The Boy-Who-Lived Recovers in St. Mungo's
Our beautiful emerald-eyed hero (whose victory we still celebrate in what is now the Month of Remembrance) currently lies in St. Mungo's after the horrifying incident that nearly cost him his life but assured his victory once and for all. Voldemort, (as we now finally dare to call him) has been destroyed and the terror that gripped the wizarding community is gone at last.
"Bless his soul," announced Madam Dolores Umbridge during the court meeting in which the followers of the Dark Wizard have been sentenced to death under the axe (execution to take place tomorrow, 18th of July, at sunset), "I always believed he could defeat the Dark Wizard. I put so much faith in him. He has done so much for the living wizards and has gone through so much. We can only hope for his recovery after the Final Battle."
"Yes, yes, the losses have struck us very dearly. The Ministry is doing their best to make amends for the families who have lost relatives in the War, and we are trying to deal with the letters that continue to come into the Ministry. To clear up the worries, Mr. Potter is very much alright, I should say. He will recover in no time and will soon be able to answer press calls and return any mail addressed to him. However, in the mean time, he is receiving the best care St. Mungo's can provide, so I can say there is no need to worry." Answers Percy Weasley, Minister of Magic this morning in the first press conference after the War has ended.
Meanwhile, Ronald B. Weasley and his wife Hermione J.G. Weasley refuse to comment or give any information on the condition of the infamous Harry Potter, and have given no clue whatsoever as to the ward he is being kept in. Rumours say he is being contained in the Department of Mysteries, while other accounts say he is treated within a secret chamber in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (for full list of possible whereabouts, see page 17, column two).
Rita Skeeter
She slammed the offending paper down unto the table, attracting attention from the the bar's patrons around the other tables. Her lips were thin with fury and her eyes were fiery, like flame on top of bright brown coals. Beside her, Ronald Weasley placed a hand on top of his wife's shaking fingers. The rest of the table's occupants had their heads down, staring at the article. The woman's free hand pointed an accusatory finger at the Prophet on the table, at the picture of a woman with a flowery shawl drapped around her froggy face, her wide lips stretched in a disgustingly sweet way, one of her roundish hands raised in a wave. Umbridge did not seem to register the unfriendly pairs of eyes boring holes into her black and white face.
"She…" Hermione began, her chest heaving in fury, "How dare she." How dare she speak of him in such a way? Percy they could forgive. After all, it was agreed that no bad news should arise about the Boy before any recovery was made. They were to never tell anyone what his real condition was. If he got worse, they still had to keep silent. When he died however, then, they would tell the public. But the disgusting toad on the Daily Prophet, they told themselves, had no right whatsoever to speak of him. Not a word. Wasn't she the one who tried to shut him up about the Dark Wizard's rise?
But there she was, smiling triumphantly back at them with her empty pride, her empty words, the white lies she thinks are truths. And they, the ones with the Truth, with the power to see the reality of it all, all they could do was keep silent, pressing their lips so tightly together that the words would never, never come out.
He's dying.
She had at first wondered why there were no windows in the Sixth Ward. Also the fact that no book or any kind of entertainment was available proceeded to occupy her mind most of the time. It was only lately; weeks after her first visit—that she realised why.
The Sixth Ward had been built for the Dead.
Not people who had stopped living, but people without hope of living. That was enough to send someone into death, in a way. She had been told the hourglass counted away his last hours, but she knew better. The hourglass was counting away the hope, the patience, all the feeling of giddy expectance available about the person's recovery. The Boy's had never been empty. Always half full, she told everyone. Even in this way, she knew they told themselves it meant half empty. But why banish her hopes? She thinks she is not sitting there for nothing, she thinks she is sitting there waiting for him to wake up. Why tell her she's just waiting for him to die? He was always getting worse, never showing signs of progress.
It's always darkest before dawn. Right? But they wouldn't hear of it.
She knew better. She knew what they thought of her, what they said about the woman at the side of the bed. She knew more than them about what he was currently like. After all, the Healers allowed no one else near him. During his flashing moments of wakefulness he'd always yelled and protested when he found anyone else at his side. He refused the presence of the Healers, refused the medicine. He was remedied by her presence, though, and her voice, though he did not seem to understand what she said, her voice would always be able to light his stunning green eyes; able to bring back the boy they knew.
In those same, bright eyes, she found his promise and his wishes and all the hopes he had in her. She found herself reflected in those depths, her hopes and dreams whispered in his wordless utterings. Don't give up on me. He told her, showed her. Don't abandon hope. Keep me alive.
Stay alive.
They both knew, knew perfectly well what bound her to the hard, stiff chair, to the silent, dark room; to the ebbing presence of a dying boy. They knew what bound him to the bed, to his floating existence, to the life he could not leave. They were each other's breath, their hopes realised in each other's presence, their lives carved in each other's blood. One had to live for the other to be complete.
Stay alive, so I can live too.
Don't give up hope, they promised, don't you ever give up on me, they told each other. Regardless of the trials; they'd make it through, they vowed. After all, they'd come so far, hadn't they? Dodged the sharp looks, the sneering comments and all the darkness that shrouded their fate. Over it all an incessant gloom wrapped so tight around them they were suffocated. But he had broken the curse, torn the darkness in half and chased away the terror that towered over them. All because they never gave up, because they believed in each other, believed in the calm that would come afterthe storm.
Believed that somehow, someday, they would get a happy ending.
Don't give up on me.
She curled her fingers around his still ones. She wished he could see her now. How happy he had made her, how beautiful, how special. How her eyes finally found their light and they sunk deeper into her face when she stopped searching for truths, less prominent now, but well settled into her face, how her skin carved itself through the years into a woman fit for a hero. How her heart found its treasure, how her whole being found her hopes, her dreams in him. She wished he could see what he had changed her into.
Can you see what I've become? Her lips did not move, her calm voice did not pierce the silence, but her message rang through her heart, though her flesh, seethed through her skin, crept into his soul and took refuge in his innermost core, as close as possible to that heart that was beating because hers was too.
You have given me hope, given me dreams, showed me to have faith.
She would not let him down.
She had faith in him.
Don't give up on me.
She fell asleep at the side of his bed with his hand in hers, her head resting on her free arm, staring at his closed eyes before she drifted to sleep. She dreamed, that night, of princes on white stallions and princesses and Dark enemies that took the prince away. She dreamed of flying across seas and plains and the gate beyond life to find him.
She dreamed of finding hope in the shadows and keeping herself alive.
It's always darkest before dawn.