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The Shadow of Death
Chapter 21: Broken by the Tide
"It is with a heavy heart that I stand before you today." Dumbledore stood behind a lectern, his dark dress robes flapping against the backdrop of the Black Lake. "Hogwarts has not seen a day such as this in more than fifty years."
The Headmaster paused to wipe a tear from his eye with a kerchief. Harry flinched, a sense of dread and an indescribable, palpable pain pressed down on him like he was drowning, his burning lungs desperate for the faintest bit of air.
A sea of black surrounded him, boxed him in. Harry's eyes darted to and fro, searching, dreading. Fleur laid a hand on his bouncing knee.
Ice crept from his chest, crystalline chips freezing and stabbing his lungs and heart.
'They are back.' Cold sweat tickled his back. 'I can feel them. Any second now.'
"Today we mourn the loss of twelve of our own," Dumbledore called above the sniffs dotting the assembly. "Each of these students will be sorely missed, their love and friendship leaving a hole which can never be filled."
"You are weak, Potter. You could have saved them."
"Monster… Their blood is on your hands."
"As is ours."
Harry flinched at a small hand covering his. The voices retreated, but he still sensed them stalking in circles like predators of the night, threatening to consume, to ravage.
Looking to his right, he saw Luna, a soft, content smile covering her face. Harry took a deep breath and focussed on Dumbledore.
"But let us not dwell on what could have been." Dumbledore smiled through the tears falling into his beard. "Let us remember them fondly for their heart, their spirit, and their bravery as they move on to their next great adventure. They no longer feel grief, pain or sorrow, and they, in turn, would not wish for us to dwell in our pain."
"He's right, you know," Luna whispered, smiling up at the sky. "Can't you hear them? They're so happy, Harry."
"I can hear them." Harry shivered, an overwhelming need to cover his ears dominating him. "But I would rather not."
"Let us rather band together." Dumbledore's voice washed over the audience. "Dark times are upon us. Those who have banded together with Barty Crouch and his fellow Death Eaters would rather us be divided, but only together can we hope to overcome them." Dumbledore bowed and stepped down to polite applause.
Fleur nudged him from his left; her eyes dipped to Luna's hand on his and narrowed. "Your interview wiz Madam Bones yesterday, 'ow was it?"
"Fine," Harry whispered. "Though I doubt anything will come of it."
"Why do you think that, 'Arry?"
He gestured at the lectern with his chin. Minister Fudge stood behind it, pulling a scroll from his dark green dress robes.
"You are aware of at least some of the political scene in Britain." Harry rolled his eyes. "Fudge is heading the investigation."
"Nothing will get done so long as he's in office," Luna chirped, "but that's fine. I think it'll all work out in the end."
Fudge cleared his throat, prompting Harry to look up at him.
"I, as are all gathered here—" the Minister paused, twisting his fingers. "—am deeply saddened by what happened in Hogsmeade nearly three weeks ago. But, as Headmaster Dumbledore stated, let us not wallow in grief, for our Ministry is strong and will apprehend those responsible for these heinous acts."
Whispers broke out across the crowd. Fudge pulled at the collar of his dress robes and wiped his forehead with a sleeve. His wide eyes darted back to the parchment on the lectern.
"So we must now turn our eyes toward the future, to acts of selfless heroism." Fudge coughed again. "I am of course talking about Professor Devora Antov and her actions during the defence of Hogsmeade. For her actions, she will receive The Order of Merlin, Third Class, to be presented at a later date. Thank you."
"'E does not inspire much confidence." Fleur's eyes followed the Minister as he returned to the front row. "Papa 'as never once complimented 'im and now I see why."
Harry ignored the names being read off by a tearful McGonagall. His skin tingled and burned under the spectres' penetrating gaze. Though they spoke no words, they penetrated his very being.
His eyes jerked to a fluttering, black covering as it was torn from its place atop a crystalline structure. Weak rays of light, dimmed though they were in the winter months, splashed through the simple memorial. Multi-coloured beams washed over the crowd, filling those gathered with an indescribable warmth.
The ice in his chest plummeted into his stomach and his eyes widened.
She laid sprawled beneath the crystalline structure. Blackened, crusty blood leaked from beneath her splayed robes in rivers, slicing deep swaths in the snow at the memorial's base.
Gnarled fingers dug for purchase in the foul slush. The foetid scents of rot, decay, and death burned deep in his lungs.
She looked up.
White, clouded eyes found his own. The phantom, the demon, smiled, her face stretched in mania, rotted teeth falling from her gums. She raised a desiccated hand, pointing at him. Slush mixed with befouled blood dripped from her fingernail.
The woman cackled and coughed. "You'll join us ere long, boy."
"Harry?" Luna shook his shoulder, shooting an odd look at the monument. "It's time to go."
Harry tore his eyes away from the woman, her gaze burning the back of his neck. His eyes perused the crowd. Rattling, wet breaths rang out over them.
"I was your friend." A new ghost joined the cacophony, twitching arms clawing at the snow from beneath a chair in front of them.
Grey skin flaked off the thing's arms. Maggots writhed in the blackened, torn strands of muscle and bone. Entrails drug behind it, breaking off in viscous chunks, as it clawed its way through the snow. Bloodshot, hazel eyes stared up at Harry from beneath matted grey-blonde hair.
"And you let me die," Neville hissed.
"That's not him," Luna muttered. A tear fell from her silver eyes, glistening in the soft sun. "He's happy, Harry, and he knows how much we miss him."
Harry turned away from the mirage, scowling.
"What are you two talking about?" Fleur looked at him.
Harry shook his head. "How is Granger?"
Fleur and Luna shifted into him, following the streaming, sniffling tide of bodies making their way to the castle. A witch wearing a stuffed vulture hat hobbled in front of them.
Their listless, accusing eyes followed his every movement.
"She's not well," Luna whispered, her hand tight around his. "Hermione lost her leg in the fight and she'll have to have therapy to learn to walk on her false leg."
A delicate hand grabbed his left but he shook it off. Fire danced in Fleur's eyes.
A frown marred Luna's face. "She's taken Neville's death poorly, Harry. He was her best friend and Satomi's parents pulled her from Hogwarts last week. Hermione will be alone in Gryffindor."
Cold, crusted slime enveloped Harry's ankle. Neville held it in a death grip, his mouth open in a silent scream of torment.
The witch wearing the vulture hat whipped around. "And you, boy, are to blame for it all!"
Her wrinkled skin drooped beneath the stuffed vulture, a handful of black feathers drifted to the ground. Mournful, bloodshot brown eyes glared at him from behind a gossamer black veil.
"Pardon?" Fleur drew herself up, icy shards shooting from her blue eyes. "Just 'oo are you to accuse 'im like zhat?"
A long, black-painted fingernail jabbed at her chest. "I am Augusta Longbottom, girl, and it's his fault my grandson was caught up in such a mess in the first place."
Fleur bristled at the witch's tone. "I fail to see why it is 'Arry's fault."
"Potter gave him hope, the foolish boy." The old witch sneered at the two teenagers. "Neville wrote to me, gushing about how Potter would make him more than he was. He wasn't meant to be a fighter, and now he's dead for listening to a fool, for daring to hope."
Harry ignored the gurgled moan that came from the spectre at his feet. Blurred, ghastly figures swarmed through the air behind Augusta like insects. The listless crowd stepped through them, unaware of their existence.
Turning away, Harry whispered, "You are correct, Dowager Longbottom, but for the wrong reasons."
Fleur fell still at his side. "'Arry…"
"Excuse me?" the old witch hissed.
"I made a choice." Harry looked up and swallowed the lump lodged in his throat. "Neville was… something of a friend. I told him to run, but it was too late. I had to choose between him and—"
His eyes moved toward Fleur.
"And we see where his loyalty to you got him." Augusta sniffed. "Despite your flaunting of our traditions, my Neville believed in the bond between our houses. You dismissed it by allowing him to die. The Potter-Longbottom alliance has died by your hand, Potter."
Harry watched the woman plough her way through the teeming crowd.
"What did she mean by 'flaunting our traditions'?" Fleur's narrowed eyes tracked the old witch.
"Your betrothal announcement," Luna muttered, frowning at the ground at Harry's feet. "It's happening in France, not here. Many see it as a slight against Britain. Rather foolish, really."
He looked to his left. "You never told me about that. I assume it is happening at the ball?"
"Oui." Fleur's eyes lingered on Luna's hand wrapped over Harry's. "I forgot to tell you. You're still coming, right?"
"I am." Harry started walking again, the crowd having dispersed. "But I will not be able to stay in France long. I have much to do over the holidays."
"But where to begin," he finished to himself.
"I suggest you start at the beginning." Luna frowned at the air in front of them, swatting at something they could not see. "I think that's where you'll find what you're looking for."
"What do you mean?" Harry pulled them to a stop, his eyes narrowed at the young witch. "Did you have some kind of vision?"
Luna giggled. "I don't have visions, Harry, but I'm afraid I don't know."
He ran a hand over his face. 'Of course.'
—0v0—
Golden brandy swirled in the smudged glass, but it had been several minutes since he had taken so much as a sip. Fawkes's despairing warble filled the room, otherwise silent save for the fire's crackling and his many trinkets' tittering.
'So many dead.' Albus unseeing eyes stared at the days' old Daily Prophet. 'How could I not see?'
Their names were there in front of him, in black and white, but he could only see their faces. The faces of their mourning parents. A tear fell from his cheek to splash into the pool on his desk.
It had been nearly three weeks since Hogsmeade but his wounds refused to close. Pain lodged itself in his chest like a tumour that refused to be removed no matter how desperately he clawed at it.
Neville Longbottom, he read through tear-filled eyes.
His grandmother had left his office only moments ago after giving him a thorough tongue lashing, the third this week. Augusta had even gone so far as to suggest his removal as headmaster.
The motion had nearly passed.
Albus drained the glass, coughing at the burn. 'Likely no worse than I deserve.'
He continued to read the names, despite having long since memorised them. They festered in his mind, their faces stained with blood, until his head felt as if it had been filled with a foetid swill.
"I could have saved them."
The thick voice jerked him from his train of thought. Glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against his hard oak desk. Beads of amber liquid rolled over the sharp, glinting edges.
'I have been afraid to broach this subject for fear of what I would discover. No longer.'
Albus looked up, his eyes narrow. "You should have saved them."
Harry looked away like a child who had been told off. A small part of Albus marvelled at the guilt Harry openly displayed, but the rest of him was filled with roiling anger.
A soft crooning noise floated through the room.
"You are right, Headmaster." Harry slammed his eyes closed as though he had seen something frightening. "I should have saved them, but I did not. I valued my secrecy more than them."
"And now they are dead!" Albus surged to his feet, slamming his hand down on the Daily Prophet. His hand clawed the paper and raised it for Harry to see. "Open your eyes!"
Green eyes opened to trace the paper. Children's faces beamed at the camera, caught in whatever they had been up to within Hogwarts's walls. Twelve of them in total.
"I have been thinking… trying—"
Albus threw the paper to the ground between them. "Not when it counted most. These children lost their lives, their families irrevocably broken."
"I know." The young wizard leaned forward, his face in his hands. "I was wrong. I should have followed your orders."
"My orders are not what is important, Harry." Albus pointed at the dishevelled paper on the floor. "You say you have been thinking, but can you say you know why your actions have angered me?"
Albus's heavy breathing drowned out the crackle of the fire, of his many instruments' puffing and buzzing.
"I allowed the students to die," Harry murmured, "to protect my identity. I had a choice between two separate and conflicting orders, and I chose selfishly. There is more, I know there is, but I cannot…"
"Thus is the source of my frustration." Albus sank into a boneless heap in his chair, rubbing his temples. "You do not understand… perhaps cannot understand."
"Please, Headmaster." The sound of wood scraping against stone tore through the room. "Help me understand. Something is wrong, but I do not know what it is. I want to fix it so I can be as I was."
He shook his head. "I am afraid that neither is possible, Harry."
"I see them." Harry raised a shaking hand to point over Albus's shoulder. "I've gone mad and I want it to stop."
Albus turned but only saw a blank stretch of wall. "What do you see?"
Harry jerked his arm, recoiling from something Albus could not see. "Spectres. Bloody. Twisted. I see them constantly. Hear them. Feel them. I can't sleep.."
"Guilt."
Harry's head whipped up at the word. "What?"
"You feel guilt, Harry." Albus's eyes widened. "You do not understand it, nor how to be rid of it, so your mind plagues you because of it. Who do you see?"
"Neville…" The young wizard's eyes clouded. "That young boy after the fighting was over. His mother. Them more than the others— STOP!"
Harry's manic eyes scoured the room, his chest heaving. Albus waved his wand, just to be sure of his theory.
His eyes sought out the bottle of brandy on his desk. 'Nothing.'
"Those you have either killed or allowed to be killed," the Headmaster sighed.
"Can you help me?" Harry's question was asked with all the grace of a toddler asking his parents to protect him from the monsters under his bed.
"Everyone must deal with guilt in their own way, Harry. I fear that to forgive yourself you must come to terms with who and what you have become."
Green eyes widened, wrinkling the deep, dark bags beneath them. "Go back to the beginning," he murmured. "I have to go, Headmaster.."
Albus raised a hand as Harry stormed from the room. "Before you do, Harry. I have two requests."
The boy stilled and nodded, though his eyes sought the exit every few seconds.
"Firstly, you will be staying with the Weasleys during Christmas." Albus silenced Harry's interruption with a look. "I know you wished to destroy the locket sooner rather than later, Harry. However, I believe this is more important. The locket will not be going anywhere."
"Fine," he groused. "Why though? You know I abhor them."
"Do not discount them, Harry." Albus looked back at his brandy and poured another glass. "I believe you will be surprised by your visit."
Harry's foot-tapping drummed through the room. "The second request, Headmaster?"
"You will be teaching duelling in the coming term," Albus said. "If we are ever attacked again I would like it if students were able to fight well enough to escape."
Harry recoiled as if struck and opened his mouth once, twice, before giving a curt nod and exiting the room.
Albus stared at the door, quaffing his brandy. "Good luck, Harry. I fear a long, arduous road lies ahead of you… 'Back to the beginning.'"
Weathered fingers drummed against oak. "What do you suppose he meant, Fawkes?"
The ancient creature's mournful song settled over the room like a moulded, tattered blanket.
"I fear you are right, old friend."
—0v0—
Elongated shadows flickered and danced over the dreary sitting room of Twelve Grimmauld Place. Musty, dust-filled and stagnant air filled his nostrils, but he'd long since become accustomed to the odour.
Kreacher's inane and indistinct mutterings floated about the room. The deranged house elf was likely once again scavenging, hoping to save his family's "legacy" from being stolen.
Sirius couldn't bring himself to care.
The acrid stench of cheap firewhiskey carried to his sensitive nose on a draft. His eyes sought out the half-empty bottle sitting innocently on the table in front of him.
Goblins pounded their drums in his temples with reckless abandon and Sirius slammed his eyes shut, turning his head away. Still, it called to him like a siren to a shipwrecked sailor of old.
Sirius reached forward with a shaking hand. "Just one sip," he muttered. "Just one more. What could it hurt?"
His fingers brushed the cool glass. It was smooth beneath his touch, comforting. Alluring.
Sirius jerked back into the couch as if burnt and glared at the gleaming bottle.
'How long has it been?' The fire warmed his clammy skin. 'Why'd I let this happen?'
Sirius fought against the fog, against his fragmented memories, but all roads came back to Harry.
'I don't even know who he is.' Sirius's face dropped into his sweaty, trembling hands. 'And it's my fault.'
Searching for his lost godson had given his life meaning of a sort, a reason to keep pushing despite the odds, but it'd all fallen away when the Ministry declared him dead and called off their search.
So he'd turned to the bottle, drowning his sorrows in what was supposed to be a temporary moment of weakness to mourn his friends, his companions. Harry.
But he'd never stopped.
'I wasn't there for him.' Sirius glared at the offending bottle through his fingers. 'And I'm not now.'
His own rank odour filled his nose. "No wonder he wants nothing to do with me."
Sirius reached out and grasped the wand sitting beside the liquor bottle. Faint tendrils of warmth snaked up his arm in sluggish spurts. "Wingardium Leviosa."
The bottle shuddered weakly, but his magic was cold, unresponsive.
He wanted to weep, needed to, but he couldn't.
Weak light flickered in the corner of the dark room. Sirius peered at the dried out Christmas tree in the corner, broken ornaments littering its drooping branches.
"It's nearly Christmas," he muttered. "If James could see me now—"
"He'd give you a sharp kick on the arse, provided Lily didn't get to you first."
Sirius jumped, twisting with his wand in hand. Remus's emotionless amber eyes rested on the bottle of firewhiskey.
He lowered his wand and looked away. "Moony, when did you get here?"
His best, and only remaining friend, shook his head. "I've been here for months, Sirius."
The lack of sobriquet stung. Sirius closed his eyes. 'I could still escape the pain. It's just there, behind me.'
Remus's soft, measured steps echoed off the floor and took a deep breath in through his nose. Calloused fingers gripped Sirius's chin. "You haven't drank anything since you've woken up. Are you sick?"
He opened his eyes. Remus's calculating, worried gaze skimmed over him.
"I have been." Sirius looked down at his feet. "For too long, Moony."
"What do you mean, Sirius?"
Sirius took a deep breath, his heart pounding against his ribs. "I need help, Moony. It's time for change."
Amber eyes flicked to the bottle on the table. "Do you mean…"
Sirius pulled away from his friend and picked up the bottle of firewhiskey, his head swimming. Yellow, skeletal fingers strained against the cool, biting glass.
'Such an innocuous thing.' Sirius thumbed the bottle's peeling label. 'So much wasted time. Look what you've turned me into.'
Dull grey eyes stared back at him from the glass. Sirius's lips curled into a sneer and he flung the bottle into the hearth.
Glass shattered in sparkling tinkles. Flames roared, consuming the liquid in furious tendrils and casting long shadows over the room.
Sirius looked back over his shoulder. Something pulled at his chest, something he'd not felt for far too long.
"Come with me, Moony," he choked. "I can't do it alone."
Pearly teeth glimmered in the firelight, framed by a scarred face he'd not truly seen in years. "Of course… Padfoot."