, in degrees of mischievousness. I remember having dismally predicted the misfortunes that lay in store for me on my very first day with the intolerable dog. Scooby had leaped onto my couch and put up a terrible fight with a cushion that was shaped like a mouse, resulting in my drawing room very closely resembling a cotton plant in full bloom. Deciding it was obviously not going to be one of the best weeks of my life, I tried to make the best of it. I gave in to all of Scooby’s whims—his demands of feasting on the grilled chicken I had for supper instead of the dog food Mr. Chatterjee had left with me, his insists that I caress him all throughout his afternoon nap, letting him sleep on my precious leather couch—the list was never-ending.
It wasn’t long before Scooby began to affect me on a psychological level. My friends detested my increasingly snappy nature, my boss complained of the numerous faults in my research papers and I could sense myself developing an intense dislike towards my colleagues who had dogs for pets. I could no longer concentrate on my office presentations; for at the back of my mind I was forever panicking about which other personal possession of mine had been shamelessly destroyed by that detestable dog. The list included my precious china vase, which I had safely put away on a high cupboard. How the vicious pet had managed to lay his paws on the vase is a question that still puzzles me.
Halfway through the week, Scooby had transferred his “bedroom” from atop my couch to the woollen rug beside my own bed. He would often wake up in the night to give out his famous barks. This proved to be of very little comfort to me, for I was constantly haunted by nightmares of a gigantic dog, the size of Buckingham Palace, trying to gobble me up! My 1st impression of Scooby had been wrong—he was not just another naughty pet, he was a devil in disguise. He tried to bite me on the several occassions I ambitiously attempted to bathe him, he demolished my kitchen the day I had forgotten to lock it, he tore up countless number of cushions and took it up as a personal responsibility to make sure that all my pristine white rugs had his paw prints over them.
I was completely exhausted by the time the week came to an end. I guess I had never been happier to see Mr. Chatterjee, not even the time he lend me his new car so that I could make an impressive entry at an office function. The moment I opened the door to welcome the kind gentleman, Scooby jumped into his open arms. I must admit I became momentarily sentimental at such sweet re-unison. To top it all, both of them thanked me for my “help”—only Mr. Chatterjee thanked me in words while Scooby licked my beaming face!

Ending of Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows by Me

I had written the following write-up for a leading newspaper which was conducting a campus competition. This article was later on published by the leading daily. I had won the 'Most Vivid' category. I also won the honorary membership of the newspaper's quill club.

It was very dark inside. The light from their wands cast eerie, elongated shadows on the walls as they passed. Hermione pointed at the doors at the two extreme ends of the hall. “Maybe we should look into those ---. “Or maybe we should just wait here” Ron interfered, looking positively worried. “Wait for what?” Harry asked sharply. “Voldemort killed my parents I’m going to hunt him down.”

But it wasn’t going to be easy, as Harry soon figured out . Inside each of the doors were spiraling staircases that wound up a long way. “This is insane.” Ron remarked, after they had tried all the staircases that one of the doors in the hall lead to, only to reach more rooms, enclosing more staircases. “This way we’ll never get anywhere” “Looks like Voldemort’s bewitched this House” Harry said, turning to face Hermione and Ron. What he saw slammed the air out of him. Less than six feet away behind Hermione was a tall woman with a pale, skull like face and eyes lit with a fanatical glow, her outstretched hand clutching a wand.

“Stupef---

“Protego!”

A jet of red light had shot out from the end of Bellatrix Lestrange’s wand, but Harry had deflected it, causing her to fall back on the floor. Footsteps were heard and Harry’s old Potions master stepped into the hall.Snape looked at the wand in Harry’s outstretched hand and then at Bellatrix’s form on the floor. It took him only a moment to realize what had happened. “Incarc—he yelled, but Hermione sprang forward. “Impedimen— Snape deflected her spell.

“Don’t waste your energy, Mudblood!” he yelled hysterically “You won’t have magic left in your dirty---“Ron stepped forward, shaking with rage.

“Sectumsemp—“

“Incendio!”

Bellatrix had got up to her feet. Orange light spilled over them just as Harry heard an explosive bang. Ron went into flames. “NO!” Harry and Hermione screamed. “Aguamenti!” Hermione yelled, trying to put out the fire with water. Harry followed suit. As the fire began to die out, Ron’s half-burnt form fell to the floor with a thud. Ron was dead. Harry turned around to face the two Death-eaters, his eyes burning. Bellatrix was laughing with a mad glint in her eye.

“Cruci—

“No unforgivable curses from you Potter!” Snape said, deflecting it. “You don’t have the ability---

“Avada Kedavra!” But it wasn’t Harry. Hermione had directed her wand at Bellatrix,who now lay flat on the ground, dead. “Crucio!” Snape yelled at Hermione, but she ducked. The curse hit one of the doors. “Where is your master, Snivelly ?” Harry spat “He didn’t run away, did he?”

“No I didn’t, Potter” said a cold voice.Tall,thin and black hooded, his snakelike face white and gaunt, his staring slit-pupilled eyes…..Lord Voldemort had appeared behind Snape,who spun around. “Master, I’m very sorry. Bellatrix—he said, his voice quivering.

“Be quiet Severus.You could not even aim a curse properly at Potter’s dirt-veined little friend. I have no use of you” Even as Snape’s face contorted into horror,Voldemort killed him with an Unforgivable Curse, without uttering aloud a single monosyllable. Meanwhile, Harry had somehow persuaded Hermione to temporarily seal herself in one of the rooms, promising he would call for her if necessary. Then, bracing himself for the final duel of his life, he re-entered the hall.

“Ah, Potter!” Voldemort said, as Harry entered with his wand raised. “After all the measures I took…...” “What do you mean?” Harry asked.Voldemort laughed icily. “Hasn’t it passed your thick skull that I lured you here?” Harry’s head reeled.He realized that he had walked right intoVoldemort’s trap.The very thought disgusted him..

“AVADA KEDAVRA!”Harry and Lord Voldemort yelled, at the same time.

The deadly green light emerging from both of their wands interlocked .Harry knew if the light from his wand backed, he’d be as dead as a fossil. “Who’s going to save you now,Potter?”Voldemort asked menacingly. He got his answer sooner than expected. A silver hurricane slowly began to develop around them. As it became more and more pronounced, three misty forms flew out to Harry’s side. They were Ron, Sirius and Dumbledore, who spoke, “Harry, you have bonded yourself in the Deathly Hallow—the holy bond of death, which binds the good and the evil. You have two paths. Either you test Voldemort’s resistance if you are confident he will tire before you----Voldemort laughed hysterically. “..Or you may choose to tilt your wand, so that both of you are killed by the light emerging from the other’s wand”. Just then, Hermione came running. “Harry ,are you---?” she halted midway, staring at the three forms. Harry’s arms were aching and his wand was

slipping from his grip…….. “Say goodbye to Ginny, will you?” He told Hermione, who nodded, tears rolling down her eyes. Then he turned to Voldemort, the person who had made him an orphan, for whom he had had to spend his childhood with the Dursleys, for whom he had lost his Godfather, his mentor, his best friend. His wand tilted. Harry and Voldemort’s bodies exploded into bits. For a moment, an unbearable pain seared across Harry’s forehead, he felt as though his scar was on fire …slowly he felt himself rising…he was lighter than a feather.. Hermione gasped.

Harry turned to Dumbledore. On his crescent-shaped spectacles, he saw the reflection of his face, without the scar that had marked his forehead for sixteen years. “Harry”, Dumbledore said, “You were born to kill Voldemort.Now that your task is complete, you may rightfully unite with—ah! But let Sirius do the honors.”

And for the first time that night, Sirius spoke. “Harry, I think you’ll love this.” Another form flew out from the hurricane. It was Harry’s mother, smiling lovingly. Harry glided to where Ron was comforting Hermione. “Hermione, we’ll meet again, I promise” Ron was telling her. “And thank you so much for everything! Without your help, I would have failed every test!” Harry added, to which she smiled feebly.

“Now this is what Tom never understood” Dumbledore said with a smile. “ There’s something greater than power, and that is—

“Love” Harry finished for him, and proceeded towards his mother, thrilled at the prospect of being with his parents without having to worry about a stupid scar ever again.