RECAP: Harry looked from Dumbledore to Minerva, whose unconscious form seemed broken, and whispered, "what have I done?"
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"No, no, no, no, NO," Harry repeated in succession; each word growing in intensity and adamancy. "Professor, you're the greatest fucking wizard that ever lived, you have to be able to do something."
Harry was shaking; every muscle, every bone, every nerve, every molecular standing in his person was quaking as if everything he was and would be had been destroyed.
"Harry," Professor Dumbledore stated curtly, staring intently at the distorted body of his dear friend. "I need you to remain silent for a moment, there are a few things that I may be able to do. I need you to, please, go and wait for me in the main study while I attempt to aid her, there may still be time."
"No, professor, I can't just. . ."
"Harry, GO," Dumbledore bellowed. His eyes were not calm, his eyes were not clear; his eyes were filled with an intent passion; a passion that even Harry Potter knew must be left to its own quarry.
Harry reclaimed his position on his feet and swiftly made his way back to the main study.
Silence. Feet. Walking. Pacing. Breathing. Walking. Pacing. Breathing. Harry walked back and forth across the length of the room; seeing everything, yet accepting nothing. 'This can't happen, this can't happen,' Harry repeated to himself in a foe of comfort and appeasement.
"Oh, yes it can, and yes it did," a voice mocked the back of Harry's mind. "This is what you are, this is what you have become. Death. Destruction. Disease."
"Shut up," Harry whispered to himself urgently.
"Death. Destruction. Disease. Admit it, you wanted her dead. She was a link, an unseverable connection to your past. She left you on that porch when you were a child just as Dumbledore did. She watched you grow with the pain, endure the immeasurable suffering, experience nightmares that would shake her very core; and she did nothing."
" No. That's not true," Harry stated a slight more audibly. The words escaping his lips and vanishing into the thick abyss as quickly as the sound of his pacing, which had increased into a mad flurry of movement about the room. " She cares about me, I know she does. How could I do this to her? How could I hurt her?"
"You did because you had to. Deep inside of you, you knew that she was slowly seeping into your heart, making sure that you had no escape. She never loved you, she needed you. How else could she get rid of me?"
"No, no, no, no, no!" Harry repeated loudly, his fingers entangling themselves in his hair: twisting, tying, bonding him to the bitter thoughts reverberating through his mind with the thick strand of black silk.
"Yes, yes, yesssss. You know who I am Harry, you have known all along. You cannot fight me, you cannot concur me, I am you. I am him. I am all. . .and I want her dead."
"NO," Harry screamed as loud as he could, hoping that the ferocity would shut himself up, shut Voldemort up, shut the evil up.
The room began to darken, as if shades had been drawn to block out the ascending sun. The walls began to crack around him, slowly creaking until they hit the floor boards below them. The pages of the hundreds of books stacked ever so neatly upon their stationary shelves began to wither and fade as if Father Time stopped by to shake their hands with dust and age.
As Harry fell to his knees in distress, the tears began to flow from his eyes. One. Two. Three. Plop. Plop. Plop. The water drops rapidly made their way to the aged wood below them; darkened by the sadness and the remorse. As if it had been conjured, the ceiling above where Harry kneeled began to turn, twist and darken until it resembled that of a hovering rain cloud -- waiting to emit its solemn storm.
The water began to fall from above, drenching Harry, drenching the books, drenching the world around him. The wind outside began to howl and shriek as it smashed upon the side of the crime scene. The rain just poured and poured until the room, itself, began to feel the effects of its quantity. The room was flooding, and Harry didn't give a damn. He had murdered the only person who truly cared for him as if he were her own. He ripped the life from her body as he watched others rip his life from him. He was empty. He was. Cold. He was wet. He was alone.
"Harry," a soft voice called to him from across the room. Harry didn't care to look up. "Harry, please." The gentility of the voice slightly rekindled the flame of curiosity within Harry's mind as he turned his eyes to the door frame. Dumbledore stood in his sight, his eyes staring directly into Harry's, daring him to continue his outburst of pity, sadness and shame.
With a single swish from his wand, Dumbledore cleared the room of the water and slowly made his way toward his charge; who sat pitifully on his knees as if in prayer.
"Please, professor," Harry began softly, staring at his clasped hands, "please tell me she is going to be all right."
Silence.
"Professor?" Harry raised his eyes to inquire, but only met two orbs filled with a similar sadness that filled his own.
"Minerva's body was unable to control the aftereffects of the surge that fought its way into her body."
"NO," Harry shouted.
"She was able to disarm the first portion of the surge, but she was unable to stem the flow as it made its way from her mind, to her heart."
"No, no, no, no, NO, you old Bastard, NO!" Harry violently threw himself onto his feet and began pacing the room again "This can't be right. This isn't right, there has to be something, there just has to be." Harry charged at the books, still in their rotten stage of age and despair, and he began to tear through them; hoping to find something, anything that could help. "If I'm so god damn powerful, then why can't I help her?" Harry asked himself. "Why can't I heal her, why can't. . ."
Freeze. Stop. Pause. 'Why can't I heal her?' Harry asked himself silently.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk, young Harry, have you not learned your own lesson? You said it yourself, 'I do not have enough faith, or love, to heal.' You're helpless. You could never love anyone because you know that they will never love you. You're faith has dissipated because everything you have hoped, dreamed and believed in has left you; poor baby. As for love, ha. Who could ever love you?"
Harry stood there, a half crumpled piece of paper in his hands: thinking, listening, formulating. Suddenly, Harry shut the book, placed it exactly where he had found it and looked straight ahead with a sense of determination; "She could."
With the same confidence, he walked past Dumbledore, through the doorway and into the room that Minerva was placed in during the first attempt at healing. He got down on his knees beside the bed but, as he took time to actually look upon the unmoving form before him, his confidence began to waver. His mind was right; he could never do this. How was he going to heal her? It was such a ridiculous motion. How could he, Harry Potter, ever fathom putting life into something after everything he done?
"Because, you're right," Dumbledore stated at Harry's heels, as if he had read Harry's mind from behind. Harry looked up with overflowing eyes. "She does love you." For the first time in what seemed to be decades, Dumbledore's expression melted into one of soft understanding. "She loved you ever since she first laid eyes on you, Harry; and she always will. If anyone can help her," he stepped forward, sat upon his knees next to Harry, and placed his hand upon his shoulder, "It's someone who feels exactly the same way."
With a small wink and a single nod, Harry looked back at his professor, his friend, and gently grasped her hands, hoping for some sort of miracle.
Nothing.
Harry attempted to place his hand on her forehead, closed his eyes and concentrated.
Nothing.
With a stroke of confusion, Harry released Minerva's hand and just sat there, starring at her lifeless form. He looked at her face first. There were no jagged lined from disappointment or concentration. Her skin lay smooth and peaceful, like he saw after he realized that she was watching him make a fool out of himself while making breakfast that one morning; or as gentle as it was on his birthday, as she handed him his gifts with compassion.
He looked upon her hands and remembered how they were covered in flour after she failed to make his birthday cake. He saw that hand rubbing comforting circles on his back as he released the painful emotions that he had kept at bay for several torturous months.
He looked back up at her closed eyes, knowing that, underneath those eyelids, rests a pair of jewels: sharp, yet absolutely beautiful.
Before Harry knew what he was doing, he leaned forward and placed his hand upon her heart. He thought of how he comforted her on the anniversary of her son's death. He thought of the overwhelming flow of happiness and comfort he felt after he heard her confess that he was like a son to her. He thought of the care. He though of the trust. He though of the love.
With his eyes gently closed in the soft reminiscent state, Harry failed to notice the glowing white light that drifted beautifully from the outstretched palm of his hand and flowed into Minerva's chest like a waterfall of pearls and light.
Still at Harry's side, Dumbledore watched in an overwhelming state of pride as his Harry concurred his own self doubt and replenished the flame that he had just earlier put out. In slight awe, he witnessed his confidant, his colleague and his friend, come back to life.
The glow slowly diminished in luminosity until there was nothing left to see but the ever so slight bit of empty space residing between Harry's hand and Minerva's body. Harry's eyes slowly parted, letting the light of the room back in again, as well as another sight; instead of re-meeting two extinguished lids, Harry saw, once again, those eyes that he had become so attached to.
Minerva stared at Harry for a moment, not seeming to register the stark looks of surprise, happiness and shock she was receiving from both of the men at her bedside.
"Well, hello there," she stated with a tint of confusion.
"Hello there beautiful maiden," Dumbledore replied, beaming like the man on the moon during the end of its cycle.
"Do you want to tell me what's going on here?" She asked only to pause and recollect the night's happenings. "Oh, goodness, Harry, are you all right," she placed her hand on his cheek as if checking for a temperature. After a slight moment, she realized how inappropriate the gesture must have seemed and moved to pull her hand away, but Harry held her hand securely in place.
Minerva didn't need any verbal explanation or re-composition of what had transpired that evening. She saw it all in Harry's eyes. The loss, the regain, the hope, the relief and, most importantly, she saw the love.
They both smiled at each other, a genuine smile; one that requires no camera to be remember for years to come.
"Was that payback for me trying to kill you earlier, Mr. Potter?" Minerva asked playfully, moving her hand and pushing herself into the upright position.
"Oh, no, Professor,. . .I would never sink to your level!" Harry responded.
"You little jerk," Minerva picked up the pillow behind her and swung it as hard as she could, not considering the fact that Harry could, and did, duck out of the way, causing Professor Dumbledore to, what's the expression, 'eat feathers!'
"Oh Merlin, Albus, I am so sorry, I didn't. . ."
WACK.
Minerva was silence by a thick sheet of white from her left.
"Albus?" Minerva inquired with a growing smile.
A massive pile of fluffly, goose feathered pillows appeared beside the headmaster as a childish, yet oh-so-malicious grin spread wickedly across his features. This was Albus' game, and he wasn't going down without a fight.
Without warning, all three leapt at the pillows and began an all out war. It would not be surprising if the joyous laughter was heard through the entire block it was so boisterous. There was no pain, not thinking, no planning or training; there was just three individuals who were simply happy to be alive.
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The three playfully fought in their foe war, completely unaware of the happenings of a certain dark creature, with a certain pair of snake-like-eyes lurking, watching and laughing a laugh of equally malicious accomplishment.
"Oh, Harry, Harry, Harry, I knew you wouldn't let me down," Voledmort spoke, as he twirled his wand between his fingers and simply laughed.
TO BE CONTINUED . . .