They were waiting. Everything was waiting. Hagrid was struggling, and Bellatrix was panting, and Harry was thinking, inexplicably, of Ally. He could almost hear her voice — his Ally, her gaze hot, heavy-lidded, her lips salt and fire on his — "Am I winding you up, my prince?"
(Yes.) Harry looked into the red eyes — the familiar eyes — and knew that he had lived. Death and Love crossed paths in his heart like childhood friends : his hand in the folds of her pond-stained dress, laughter a lost echo in the rustling leaves ; but Harry Potter had lived a thousand lives in the turnings of Ally Black's touch.
He wanted it to happen now, quickly, while he could still stand, before he lost control, before he betrayed fear — (yes, you tease, you know exactly what you're doing) —
He had only ever wanted this : to be with her.
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