Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise. I do own my right to fantasize. See what I did there?
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The Owls
'Neath their black yews in solemn state
The owls are sitting in a row
Like foreign gods; and even so
Blink their red eyes; they meditate.
Quite motionless they hold them thus
Until at last the day is done,
And, driving down the slanting sun,
The sad night is victorious.
They teach the wise who gives them ear
That in this world he most should fear
All things which loud or restless be.
Who, dazzled by a passing shade,
Follows it, never will be free
Till the dread penalty be paid.
— Jack Collings Squire, Poems and Baudelaire Flowers (London: The New Age Press, Ltd, 1909)
November 19, 1998. Hogwarts.
"You called for me, Headmaster?" I said as respectfully as I could, disrupting Dumbledore's deep gaze on the embers of a dying fire.
"Ah yes, Miss Granger. Please, have a seat." He answered warmly, gesturing at a comfortable looking couch in front of his large desk.
"Lemon drop?" He offered his jar of favorite sweets, sharing a small smile.
I smile back, amused that his habit of offering candy still persists.
"No thank you. I had a big supper." I explained, truly satisfied with this evening's dinner.
Usually, after offering his jar, he would take a piece of candy for himself. But at that time, he didn't take a piece. Instead, he brought the jar on its usual place and appeared to be losing himself to another trace.
"Is something wrong, sir?" I asked, concerned that the Headmaster is not himself.
"Oh..so sorry. I'm just a bit nervous of the conversation we will be having." He told me.
Dumbledore was never anxious when it comes to conversation, so his statement perturbed me quite a bit. Curious, I decided to question his need to be troubled by this talk that we had.
"Forgive me for saying that, I find it hard to believe you would be nervous to have a talk with someone as ordinary as me." I said while laughing lightly.
"You're quite the opposite, Miss Granger. Being the brightest witch of our age makes you extraordinary."
I was never fond of the title: Brightest witch of my age. It was not a role that I have competed for. I simply followed my personal interest on academics. Anyone who have such an interest would have such a title. Me, as the brightest witch of our age, was simply stated in the newspapers countless of times.
And then, for some odd reason, it stuck.
"I'm just a simple girl who loves knowledge. Hardly an accomplishment." I replied.
"Miss Granger, nothing about you would be simple. Remember that." Dumbledore answered like the sage that he is, eyes twinkling with wisdom and wit which can only be known by age.
But then he appeared more serious, like he is about to say words I must memorize like a book.
"In fact, every individual is naturally complicated. For without our complications, we lose our humanity." He replied, his eyes sharing something I thought he would never express.
For the first time since I have ever been around the Headmaster, I sense apprehension.
"Miss Granger, do you believe that an individual is born to be completely evil?"
"No, Sir. I believe that an individual can choose from what is right and what is wrong." I answered.
He looked at me sadly, gazing down for a moment as if to grieve on my response. And then, having accepted my statement, he faced me again with more resolve.
"It appears that we will be having a long evening of discussion. Are you sure you do not want a piece of candy?" He asked me, offering his jar once again.
There is a significant difference between darkness and light, just as water and air are considered polar opposites. However, although different in structure, such antecedents cannot exist without the other. In fact, factors that differ from one another have similarities that keep them linked if not adjacent.
Darkness cannot be expressed without light; water is half composed of oxygen.
Opposites are not opposite. Variances do not exist.
There is only intensity of differences at the edges of existence. And the rest are grey matter.
An intensity of darkness and an intensity of light. And then, grey.
An intensity of water and an intensity of air. And then, grey.
Grey like the twilight.
Grey like the storm.
Most aspects of life lie in the nature of grey. Even individuals.
An individual who resides in the intensities, away from each other, such are the differences.
A difference that can be driven with the grey and have the small chance to converge.
And in that small chance, is a miracle.
That difference is regarded as "Polar Opposites".
But like I said, opposites do not exist.
At least, I would like to think so.
I would like to hope, that somehow a miracle can happen.
It is the only chance I can look forward to now.
Ten minutes has already passed by since he was struck by the two words that would surely bring death. After ten minutes, Harry still had no pulse. Five..ten seconds past..Nothing. Exhausted, I bring my lips to his and feverishly try to push air into his lungs for the last time. I bring my ear to rest on his chest, despite knowing that it was now hopeless. Nothing. Not a heartbeat.
Harry Potter has died and left me here on this earth.
In those ten minutes, chaos began.
Seconds after Harry collapsed into the ground with a blank look on his face, the heightened attention of the crowd disintegrated into pure anarchy. The last of the resistance were lost, running in every direction, unaware whether they should still fight or run. I didn't bother to direct them on what to do. Nobody truly knows what to do at this point. Our only chance of defeating Voldemort has died in front of us, any goals or dreams have been purged along with him.
The death eaters were not doing their best to catch the rogues, more focused on their delight of finally achieving their success. Of course, why wouldn't the death eaters delight in their success? Most of them did so by watching anxiously as I tried to bring Harry back, thinking that The Boy Who Lived might actually live another day. They might have thought that catching the resistance can wait; watching me, the mudblood, try to revive Potter is far more intriguing. They were so engrossed in my attempt to bring Harry back to life that they didn't bother to accompany their Master as he laughs in victory.
In those ten minutes, Voldemort laughed and laughed.
And laughed. He is yet to cease with his laughing.
I hug Harry briefly before I turned him into ashes, cremating him before any of the vultures would drag Harry's body and use it as a prop for their due celebration. I watch the ashes. I watch as some of the glowing ashes float high to the dark grey sky. If Luna was still around, she might have described Harry's remains as fireflies under moonlight.
No. Luna might have described the ash in a more eccentric manner. I just don't have her words to describe it. Nevertheless, both of us would agree that such a sight is beautifully sad.
Having mourned my best friend long enough, I turn to face the monster across from me. I am surprised that no death eater has yet to strike a spell. I assume that they have saved me for the dark lord to kill. They didn't even give repercussions when I turned Harry into ash.
And so, I slowly make my way to their master, keeping my eyes on him as he revels in his newfound glory. As I make my way, his laughter still persists. It is as if he is driven with madness, his insanity not enough to express his appreciation to this day. Even when I am standing in front of him, he continues to laugh, not giving me a glance as he went on and on and on. He kept his eyes closed, drunk with his accomplishment. Eventually though, he had to give Harry's remains a final look. And similar to what I have done, he gazed as the ashes float to the hopeless stormy sky.
He continues to laugh, but his laughter started to sound different.
His laughter becomes hollow, less intrigued by his triumph. He stares at the last of Harry's dying embers with what can only be described as sentimentality.
Voldemort looks sentimental. How is that possible? Why show such a faint but existing form of grief?
I purse my lip and sigh, recalling what a wise old man once told me. Dumbledore stated that everyone was born innocent. Every single one. Even Voldemort.
But the person..the thing in front of me can't be regarded as a human being. A monster yes, but not a man. Voldemort has the eyes of a demon and the skin of a corpse. He has sins that can never be forgiven, never to be understood. Nothing about him is innocent. There is nothing beyond those blood red eyes but murder and destruction. And yet. For a moment, his face has shown emotions I did not know he could wield.
For a short amount of time, he shared confusion and disappointment.
Voldemort looked lost. His eyes are aimless. He appears to be unsure as to what to do next.
For the briefest time, he appeared human.
Eventually though, he came to his senses and look at me straight in the eye with a gruesome smirk slowly growing on his lipless mouth. I did not share his disgust on the fact that we are standing in front of each other. I was more intrigued on the idea that he might have a soul. Moreover, he had a soul. But now, that soul has been reduced into a seemingly nonexistent shard. At one point of Voldemort's life, his soul was more whole than the sorry excuse that it is in now.
I wonder what Voldemort looks like, back when his soul was whole. Back when he still had a conscience. Back when he used to believe in morals and consequences. Back when Tom Riddle still believed in something like love. At least, I would like to think so.
I would like to hope, that somehow a miracle can happen.
It is the only chance I can look forward to now.
"Hermione Granger." He recognizes me with his chin up high and his shoulders straight.
His small hint of emotion a few seconds ago is now hidden entirely.
I didn't bother to return his acknowledgement. Instead, I query.
"You know me?" I ask, keeping myself from making a trembling voice.
"Of course, one of Harry's most loyal allies." He tells me indulgently.
"I am not one of his allies; allies expect something in return for their loyalty. Harry is my friend. I won't bother to define what a friend is, since you will never understand the concept of friendship." I reply.
A death eater comments with a snort, finding my clarification to be naïve.
"Of course, you wereone of Harry's friends." Voldemort tells me with a hint of spite.
The death eaters are furious now; some of them are edging towards me. Ready to strike.
A shrill scream echoes from one of the civilians who are trying to run away.
"Shouldn't you be running away, darling?" He asks me.
In response, I take another step closer. The death eaters were about to make a move, but the monster in front of me gestures them to be at ease. Voldemort considers himself invulnerable now.
"I don't have it in me to run away. I'd rather be here, right in front of you." I answer.
"Really now? Would you prefer that I administer your death than a perfect stranger?" He replies, his long fingers grasping the elder wand tightly.
"That would be quite convenient, but I hardly see you more than a stranger."
"Well in that case, I hope it doesn't bother you that a stranger such as myself will kill you." He states, getting bored of our conversation, raising his wand to my face.
"It does bother me actually. I would rather you know me first before you try. But perhaps, we'll have the opportunity to know each other better." I tell him, giving the best rueful smile that I could muster before I create a strong barrier around the both of us.
When the barrier was set, the death eaters could not reach us. They tried though, despite themselves. And they fail relentlessly, regardless of their scathing spells and clanging fists. Although I am confident with my casting of the barrier, I know that the barrier will not last long, I have to move quickly.
I didn't give him a chance to comment on my poor choice of making a barrier. I acted as swiftly as possible, grabbing his hand without caring of the possible repercussions and then taking out the time turner that is tied to my neck. Without batting an eye, I strike the time turner to the ground.
The time turner breaks into a million pieces, enveloping us into a hurricane of what I consider to be the most fine and beautiful sand that I have ever seen. And as we spiral into oblivion, I could not help but glance at his way and look at his abnormal disfigured face, wanting to know his reaction.
Voldemort however, was not as angry as I thought he would be.
He looked more shocked than anything else, perturbed at his unforeseen situation. And then, for some odd reason, he looks at peace after realizing that I have condemned him to a fate he is yet to learn.
I thought he would show anger, or at least despair. But I saw his face express what can only be relief. Before both of us were consumed by the sand of the time turner, before the place in which we existed become nothing but hollow darkness, Voldemort looked relieved. He looked at peace.
Why does he look relieved despite knowing that his plans have been ruined?
That, perhaps, would be the only question I will never have the answer to.
I assume that for a little while, for one final moment in his life, Tom Riddle might have regained his humanity, finding his consciousness. Or maybe, he feels relieved because everything ends and nothing will be left, completely satisfied to be part of what may be oblivion of everything that life stands for.
Either way, both of us will soon succumb to the infinite nothingness of time and space.
Never to look back to the past, present, and the future.
At least, not in this lifetime.
"Miss Granger, I am aware that you have a time turner." The Headmaster stated.
"How…how do you know that?" I asked, curious as to how he got that information.
"I have my ways." He answered, not wanting to divulge his sources.
"If I admit to having such a device..are you going to take it from me?"
"No, of course not. If you have a time turner, it is yours to keep. Although knowing how you were able to get such a rare apparatus would be quite a story."
"Yes..it is quite a story." I replied, hinting that I do have a time turner but not keen to sharing the story.
"Well, if you don't mind, I would like to add more to the story."
"Sure..of course." I answered, unsure where this conversation is leading.
"As you know, Miss Granger, Time turners are prohibited. Do you know why?"
"Time travel can cause catastrophic consequences."
"Correct. Travelling to the past, whether measured by a second or a decade, can lead to unwanted circumstances."
There was nothing wrong with what he had stated, except for something I may have misheard.
"But professor, Time turners cannot return a decade. They were only designed to go back in hours or weeks, not years." I questioned, scrunching my brows and crossing my forehead.
"You were misinformed, my dear. You see, time turners do not bring us back in time. Time turners are merely vessels that enable us to go to particular areas at the span of time."
"Time turners are..merely vessels?" I repeated his words, trying to conceptualize his description.
"Yes, and from such vessels reside something that can alter more than past events. Within a Time Turner is an opportunity to change the past in decades, and even centuries."
Perplexed yet not lost to his explanation, I remain quiet in order for him to further explain.
"What do you think of time? Does time have weaknesses?" Dumbledore asked.
I think about his question. Usually I already have answers. But for now, like the many conversations I had with the Headmaster, I need to pause and really think.
"Although time affects us, it does not define an individual or an event. The limitation of time is that it defines an end of it all, but does not comprehend the means of an end."
"Therefore, what do you think would be infinite and more powerful than time?"
Infinite and more powerful than time..well now, that was a question that required far more than my usual moment of rumination.
I smirked, amused that I am given quite a challenge.
"Sir, may I have a moment with my thoughts? It won't take too long." I replied.
"All the time in the world, Miss Granger." The Headmaster replied with a smile.
Les Hiboux
Sous les ifs noirs qui les abritent
Les hiboux se tiennent rangés
Ainsi que des dieux étrangers
Dardant leur oeil rouge. Ils méditent.
Sans remuer ils se tiendront
Jusqu'à l'heure mélancolique
Où, poussant le soleil oblique,
Les ténèbres s'établiront.
Leur attitude au sage enseigne
Qu'il faut en ce monde qu'il craigne
Le tumulte et le mouvement;
L'homme ivre d'une ombre qui passe
Porte toujours le châtiment
D'avoir voulu changer de place.
— Charles Baudelaire ( /poem/156)