I died, too...

By King

A/N: This is an old almost-drabble, but I kinda like it. It has a nice feel for me.

Footsteps could be heard slowly climbing the creaky old stairs. A pause, and then a sharp knock resounded throughout the vast bedroom.

"Damn you, Dumbledore..." Harry sullenly thought to himself. He did not answer to the rap upon the door, only curled up tighter in the musty sheets.

Another sharp tap on the door sounded, and another a pause. The door's rusty hinges screamed in protest as it slowly swung open. Albus Dumbledore stood framed in the doorway, peering into the dark depths of the bedroom. The curtains were firmly closed against the golden summer light that tried in vain to seep into the dank gloom of the spacious bedroom. Moldy chintz armchairs and winged-back chairs cluttered in front of a cobwebby fireplace, several beaurous lined up forlornly against a wall, collecting dust. The only item in the dim shadows that seemed to have been used was a tall four-poster bed, with the bed curtains draped morosely to obscure the bed's occupant from the rest of the room.

A boy of around seventeen with raven-black hair and bright green eyes was curled up within the folds of the sheets on the great bed, ignoring his once headmaster.

Dumbledore continued to stand within the archway, framed in light from out on the stairway, gazing at the tall four-poster bed.

"Harry, are you awake?" He finally asked quietly, his soft voice seeming to be absorbed by the shadows.

Harry's eyes flashed with an unreadable emotion as he snapped, "Close the door, already. The light's giving me a headache."

Dumbldore gave an almost inaudible sigh as he closed the creaky door behind him and padded to the bed. He sat down at the foot with his back to the large lump that was his former pupil and gazed across the room at a mirror. Harry clutched at the sheets fiercely and kept his back to the ancient wizard.

"I bet you're happy now, eh, Professor?" Harry snarled. "I did just as you wanted. I filled out your plans quite nicely and did the dirty work for you."

"Not one of your good days, I suppose, Harry?" Dumbldore murmured quietly. "Sirius told me you were feeling a bit grumpy."

Harry tensed at these words and snarled, "Grumpy my ass! If you mean by 'good day' as in acting 'normal', when have I ever acted normal since I- I killed him?"

Dumbldore sighed and replied sadly, "Too true, Harry, too true..." The headmaster glanced around the melancholy room. "Perhaps you should move to a more cheerful bedroom, Harry. It might help you recover faster."

The black haired head swiveled around to glare at Dumbledore's back. Eyes narrowed, he snapped, "I'll stay here! It's the only room in this damned house where I don't get a migraine just looking at the walls! And stop sighing like that, it's irri-" A fit of painful coughing interrupted him, and he clutched at a pillow as the coughs wracked his thin frame. Blood splattered on his hand and Dumbledore reached out to grasp his shoulder. Harry slapped his hand away, pointing to the glass of water on the bedside table. The old wizard gave him the cup and watched solemnly as Harry forced the liquid down his throat. Exhausted by this small effort, Harry lay back down, letting the empty glass slip easily from his fingers.

Dumbldore replaced the cup upon the bedside table and leaned over Harry's quiet form. "You need to live again, my dear boy."

Harry's eyes were half-closed, his breathing forced. Eyes glazed, the boy whispered softly, "The night I killed Voldemort, I died, too...Dumbledore...You can't really... live with only part of yourself...I...died...died...Dum...ble..."

Moving closer, Dumbledore peered down on Harry's face. "Harry?" he murmured quietly.

But the boy was already asleep.