When people die... you have to say something, or do something. Something
that gives their name a meaning. A simple action or a present that makes
them different from a number on an ever growing scale of statistics.
Something that makes their grave more than a cold piece of cement stuck in
the ground on a winter's day. Something. Anything. Make them be remembered,
fondly, even if they were heartless bastards who you never liked. They've
died, but you're alive, and so you've got to live.
You've got to cry, even if you don't want to. Or don't think they deserved your tears, or anyone's tears.
It's how we do it, really. I've seen enough people die to know that by now.. You go to the funeral, speak the poetry, and then you move on. But first speak for them, I hope you're saying their words.
"Harry?" Thoughts, they're broken... Dumbledore looks softly at me from behind his large desk, Phawks peers at me like I'm some small child that's lost its way.
"I'm sorry, Harry." He tells me, and he is. I can see it. There's silence then, I raise my hand to tell him, I know he's sorry. You're sorry, I'm sorry... everybody's sorry.
My first thought after hearing the news was a numb one of, 'I don't think I liked them very much.' For a moment, any emotion they had ever stirred in me had vanished, replaced only with an afterglow. They didn't need emotions from me anymore, because they were gone.
My only family as I was growing up... just... gone.
I rest my head on my hand, and don't feel myself shaking. For once Dumbledore's words just drift thru my head, like waves of snow across pavement. Nothing sticks- nothing latches on. Everything is just above comprehension. I could feel us sitting in the room for a good long time, but the only thing I'm sure he said was, "Harry, they're dead."
And seconds passed, minutes, maybe. I could hear things again, I was noticing shadows and light, I could tell all kinds of lumps had gathered in my throat and were that I was now fighting back an army of emotion, which had all come hurdling down at once.
"The Weasley's have generously offered their home to you..." Says Dumbledore, quietly. I forgot about life, more importantly, death and those who'd just faced it, and remembered what Dumbledore was about. I admired his patience, and his wisdom, and his spirit all over again. I'm glad he was the one to tell me.
"And of course, you will always be welcome at Hogwarts." Of course the Weasleys generously offered their house to me. That was what they did. Of course I would be welcome at Hogwarts, Although that wasn't what they did.
And my lips are moving, and sound is coming out.
"Dumbledore.." I say, in a low voice. Temporarily forgetting any sort of title to prefix that.
"Yes, Harry?" he looks at me in the way you think he's looking right thru you.
"How did... Voldemort... kill them?"
"You deserve to know Harry, although it is my belief I should not tell you today. Unless, of course, you truly wish it so." And I stare at him. Just stare, for a moment, for a year, I don't know, all the clocks in my head have sprung their sprockets and are lying in a twisted heap at my feet. Next to the Quidditch robe, I think.
"I think... I think I want to be told." Dumbledore gives me a sad and trying look. He sighs, and tells me exactly how they died. And I don't need to fight emotion as I hear him. I'm a small child lost in a bedtime story. I'm leaning back and staring at the story teller, envisioning every small detail. I can picture aunt petunia's long neck twisted on the floor that she used to use to spy on the neighbors.
Then.
Suddenly and painfully,
I feel like a runner on his last legs of a marathon, out of breath weak, and tortured. Just like my relatives must have felt before they died. And I begin to cry. Deep, lurching sobs wash over me like on all the ocean beaches that I have never seen. I cry for grotesque, foul smelling Dudley who used to beat me up, and I cry for uncle Vernon who was equally grotesque and foul smelling, and for Petunia. I cry because although they should have lived differently, and because they should have died differently too.
It takes a long time to stop...
But all things come to an end, so they say. And so did this. I wiped my eyes, and there was silence once again. I bit my tongue until my eyes watered from pain instead of sadness. Dumbledore handed me a purple colored tissue, I placed my hand outstretched, and watch it glide from his palm to mine. Remnants of tears still stained my face and neck... but I was better. I was collected. I understood.
"Dumbledore... what do I do? .. now. What do I do now..." I sniff, and cry a bit more... my eyes are red and my heart is ready to fall out of my body and sit on the floor with the Quidditch robe, and with all other broken things.
"Harry... you do what you want... you do as you've always done." So says Dumbledore, the spark of wisdom at the end of all the dark days.
"Harry... you attend the funeral. You bid the dead farewell. You grieve.. then you continue with your life."
And I leave that place, Fawkes is still peering at me like a child who wandered too far from the swing set and lost its parents. Which is funny. Ha. Ha. It's how I feel.
You've got to cry, even if you don't want to. Or don't think they deserved your tears, or anyone's tears.
It's how we do it, really. I've seen enough people die to know that by now.. You go to the funeral, speak the poetry, and then you move on. But first speak for them, I hope you're saying their words.
"Harry?" Thoughts, they're broken... Dumbledore looks softly at me from behind his large desk, Phawks peers at me like I'm some small child that's lost its way.
"I'm sorry, Harry." He tells me, and he is. I can see it. There's silence then, I raise my hand to tell him, I know he's sorry. You're sorry, I'm sorry... everybody's sorry.
My first thought after hearing the news was a numb one of, 'I don't think I liked them very much.' For a moment, any emotion they had ever stirred in me had vanished, replaced only with an afterglow. They didn't need emotions from me anymore, because they were gone.
My only family as I was growing up... just... gone.
I rest my head on my hand, and don't feel myself shaking. For once Dumbledore's words just drift thru my head, like waves of snow across pavement. Nothing sticks- nothing latches on. Everything is just above comprehension. I could feel us sitting in the room for a good long time, but the only thing I'm sure he said was, "Harry, they're dead."
And seconds passed, minutes, maybe. I could hear things again, I was noticing shadows and light, I could tell all kinds of lumps had gathered in my throat and were that I was now fighting back an army of emotion, which had all come hurdling down at once.
"The Weasley's have generously offered their home to you..." Says Dumbledore, quietly. I forgot about life, more importantly, death and those who'd just faced it, and remembered what Dumbledore was about. I admired his patience, and his wisdom, and his spirit all over again. I'm glad he was the one to tell me.
"And of course, you will always be welcome at Hogwarts." Of course the Weasleys generously offered their house to me. That was what they did. Of course I would be welcome at Hogwarts, Although that wasn't what they did.
And my lips are moving, and sound is coming out.
"Dumbledore.." I say, in a low voice. Temporarily forgetting any sort of title to prefix that.
"Yes, Harry?" he looks at me in the way you think he's looking right thru you.
"How did... Voldemort... kill them?"
"You deserve to know Harry, although it is my belief I should not tell you today. Unless, of course, you truly wish it so." And I stare at him. Just stare, for a moment, for a year, I don't know, all the clocks in my head have sprung their sprockets and are lying in a twisted heap at my feet. Next to the Quidditch robe, I think.
"I think... I think I want to be told." Dumbledore gives me a sad and trying look. He sighs, and tells me exactly how they died. And I don't need to fight emotion as I hear him. I'm a small child lost in a bedtime story. I'm leaning back and staring at the story teller, envisioning every small detail. I can picture aunt petunia's long neck twisted on the floor that she used to use to spy on the neighbors.
Then.
Suddenly and painfully,
I feel like a runner on his last legs of a marathon, out of breath weak, and tortured. Just like my relatives must have felt before they died. And I begin to cry. Deep, lurching sobs wash over me like on all the ocean beaches that I have never seen. I cry for grotesque, foul smelling Dudley who used to beat me up, and I cry for uncle Vernon who was equally grotesque and foul smelling, and for Petunia. I cry because although they should have lived differently, and because they should have died differently too.
It takes a long time to stop...
But all things come to an end, so they say. And so did this. I wiped my eyes, and there was silence once again. I bit my tongue until my eyes watered from pain instead of sadness. Dumbledore handed me a purple colored tissue, I placed my hand outstretched, and watch it glide from his palm to mine. Remnants of tears still stained my face and neck... but I was better. I was collected. I understood.
"Dumbledore... what do I do? .. now. What do I do now..." I sniff, and cry a bit more... my eyes are red and my heart is ready to fall out of my body and sit on the floor with the Quidditch robe, and with all other broken things.
"Harry... you do what you want... you do as you've always done." So says Dumbledore, the spark of wisdom at the end of all the dark days.
"Harry... you attend the funeral. You bid the dead farewell. You grieve.. then you continue with your life."
And I leave that place, Fawkes is still peering at me like a child who wandered too far from the swing set and lost its parents. Which is funny. Ha. Ha. It's how I feel.