Chapter 2
Harry is twenty-three, at a best guess.
This might seem insignificant. To Harry, it never has been. Being twenty-three, or near enough to that age, at this present moment, makes Harry of the generation that never grew up living for an award from the Spies, or any other similar group. Harry sees those who are currently children, or have been recently, and is endlessly glad of this. Harry, at least, has never gone about singing the praises of Tom Riddle, or sold out a neighbor on the vagaries of suspicion for a moment's praise. He is able, if he truly tries, to recall a mother with the same vivid green eyes as his smiling down at him, and a father with his hair lifting him into the air with a smile. Somewhere, in the back of Harry's mind, he is certain they both died bravely, and for the purpose of sparing his life. He has, of course, checked the Party records—Lily and James Potter, drunken and disorderly, died in collision with Inner Party automobile, survived by infant son. Perhaps, then, he imagined the martyrdom associated with their deaths. This, however, is insignificant. Harry has always known that, once, he was loved unconditionally. It is enough, most days.
…
There is another couple of about Harry's age who live on the same floor.
He has, of course, met them both before. On occasion, they have even spoken for a time; they have a sink which is in the habit of leaking, and Harry is skilled with his hands.
The wife is Comrade Weasley. As her husband is also Comrade Weasley, she has instructed Harry to call her Comrade Hermione instead. Harry always remembers Hermione first by her hair, which is bushy and quite brown, and then by her teeth, which, though a little overlarge, are white and quite even. There is something in Hermione's eyes that tells Harry that she would love to read if such a thing was permissible. She works at the Ministry of Truth, Fiction Section; Harry, who works in Records, has seen her from time to time.
The husband, Comrade Weasley, has never given Harry his first name. This is quite alright with Harry, who has always felt he might be terrible with names if asked to recall them on a daily basis. Weasley, who Harry can identify by sight from meters away just by the bright red color of his hair, works in the Ministry of Plenty. Weasley's eyes lack the shine of intelligence his wife's hold, but hold a sort of spark that Harry finds himself empathizing with, though he can not quite put a name to it.
Harry has long been of the privately held opinion that the Party makes matches based on a lack of attraction rather than the presence of it. Certainly, two such opposites as Hermione and Weasley might never again be found. The two never show any real attraction for each other in public. Still, just once or twice, Harry is sure he has seen a light in their eyes when they look at each other, and he should like to call it love.
Thoughtcrime—the crime which encompasses all else. Crimes of the mind which, though they might never be acted upon, still bring the entirety of the guilt of actually committing the crime with them. One stray thought, and one watchful eye in the wrong place, and then there is no more to be said. They come in the night when you least expect them, and then you find yourself in the Ministry of Love with a gun to the back of your neck, or so Harry has gleaned over the years from a myriad of sources, none of whom he can easily recall. If love is not considered thoughtcrime, Harry does not know what is.
In another world, Harry thinks he and Weasley and Hermione might have been the best of friends. They are certainly brave enough. And maybe they, who dare defy the Party by going against unspoken law and falling in love, would be able to understand Harry. Surely they would not condemn Harry for the dreams which, though far beyond the realm of his control, will one day have him vaporized, undone, unmade. Perhaps in that world, they would be willing to die for Harry's friendship, though they—and Harry—are not so willing here.
Sitting alone in his apartment, Harry raises a glass of Victory Gin and toasts alone.
…
Newspeak Dictionary, Tenth Edition, unperson: One who does not currently exist, and, more, has never existed. Harry, who is still working with the Ninth addition in the Minitrue, does not know if this definition is precise, but it is near enough. The idea is there. One who is vaporized becomes an unperson. One who commits thoughtcrime is vaporized. Simple logic, two and two coming together to form four.
Harry was seventeen when he first had the dream, and has dreamed the same thing for almost every night since.
In the dream, there is no Party, no Ministry of Truth, no Oceania. There is only Harry Potter, aged eleven to seventeen, depending on the night, and his two best friends, Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley. That world is a place of joy, and, impossibly, of magic.
In that world, Tom Riddle takes another name, swimming red letters that rearrange to form I am Lord Voldemort, and another face which, red-eyed and slit-nosed, looks inhuman enough to be mistaken for that of a snake. The Harry of that world is prophesied to be the nemesis of Tom Riddle-who-is-Lord Voldemort, and acts it. Each night, Harry dreams of a world in which his younger self and adoring friends gallivant off on daring adventures under the care of their mentor, Albus Dumbledore. Harry's dreams are not perfect, and sometimes hold tragedy and sorrow in them, but this only makes them truer to life. What makes them bearable, makes them perfect, is the sense that no matter what that world's Harry does, Tom Riddle will be vanquished, and there will be freedom.
The first time Harry ever had that dream, he woke up with the word Expelliarmus on his lips and a cold sweat settling across his skin. These days, the dream is about the only thing that makes life tolerable. Harry can only hope that he does not talk in his sleep.
Expelliarmus, then, that wonderfully nonsensical amalgamation of syllables, encompassed Harry's thoughtcrime. From the moment his lips, in a state of half consciousness, had moved to silently form that single word, Harry's future had been lost to him. Since that one word, he had been living on borrowed time. Harry should like to add that word to the Newspeak dictionary. Expelliarmus, that which makes one an unperson.
The very existence of the word unperson threatens the foundation of the Party's mindset, as it implies there ever was a person to be forgotten. Harry does not doubt that, by the time of the release of the Eleventh Edition of the Newspeak dictionary, the word unperson will have been erased from speech, as if it had never been.
By the time of the release of the Eleventh Edition of the Newspeak dictionary, Harry himself will likely be just as thoroughly erased.