Your Holy Dark, Chapter Two
It was the beginning of our seventh year in which my life took a change for both the better and the worst. The war against Voldemort and his Death Eaters had escalated to the point of utter pandemonium in every corner of Europe and was spreading to the Far East. Resistance was building, but his legions seemed to swell and grow in ways that didn't seem possible. More and more wizards and Muggles alike were killed each day, and soon the morning post by owl was anticipated with feelings of dread by all but those who were part of his army themselves.
It was the morning of September 19th, my eighteenth birthday, when my life began to spin out of control. The day was intended to be one of happiness and celebration; instead, it was taken into the clutches of destiny and turned upside down by the contents of one single letter, one in which was not even sent to me. The eagle owl that had carried the burden brought the parchment to the High Table, to be dropped off in Professor McGonagall's breakfast tea. I paid no heed as she opened it and soon after released the pages numbly, allowing it to float back down into her tea without recognition or resistance.
Later that morning was when I was unexpectantly called into the Headmaster's office. As it was the beginning of the year where I was granted the privilege of proudly bearing the Head Girl badge on my robes, I hadn't expected anything of a life-changing magnitude as I climbed the winding staircase and walked through the heavy oak doors into Headmaster Dumbledore's office. Even as both figures of Dumbledore and McGonagall came into view, I wasn't worried; my Head of House was often involved in matters of the school.
It wasn't until I had sat down at the grave request of Dumbledore and endured a long, uncomfortable moment of silence when I finally realized something wasn't right. It may have been the way Professor McGonagall was shooting sympathetic looks my way every moment or so, or the way Dumbledore gazed at me with his haunted blue eyes; either way, the sense of dread I had ignored and chased away into the recesses of my mind all morning finally came upon me like a tidal wave, leaving no part of my mind and mental state untouched.
"Are they alive?"
Immediately, I had assumed the worse, and unfortunately I had been correct in my assumption; the Headmaster simply looked down at his gnarled old hands and sighed, while Professor McGonagall put a supportive arm around my shoulders as Dumbledore began to speak.
"Six Muggles and two Aurors were killed in the middle of London last night." His voice was weighed down by years of sorrow even greater than that morning. "Dozens of civilians were injured, and even more were witnesses. Your parents were two of the first to be killed."
The image of my parents waving to me as the train to Hogwarts left King's Cross less than three weeks before seemed to suddenly be the only image my mind could see. Slowly, I brought one shaking, pale hand up to wipe away the river of tears that had appeared as if by magic on my cheek.
"Were they in any pain?"
My tone was strong but my voice was weak, shaking almost as much as my hands were. Utter disbelief had set itself upon me, and I quickly came up with a dozen or more ways the Ministry could have been mistaken. As far as I knew, they hadn't access to Muggle means of identification, and therefore no sure way of identifying the victims of the attack.
"No," Dumbledore said in a voice barely above a whisper. "It is completely possible they had no idea they were about to die, or of the danger they were in."
"In other words, they were oblivious," I whispered, my voice choking up as more tears streamed down my cheeks. "Do—" I took a deep breath, trying to regain the composure and sanity I would spend the rest of my life searching for. "Does the Ministry have the—the bodies?"
"Yes," Dumbledore answered slowly, once again gazing at me with his icy bottomless orbs. "They will be buried side by side in the cemetery where the rest of your family and ancestors rest. Would you like to attend?"
I searched for words to express how much I abhorred the thought of burying both my sire and dam in the same light of the same day, throwing identical flowers into each their identical burial plots, their identically stiff and lifeless bodies encased by identically hard and cold coffins. I had never contemplated losing both of my parents in one foul sweep before, although the possibility of a single one's demise had crossed the dark and paranoid corners of my mind before.
"No," I spoke softly, yet with a tone so firm Dumbledore could do nothing but accept my answer and respect my decision. "I don't need to be surrounded by acquaintances and distant relatives in order to grieve, thank you."
"The decision is yours to make," he replied, taking my pale shaking hand in his own. "Your train would leave two days from now and you would be gone for perhaps two days, or longer if you wish." He sighed once more, age and wisdom shining through that one simple sound. "If you change your mind, please do not hesitate to tell me."
Without a word, I shrugged Professor McGonagall's arm off of my shoulders and stood, nodding politely to both astonished parties, making my way out mechanically.
I don't remember the trip to the Gryffindor Common Room, nor do I remember speaking the password to the Fat Lady. I do remember, however, searching for the pair of comforting arms to wrap themselves around me, which took me only a moment to find. As Ron enveloped my slight form, I began to sob forcefully, my face buried into the shoulder of his cloak.
"They're dead," I whispered through my choking sobs. I heard Ron's own voice catch in his throat as he gripped me tighter, his tears mixing with mine as we stood there, grieving for the lives of the two most important people in my life.
It was the beginning of our seventh year in which my life took a change for both the better and the worst. The war against Voldemort and his Death Eaters had escalated to the point of utter pandemonium in every corner of Europe and was spreading to the Far East. Resistance was building, but his legions seemed to swell and grow in ways that didn't seem possible. More and more wizards and Muggles alike were killed each day, and soon the morning post by owl was anticipated with feelings of dread by all but those who were part of his army themselves.
It was the morning of September 19th, my eighteenth birthday, when my life began to spin out of control. The day was intended to be one of happiness and celebration; instead, it was taken into the clutches of destiny and turned upside down by the contents of one single letter, one in which was not even sent to me. The eagle owl that had carried the burden brought the parchment to the High Table, to be dropped off in Professor McGonagall's breakfast tea. I paid no heed as she opened it and soon after released the pages numbly, allowing it to float back down into her tea without recognition or resistance.
Later that morning was when I was unexpectantly called into the Headmaster's office. As it was the beginning of the year where I was granted the privilege of proudly bearing the Head Girl badge on my robes, I hadn't expected anything of a life-changing magnitude as I climbed the winding staircase and walked through the heavy oak doors into Headmaster Dumbledore's office. Even as both figures of Dumbledore and McGonagall came into view, I wasn't worried; my Head of House was often involved in matters of the school.
It wasn't until I had sat down at the grave request of Dumbledore and endured a long, uncomfortable moment of silence when I finally realized something wasn't right. It may have been the way Professor McGonagall was shooting sympathetic looks my way every moment or so, or the way Dumbledore gazed at me with his haunted blue eyes; either way, the sense of dread I had ignored and chased away into the recesses of my mind all morning finally came upon me like a tidal wave, leaving no part of my mind and mental state untouched.
"Are they alive?"
Immediately, I had assumed the worse, and unfortunately I had been correct in my assumption; the Headmaster simply looked down at his gnarled old hands and sighed, while Professor McGonagall put a supportive arm around my shoulders as Dumbledore began to speak.
"Six Muggles and two Aurors were killed in the middle of London last night." His voice was weighed down by years of sorrow even greater than that morning. "Dozens of civilians were injured, and even more were witnesses. Your parents were two of the first to be killed."
The image of my parents waving to me as the train to Hogwarts left King's Cross less than three weeks before seemed to suddenly be the only image my mind could see. Slowly, I brought one shaking, pale hand up to wipe away the river of tears that had appeared as if by magic on my cheek.
"Were they in any pain?"
My tone was strong but my voice was weak, shaking almost as much as my hands were. Utter disbelief had set itself upon me, and I quickly came up with a dozen or more ways the Ministry could have been mistaken. As far as I knew, they hadn't access to Muggle means of identification, and therefore no sure way of identifying the victims of the attack.
"No," Dumbledore said in a voice barely above a whisper. "It is completely possible they had no idea they were about to die, or of the danger they were in."
"In other words, they were oblivious," I whispered, my voice choking up as more tears streamed down my cheeks. "Do—" I took a deep breath, trying to regain the composure and sanity I would spend the rest of my life searching for. "Does the Ministry have the—the bodies?"
"Yes," Dumbledore answered slowly, once again gazing at me with his icy bottomless orbs. "They will be buried side by side in the cemetery where the rest of your family and ancestors rest. Would you like to attend?"
I searched for words to express how much I abhorred the thought of burying both my sire and dam in the same light of the same day, throwing identical flowers into each their identical burial plots, their identically stiff and lifeless bodies encased by identically hard and cold coffins. I had never contemplated losing both of my parents in one foul sweep before, although the possibility of a single one's demise had crossed the dark and paranoid corners of my mind before.
"No," I spoke softly, yet with a tone so firm Dumbledore could do nothing but accept my answer and respect my decision. "I don't need to be surrounded by acquaintances and distant relatives in order to grieve, thank you."
"The decision is yours to make," he replied, taking my pale shaking hand in his own. "Your train would leave two days from now and you would be gone for perhaps two days, or longer if you wish." He sighed once more, age and wisdom shining through that one simple sound. "If you change your mind, please do not hesitate to tell me."
Without a word, I shrugged Professor McGonagall's arm off of my shoulders and stood, nodding politely to both astonished parties, making my way out mechanically.
I don't remember the trip to the Gryffindor Common Room, nor do I remember speaking the password to the Fat Lady. I do remember, however, searching for the pair of comforting arms to wrap themselves around me, which took me only a moment to find. As Ron enveloped my slight form, I began to sob forcefully, my face buried into the shoulder of his cloak.
"They're dead," I whispered through my choking sobs. I heard Ron's own voice catch in his throat as he gripped me tighter, his tears mixing with mine as we stood there, grieving for the lives of the two most important people in my life.