Word count: 1,154
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again,
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
-Matthew Arnold
Come to me in my Dreams
WARNINGs: character death- even though I totally love him to peices!
Harry slumped back in his desk chair and brought the old photo album with him, holding it just a few inches above his chest as he thumbed through the pictures. The fire from across the room was beginning to die down, but Harry could still make out a few of the moving pictures, and those that he could not his memory supplied him with the images that he so desperately craved. Especially now.
The war was over- it had been a gallant battle. Many had died, on both sides, but right now, in the dying fire light of #13 Grimmauld Place, the only deaths Harry's mind could recall, would recall, were those closest to him. And those didn't seem to be very comforting. Cedric in a blast of light,
Sirius through a veil,
Hermione taken from behind, Ron dying in his arms, Remus by his side. Moreover, Dumbledore, Albus Dumbledore, he had not died. And Harry thought that he never might. That man was like a roach, always escaping death by some miracle or other. But why hadn't that old wizard given Ron a miracle? Or Hermione? Why had he let them all die? Why had Harry been so powerless at the time when his friends, no, his family, had needed him most?
The memories clawed at Harry's heart now, years later, and he clung to his album, where phantom pictures gave him phantom smiles and an illusion of comfort and ease. Nevertheless, there was no comfort or ease in this new world, not anymore. And Harry wished that he could have just died along with the others on the battlefield. Why did he have to live on when those around him fell to their deaths? It wasn't fair, but when had life ever been fair to Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived, the man-who-killed?
Harry stopped towards the end, on the 25th page, as he did every night, and stared down at the all-too familiar picture. It was the same, every night. Never moving. Never changing. Harry had charmed it that way because he could not stand the way those faces would stare up at him at times, so fake. It wasn't real. The people in that picture were dead and would never be coming back. So why did the pictures always seem so alive and cheerful? Because they were lies. All of them.
Just lies…
He could feel the familiar tears building up and let them pour out, not ashamed of this show of weakness. Who would see him anyways? There was no one left. No one…
Everyone was… dead.
And Harry was so alone.
And cold.
James Potter smiled down at his son as he took the album from resting against his chest and carried it over to the fire. The dying embers seemed to jump back to life as the book fell upon them, and began eating away at the new source, soon engulfing it. As the fire became larger and bolder, James crossed the room back to his sleeping son and came up behind him, wrapping his arms around Harry's shoulders and hugging him closer. Harry groaned in his sleep and murmured out, "dad…"
"Come on, Harry. It's time to go home." James whispered into his son's ear and lightly kissed the top of his head. "You've done enough- now it's time…"
As the album came to ruins in less than five minutes in the small inferno, Harry Potter's breathing became low and shallow, finally giving out with one last shuddering gasp and his chest fell for the last time.
And a cold fell upon #12 Grimmauld Place as the last remaining Marauder left beside a beautiful stag.
Andrew Maclean came up the old stairs, which groaned haughtily under him, as if it would give away, just now, just to spite his presence. In fact, the whole house seemed to become ratty and decaying right before his eyes. As the blond reached the landing and looked over the railing, he could hear the old house shifting under its heavy weight, could almost feel it. And had that been a laugh just down the hall? Impossible. Who would be laughing in this house? What happiness could bubble up inside of someone who stood on this property? Surely not Andrew.
The room lay just 15 feet away, but he could not force himself to release the railing to save his life. Cold seemed to be seeping into his body through his hands, traveling into his heart at an alarming rate. Andrew heard footsteps just behind him, but when he turned to look there was no one there. And that laugh- wasn't it coming from down the hall? But no one was supposed to be down there. The body was in the room, with the three doctors and the Minister.
A tap on his shoulder brought Andrew out of his ponderings and he turned back to face the minister. "Minister Dumbledore, I'm sorry sir, I thought I heard-" "Yes Mister Maclean?" Albus Dumbledore asked, cocking his head to the side. "N-nothing sir…" Andrew murmured and finally released the railing, wringing his hands in front of him, trying to regain some sort of balance and warmth back. "I see. Well then, I will be expecting a report and statement from your medical officials when they are done. I will be expecting everyone's professional discreet when handling him, Mister Maclean. Mister Crave will be by shortly for his transportation. That is all." He said all of this with the stern, commanding voice that his peers and underlings all snapped to attention to and followed by the letter. The older wizard gave Andrew a curt nod and vanished down the stairs, his ebony cloak flowing gracefully behind.
It took Andrew only a few seconds to realize what he had just heard and went dashing off after the ex-headmaster of Hogworts. He caught up with Dumbledore in the front hall and stopped him, breathing rather hard. "Sir, please- a moment. W-what was the cause of death, sir? Please." Albus Dumbledore paused for a moment, as if considering whether or not to just keep going. Apparently, he decided to hold off on his departure and looked over his shoulder at the young breathless chief of St. Mungos' medical research program. "'Cause of death' Mister Maclean? As if Harry Potter could be killed." "B-but sir- the body." "The body belongs to the Harry James Potter, yes, but nothing could kill that boy except… Himself." Dumbledore said airily, almost smiling as he thought back on the years he had spent guarding the boy and shaping him into a man. The man who had saved their world.
"His heart stopped, just stopped, Mister Maclean. Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived, is gone."
Fin.
notes: Thought? Questions? Think I totally suck? HA! I don't blame you!
-Lyn
DISCLAIMER: If you haven't guessed by now, I'm not J.K. Rowling. But man, if I was, there would deffinately be more slash in those books! WOOT!Current Mood: accomplished
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