Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ A Love at Stake ❯ Chapter 12 ( Chapter 12 )

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As Lily looked up at Harry, her eyes focusing on him while the darkness seemed to encroach around her, she felt a sense of isolation permeating her soul. Gradually, the chill and ache that had plagued her began to fade away, leaving her feeling detached from her sense of self and purpose. All that remained in her mind was the image of her son, a flickering beacon of familiarity in the abyss that threatened to consume her. And then everything dissolved into nothingness.

When Lily finally blinked her eyes open, they were greeted by a resplendent light, an illumination that enveloped her like a nurturing embrace. The place she found herself in was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Gone was the darkness; instead, a white expanse stretched infinitely, pristine and untouched, akin to fresh snow glistening in the sunlight.

Confusion and awe tangled within her. Standing there, wrapped in the suffocating comfort of silence, she found an intoxicating stillness that left her heartache at bay. Time seemed to pause, flowing like a soft stream that whispered secrets she could not grasp.

Rising slowly, feet brushing against the smooth surface beneath her, Lily took in her surroundings. She turned in a slow circle, absorbing the vastness, until she noticed the silhouette of a man in the distance. He stood against the brilliant backdrop. Her heart quickened, an instinct deep within reverberating with familiarity.

She began to walk towards him, each step quickening with a sense of purpose. There was something undeniably magnetic about this figure, a connection forged from emotions she couldn’t put into words. As she drew closer, the form became clearer, and with it, her mind flared with memory—a dream? A vision? The realisation settled within her like a long-buried treasure. It was him.

She fidgeted nervously, her heart racing at the uncertainty, yet oddly calm at the same time.

“Lily,” said the elderly gentleman who appeared before her, his voice velvet wrapped around iron. He wore a threadbare black suit and an old fedora that shielded his eyes. “You likely have an inkling of who I am.”

“Death?” she queried, a mixture of fear and intrigue lacing her words.

The old man’s smile broadened, more of a grimace than any sign of genuine joy. “Indeed.”

“So I am dead…” Lily muttered, her gaze drifting over the unfamiliar surroundings. Panic cut through her foggy mind like a sharp knife. “Where… where is this place? And where’s Harry?”

“We’re in a realm between life and death,” he explained matter-of-factly. His eyes twinkled faintly, reflecting both wisdom and sorrow. “Harry’s safe for now—he won’t be here for a long time.”

Lily paused, and a chilling realisation swept over her like a cold wave. “The visions… they came true, but I died instead of Harry.”

Death closed his eyes, a quiet acceptance issuing from him as he nodded solemnly. “Yes,” he said slowly, the weight of her conclusion drawing him down. “You see, I have been searching for this dagger for a long time.” He reached into his coat and produced a shimmering silver dagger, its blade reflecting the spectral light of their surroundings. Intricate rune engravings spiralled just below the handle, and the markings pulsated with a faint blue glow, an unearthly light that hinted at forgotten powers.

“It can end a life, negating all magic,” he said bitterly, his voice laced with regret. “It was kept from me for generations until tonight.”

“Why now?” Her mind raced, biting back emotions that clawed at her throat. “Why did I see that vision of my son dying?”

“Because of Bellatrix’s actions tonight,” Death replied, his tone shifting to something more serious, more urgent. He inhaled deeply, as if bracing himself for the weight of what he had to say next. “I foresaw a future where your son does not survive. I can only witness what may come to pass, so I gave you a glimpse to see which path you would choose.”

“Then it was up to me?” she asked, her voice a hushed whisper, the enormity of her situation dawning on her.

Death met her gaze, his eyes piercing. “Do you regret your decision?”

“No,” she replied firmly, the answer rising from her chest like an unyielding tide. “I’m grateful for the chance to give my son the love he deserves.”

Death nodded, his expression shifting to one of contemplative silence. “May you find peace in the knowledge that you have done well,” he finally said.

But peace was an elusive concept. As seconds morphed into minutes, dread began to creep back into Lily’s heart. She had made the ultimate sacrifice, but in the void of this strange in-between realm, questions lingered like shadows looming over her.

“I chose him,” she whispered, almost to herself, gazing deeper into Death’s compassionate yet distant eyes. “But what about me? What now?”

He offered no immediate response, but the deep sadness within him seemed to lift momentarily. “You seek to understand your role in this situation, Lily. It is the nature of humanity to want more than what lies before them—definition, purpose. You lost yourself in the act of love, and in doing so, you became a part of something larger.”

Slowly, an understanding began to dawn upon her. The visions had been a warning, a reminder of the preciousness of life. With it, the sacrifice she had made served an even greater purpose.

“I did what I had to do,” she said defiantly, the fire in her spirit flaring anew. “As difficult as it was, I couldn’t allow Harry to suffer… to die.”

Death’s expression softened, crinkling around the edges of his eyes. “You exhibited strength in compassion, one of the rarest qualities in all existence.”

But with that thought, a new fear assailed her. “But I am gone, and Harry… he will never know…”

“Not in the way you think,” Death replied, a gentle look settling on his face. “For love transcends even the veil of death. When a parent loves like you have, that love becomes a force that lingers, a beacon in the darkness.”

Lily’s heart clenched at the thought of her son growing up without her. But then, the idea took root—a passion ignited within her. “Then I will protect him, even from here.”

Death’s eyes sparkled with pride. “You have that power, dear Lily. The love you have planted in his heart will be a shield, guiding him in ways you cannot yet see. Give him strength; that is the legacy of your choice.”

Once more, silence enveloped them. Shadows danced in the empty spaces, but rather than fear, a calm understanding washed over Lily.

Over time, she began to feel the inevitable outcome as the moments dragged on. With each passing breath, she realised that while she had stepped into the unknown, the bond with her son remained indelible. As they locked eyes, a sense of hope fused them together, a thread connecting their souls despite the distance.

Death’s expression showed excitement as he reached out to hold her hand. Side by side, they continued onwards, gradually disappearing into the unknown emptiness ahead, echoes of love enveloping them like a warm embrace—a promise that even in death, love could never truly die.

The moment that followed was filled with an eerie stillness, a shocking realisation that rendered everything and everyone motionless. Suddenly, chaos broke out as screams and gasps filled the air around Harry. Mr. Weasley, with a gentle touch, lifted him up and guided him away from the commotion, leading him out of the street and away from the bustling Hogsmeade.

The ache of losing his mother consumed Harry as he stood there, frozen in the living room, the air heavy with memories. It was a soft, sun-drenched morning, yet darkness cloaked him. He clutched Lily’s bag, an unassuming beige tote, frayed at the edges, filled with her last projects, notes she had scrawled in hasty handwriting, and unfinished conversations she would never have. The other hand grasped her glasses, light-catching and delicate, but marred with a small, jagged crack that seemed to mock him—reminding him of the fragility of everything he had taken for granted.

His eyes fell once more on the breakfast dishes still piled in the sink, soap bubbles dappled with remnants of food. It felt like a mundane scene in an unending play, but Harry knew it was the last act. Gone was the morning chatter about workday worries and the clink of silverware as she read the news aloud. Those moments had been the background music of his life, now silenced.

Dropping to his knees, he released the bag and cradled the glasses in both hands, the crack splitting his heart anew. “Mum?” he whispered, as if she could somehow hear him through the veil of the afterlife. The silence was cruel and oppressive, echoing with unanswered questions. He couldn’t help but recall that conversation from yesterday—the one that had slipped from his memory but now surged back like a tidal wave.

“Mum, what are you trying to tell me?” he had asked back then, wariness clouding his young brow. There had been a haunting look in her eyes then, a flicker of something he now understood as fear.

“I had a vision—a dream,” she had replied, brushing it off with that signature smile, though not quite meeting his gaze. “Or maybe a premonition of today’s events. The spilt drink, your cut finger, the scattered papers… The details were different, but everything felt eerily familiar.”

The memory felt distorted, as though he were peering through the cracked lenses of her glasses. Harry remembered the kindness with which she had always approached the uncanny, how she kept her worries hidden like precious secrets and wore day-to-day life like well-practiced armour.

He squeezed his eyes shut, convinced that if he could just will the grief away, or if he cried hard enough, it would change things. It wouldn’t be this way. It couldn’t be. But even as tears soaked his hands, he felt the immutable truth crashing down upon him. She wouldn’t be back for breakfast again, not ever.

As the first rays of sunlight crept through the curtains, illuminating the eclectic colours that adorned Lily’s room, Harry sat perched on the edge of her bed, delightfully lost in the world of animated portraits dancing across the walls. He felt at home in this cosy sanctuary despite the flutter of nerves.

His fingers fumbled in his pocket, retrieving the antique pocket watch she had gifted him the night before. Under the inviting warmth of the sun, it gleamed like a treasure trove of secrets yet to be discovered. Curious about its mysteries, he pried it open, taking in not just the familiar faces of his loved ones frozen in time within its intricate design but also a small key precariously hidden behind the photographs. The key sparkled with an air of intrigue, its very presence whispering unspoken stories.

Why hadn’t Lily mentioned the key? A frown creased his brow as he meticulously pawed through the watch’s packaging, hoping to find a clue or a note. But the only thing he unearthed was the dull paper that had once encased it. With a sigh of determination, Harry pushed himself off the bed, excitement swirling within him as he surveyed the room, convinced there was a puzzle waiting to be unravelled.

Turning his attention to Lily’s drawers, he methodically opened each one, his heart racing with anticipation. He wasn’t quite sure what he was searching for—clues left by Lily or pieces of his own story. But then, in one of the bottom drawers, something caught his eye. A diminutive, locked chest lay nestled amid a tangle of clothes.

Harry’s heart quickened as he gingerly retrieved it, the wood smooth under his fingertips, surprisingly heavy for its size. With a mixture of apprehension and excitement, he sank back onto the bed, the chest resting on his lap like an undeserved gift. He recognised the lock, its aged surface waiting for the key that he had only just discovered.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he inserted the key into the tiny lock. It clicked open with a satisfying sound, echoing in the quiet room like the beginning of an adventure. Harry felt a wave of exhilaration rush over him as he slowly lifted the chest’s lid, revealing its soft velvet lining and the trove of treasures within. Inside lay a collection of faded photographs depicting his infancy, alongside a bundle of carefully preserved letters addressed to him.

Drawing out the topmost letter with trembling fingers, Harry’s eyes hungrily scanned the contents. The elegant handwriting inside stirred forgotten memories, whispering secrets of a past he never knew he had.

“Son,” it began, and Harry felt the weight of those three simple letters, heavier than any spell. He could almost hear his father’s voice echo in his mind, infused with warmth and sincerity. James had always been more than just a name shrouded in legend; he was a father in every sense of the word—even if Harry had only experienced that love through stories and scraps of parchment.

“I’m writing this because we could never have this conversation in person. From the start, you were always the bright spark in my life. It was so much easier to hug you and to let you know how proud of you I was. Coming in the door and getting a hug from you was like a breath of life for me at the end of a long day. We could sit and play or read, and it was so easy to be together. Sometimes I won’t always know just what it means to be a father, but I promise to try my best.”

Harry could almost picture his father sitting at a desk by the window, sunlight filtering in, allowing his ink to glide across the surface of the letter.

“I wish it were easy to tell you what being a man entails.”

Harry’s heart ached at the reality of it. It was tough figuring out who he wanted to be. The pressure of expectations weighed on him, but through it, he felt his father’s silent encouragement.

“All I can say is that for most of your life, you will battle between who you think you want to be and who you truly are. I imagine you will be more compassionate and caring when you grow up. I have no doubt that you will be a man who is filled with a quiet strength that can only be born from a deep, confident concern for the world. Never lose that.”

Harry found himself smiling at that thought. Being compassionate, caring—it felt like an insurmountable task, yet the hope in his father’s words sparked something in him.

With a sigh, Harry leaned back against his bed, the letter still open in his lap. A single tear escaped, tracing through the smudge of ink on the paper.

“Never give up the sillies, my son.”

“Never give up the sillies,” he read again, chuckling softly. His father had known, didn’t he? He had understood the delicate balance of being a boy and of growing up amidst shadows of bravery and laughter.

“Never stop laughing your laugh. Do not ever let life convince you of its seriousness, and always find a way to laugh and make others laugh.”

Outside, the wind rustled through the trees, and the sunlight seeped through the curtains. Harry remembered the joy that came from silly pranks with his friends, the laughter shared—a stark contrast to the serious facade the world demanded of them. Maybe he didn’t have to choose; perhaps he could embrace both the laughter and the challenges ahead.

“Always remember that you are loved beyond words. I have said a lot in all my letters to you, but I will never be able to say enough that will express the love I have for you. Remember this above all things: you are so deeply loved in this world. Not just by me, your mother, and your friends, but by the universe itself.”

Those words burnt brightly in his heart. He felt it then—a pulse of warmth, a tether pulling him away from despair. It was not just love he received from his parents, but something potent that encouraged him to recognise his worth. Could it be that the universe loved him too? The thought was liberating, like breathing fresh air after being trapped in a dark room.

And then came the part that struck him hardest:

“My secret wish is that you should throw all my advice away, crumple it up, leave it sitting on your bedroom floor, and go live. Go live a life that is true for you…”

Harry blinked back tears, overwhelmed by the weight of those words. His father understood the essence of finding one’s path. He knew that guidance was necessary, but exploration was crucial.

“And in many years—as you go out and live your life, as you go out and become your own man, as you find a partner, as you have children, as you become a success—you come home one day and find that old ball of advice still there. And you carefully uncrumple it and read through it with a smile, realising that the wisdom stuck with you still, and you became every inch the man I tried to help you be. And even better, you became so much more…”

Harry’s thoughts drifted to the future. Would he find someone he loved like his parents loved each other? Would he one day write letters filled with advice for his own child? The ink of his father’s letter felt like a bridge connecting generations; one day, he would replicate that cycle of love, humour, and wisdom.

As the letter suggested, he would go out into the world, despite the fears that loomed on the horizon. He would laugh, live, and sometimes stumble. But didn’t every man before him? Every time he thought of wrestling with the complexities of growing up, Harry felt his father’s gentle hands guiding him—behind him, urging him forward.

“And you erase my name from the letter and sign it with your own. And you go back to your home and slide it under your son’s door because you will want the same thing for him that I always wanted for you. To be a light in this world that outshines all others…”

And as he lay there, Harry imagined what he would write—the letter addressed to his own son, next to a fireplace crackling with stories untold. “You are loved, and you are never, ever alone,” he envisioned penning with a flourish of ink, a continuation of a legacy that began long before he had ever understood what love could be.

I love you, buddy!

Dad

In that moment, Harry felt like he was dancing in the echoes of laughter that spanned generations, holding tight to the glimmer of hope and love that was undoubtedly eternal.

He reached for another piece of parchment, yearning for more of Lily’s wisdom and warmth. His fingers brushed over a second letter tucked beneath the first, revealing words that would pull him deeper into his mother’s heart.

“Dear Harry,” it began, the familiar loop of Lily’s handwriting wrapping around each word like an embrace.

“When you came into this world, you brought love into my heart that I had never before experienced. When you spoke your first word and walked your first steps, I was your biggest supporter and fan. With every developmental milestone you reached, I revelled in joy and celebration…”

The letter encapsulated years of laughter and tears, and as he read and reread each line, he could almost hear her reassuring tone—warm, enveloping.

He remembered those moments vividly—how his mother had cheered him on as he stumbled and fell, how her laughter had filled their home, banishing any lingering shadows.

“You taught me the meaning of love—true, unconditional love.”

Her words resonated deep within him. They were not just a reflection of their past; they were guiding him through the uncertainties of adolescence.

“Now you are older, and what an amazing person you’ve become! You have your own personality, your own thoughts and opinions, and your own sense of humour. You have your own interests, your own talents, and your own way of doing things.”

Harry had always been the quiet kid, the one who faded into the background while others sought the limelight. Yet, in his mother’s eyes, he was extraordinary.

“As you continue to grow and become an adult, you will live your own life. You will have times of happiness and times of disappointment. You will fall in love, and you will have your heart broken. Life has its ups and downs and is not always fair, but I know your strength and resilience will see you through. May you always know your worth and how incredibly precious you are! As your mother, it is my privilege to impart these important truths to you.”

As he absorbed the words, a pang of loneliness gripped him. His parents were no longer a part of his world, and it felt unfair. They had left too soon, taking with them the laughter, the hugs, and the constant reminders that he was cherished. He could still feel their presence in fleeting moments—a sudden whiff of his mother’s perfume, the rumble of his father’s laughter echoing in his mind. But those moments felt distant, ghostly almost, measured against the magnitude of absence that loomed over him.

“Always be true to yourself. Live your own dreams. Don’t take life so seriously. Love and accept yourself unconditionally. Don’t be afraid to take risks. And, last but certainly not least, know that I love you and will always be there for you.”

“I will always be there for you,” it promised. Though distance separated them now, he sensed an unbreakable bond anchored in love.

His gaze drifted to the corner of the room, where a framed photograph rested on the shelf—his parents beaming at his first birthday. The sight made a lump rise in his throat. The world had changed, but that snapshot of joyous certainty remained unwavering.

“No matter what, I’ve got your back. You are my son and always will be. There may be times when we don’t always see eye-to-eye, but I still love you and always will.”

Love,

Mom

Wiping his eyes, Harry took a deep breath and straightened his back. For the first time that day, he felt a flicker of hope, a whisper of strength rising to meet his fear. He would carry their love with him, cradle it in his heart as he embraced each new experience, each challenge, and each joy.

He folded the letter carefully and placed it back inside the chest. It was more than a message; it was a piece of his heart, anchoring him to something real amid the uncertainties of the future.

As the sun shone on the horizon, Harry knew he had its light within him, and with it, he was ready to take on the world, supported by the enduring love of two wonderful parents.

As the faint whispers of dawn unfolded over the Burrow, Harry stood still in the expansive field, lost in the memories of his fleeting summer holiday. The air was crisp, still holding traces of night, with the sky transitioning through shades of lavender and soft peach. Ahead, a softly glowing horizon promised a new day, yet all Harry could feel was the weight of July’s losses, dragging him deeper into contemplation.

Today would mark the end of summer, but it also heralded new beginnings. Hogwarts awaited him, its grand halls and echoing laughter beckoning, yet Harry’s heart ached for someone to share it with. He had marvelled at the ordinary joys spent under the Weasley roof—laughing at Fred and George as they launched jokes, eye-rolling over Mrs. Weasley’s chaotic breakfasts, and the rare peaceful evenings spent in the garden. But beneath each cherished memory lay the silent reminder of the ones he couldn’t hold close anymore.

The sound of footsteps on dew-soaked grass drew him from his reverie. Mr. Weasley approached, his figure silhouetted against the pale morning light. Harry’s heart flickered with warmth as he considered how often Mr. Weasley had been a constant source of support during tumultuous times.

“Harry,” Mr. Weasley said, his gaze softening as he drew nearer. “What are you doing up so early?”

“Just thinking,” Harry replied, trying to mask the heaviness in his voice as he instinctively turned his gaze back to the horizon. Mr. Weasley’s presence marked a comfort yet reminded him profoundly of the gaps left by absent voices he longed to hear.

As Mr. Weasley stood beside him, both lost in their thoughts, Harry could feel the concern radiating from the man. Mr. Weasley, in all his warmth and kindness, had an innate ability to sense the turmoil brewing within others, and Harry was no exception.

“I miss them,” Harry finally whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. They hung in the air, fragile yet filled with meaning. As he spoke, he felt a rush of vulnerability, the kind that only comes from exposing the deepest yearnings of one’s heart.

“That makes two of us,” Mr. Weasley replied gently, his voice low and rich with understanding. He turned to watch the horizon as well, where the sun was embarking on its climb, embracing the day with a golden optimism. “It’s difficult when you miss people who brought you such joy and love,” he continued. “But it also means you were fortunate to have someone that special in your life—someone worth missing.”

The sun’s rays broke through the mist, illuminating them in a soft glow that momentarily eased the sombre weight of their conversation. Harry took a deep breath, letting the warmth of the new day fill the spaces in his heart that felt so hollow.

“Family is a unique and precious gift that we must appreciate and cherish,” Mr. Weasley said, his voice steadying with each word. “Even when they frustrate and annoy us, they’re still the ones who know and love us best. Throughout life, we often wonder about the meaning of it all. But ultimately, it’s all about family.”

With a gentle squeeze of Harry’s shoulder, he added, “You have us, Harry. We’re your family. You’re not alone.”

The words washed over Harry, a soothing balm for his restless heart. He turned to face Mr. Weasley, the dawning realisation sinking deeper that the Weasley family had embraced him wholly. The enormity of their acceptance filled him with a newfound strength. Amidst the chaos of wands and spells, friendships and rivalries, this love wasn’t simply a fleeting illusion—here, in the quiet moments before dawn, it was as real as the sky above.

Harry’s lips curled upward, a small smile breaking through the surface of his worries. In that fragile morning light, he felt the warmth of connection stitch together the frayed edges of his heart. They would face the coming years together, the laughter and chaos of Hogwarts, and he would remember that no matter what darkness he encountered, the Weasleys would be there—his family, ready to support and love him through it all.

After Mr. Weasley retreated back into the house, Ron came to Harry’s side, breaking the tranquil moment with his presence. “Hey, mate, are you okay?” he asked, concern etched across his freckled face.

“Yeah,” Harry replied, inhaling deeply. “Just enjoying the fresh air. It’s nice to have moments like this.” A smile flickered on his lips, a brief escape from the pain lurking in the corners of his mind.

Ron studied him for a moment, and the look in his eyes changed from concern to something more playful. The corners of his mouth curled up mischievously. “Well, I’ve got something for you!” With a theatrical flair, he pulled a hefty package from behind his back, the paper slightly crinkled but undeniably festive.

“A package arrived for you,” Ron announced, lifting it like a trophy.

Harry raised an eyebrow, intrigued, as he took the parcel from Ron. The card attached fluttered slightly in the breeze, its edges slightly worn, but the handwriting was unmistakable. He unfolded it gingerly, his heart thrumming in his chest as he read aloud.

Dear Harry,

I hope you had a wonderful birthday, my dear! This gift is coming to you a bit late, but I know it will be useful when you return to Hogwarts. The owner of the Quidditch Supplies shop told me it will take about a month to fully repair your father’s old broomstick. I was shocked to hear the extent of the damage! This broom was your dad’s most treasured possession, and he would have been thrilled to pass it down to you. Please take good care of it in his memory.

Your father and I love you so much, Harry. Cherish this gift as a reminder of our love. I can’t wait to see you again soon!

All my love,

Mom

As the final syllables echoed in the air, Harry felt a surge of emotion rise in his chest. Misty eyes gazed up at the open sky, a perfect blend of blue and gold. “Thank you, Mum and Dad. I love you too,” he murmured, his voice catching slightly.

Ron watched, his smile fading into something softer, understanding the weight of what Harry held. “Your dad’s old broomstick?” he asked quietly.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, it was a gift from Mum. I can’t believe she managed to get it fixed. This means a lot to me.”

Ron scratched the back of his head, feeling the gravity of Harry’s sentiment. “What’s it like? Having something that was your dad’s?”

“It’s… special,” Harry said, hesitating to find the right words. “It feels like I have a piece of him with me. Every time I fly, it’ll be like a part of him is up there too. It’s like he’s proud of me, soaring through the air.”

“You’ll be a Quidditch legend! With that broom, no one will even stand a chance!” Ron exclaimed, his enthusiasm returning, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

In the distance, the sounds of the Burrow bustling with life faded slightly into the background. The moment between the two friends held an unspoken understanding, a bond stronger than most. Slightly overwhelmed with emotions, Harry turned the package over in his hands, feeling the weight of legacy, love, and the responsibility it brought. He unwrapped the package slowly and felt his heart swell with excitement.

The Comet 220 featured a sleek design and came equipped with a pouch as well as an upgraded mechanism to accelerate and boost its speed. Additionally, it included a broomstick servicing kit.

“You’ll blow everyone away once they see your broom!” Ron went on, eyes gleaming. “Besides, we can make a whole training session out of it. Just you, me, and the broom, like old times.”

Harry chuckled, nodding. “Sounds good to me. The first game back, though, we’ll win. Just you wait!”

“Just keep that broom safe, okay?” Ron said, casting a sidelong glance at the broomstick in Harry’s grip, the mischief returning. “We wouldn’t want it to end up in a ditch, would we?”

Harry laughed. “Not a chance, mate.”

But as they turned to make their way back inside, Harry felt a new resolve swell up inside him. He would cherish this broomstick—not just as a connection to his parents but also as a reminder that even during the hardest times, love could surprise him when he least expected it. And with that thought, he stepped forward, knowing that whatever challenges lay ahead at Hogwarts, he would face them with courage, friendship, and the enduring spirit of family watching over him from the skies.

THE END