Chapter Nineteen: An Unfillable Void
I glance about uneasily, trying to assure that no one is watching me now. I've witnessed some pretty uncomfortable breakdowns in front of the famed Headmaster's tombstone already, and I don't think that any mourner would be particularly excited to see me lingering about. Slowly, I creep out of the brush at the outskirts of the gravesite, trying my best to be silent. Still, I rather doubt that the grave's visitors have thus far been aware of their surroundings.
Trying to gulp away the uneasy feeling in my stomach, I step out into the sunlight and onto the patch of freshly dug earth that marks my target. It feels so strange to be robbing a grave, and I shudder more than once before finally taking my wand from my pocket to remove the dirt. Normally, working with dirt around a grave like this should be done by hand with a shovel—a customary sign of respect in the wizarding world—and a part of me feels like I should be doing that now. Time is short, however, and he's not really dead anyway. Still, it feels like I'm ruining something sacred as I begin, soundlessly levitating the earth and to create a pile near the side of the gravestone.
I really don't want to think about my future right now, so I try to point all of my focus on the motion of the wand, pushing myself to create shapes with the soil as lift it into the air. It helps me to really focus on only the wand work; I refuse to break down now and a wandering mind could be my undoing at the moment.
I continue to glance around occasionally, but to my relief visiting hours seem to be over. The students of Hogwarts have all returned home for the summer by now, leaving only the occasional staff member or mourner on the grounds anyway, but I like to be prepared for anything. There's also a part of me that wonders if any of my fellow Death Eaters have caught on to my plan. If they find me here, they won't hesitate to bring me to the Dark Lord himself, and there is no mercy to be found in him.
Finally, the last of the dirt is removed and I can begin the hardest task. I need to lift Dumbledore's coffin from the ground wandless, as those in charge of laying the Headmaster to rest decided it was the best way to safeguard against Death Eater raids; and I can't deny that the possibility of a particularly overzealous of the Dark Lord's followers trying to bring back Dumbledore's body as a souvenir is at least possible.
I close my eyes to concentrate and push away the unease that's wormed its way into my stomach. I push away the pain of seeing Draco's face and the fear for the rest of my friends. I push away the worry that the Dark Lord will win anyway and the twinge of regret I still feel for becoming one of them despite anything I've said. I push away the anguish and confusion over everything that my mother said to me during our last meeting and the worry that something about this plan will go wrong. Finally, I push away my extreme terror concerning Azkaban and the Dementors that live there. This is hard to do, but it's necessary.
Now, I picture a coffin rising from the earth and floating gently to the ground. I picture it several times, imagining Dumbledore's body the last time before I open my eyes and mutter "Accio". My magic doesn't fail me; and I sigh in relief when the coffin finally settles onto the ground. Making quick work of opening it, I gasp before sighing slightly in relief to see the man in pretty good condition for being half dead. He looks as though he's only sleeping and I could almost swear that he's going to laugh jovially at any second.
Carefully, I remove a small vial of Wiggenweld Potion from my robes, thankful that Death Eater's at least understand the necessity of pockets. Removing the cork, I recite all that I'm planning on telling him.
He'll probably try to dissuade me from turning myself in, to which I'll respond with, "Sir, my time would be much better spent spilling my guts to a disbelieving ministry. They need to know the things that I know, the things that I have and haven't done: even if it costs me my life."
That, of course, will be all the resolve he needs to let me do it, but I imagine that he won't stop there. He'll probably flatter me in some way, hoping that I'll give my allegiance to him. My allegiance is with what's right and has been for some time, but contrary to popular opinion, doing what's right doesn't always equate to Dumbledore. If he calls me a hero, I'll respond accordingly.
"I don't need flattery," I'll tell him. "It often serves only to cover lies and build shaky friendships. I'm not doing this to be remembered as a hero. I'm not doing this to be remembered at all.
"I was never even meant to be here," I'll continue. "I want this life so desperately, but it can't be without those that I care about: without the rest of the lives to live it with. So, I'm fixing it. Maybe I won't be around to share that world, but it needs to be there. There's no point without such a world. I'm not a hero, sir."
He'll probably then use this to try and assure that I understand where he's always been coming from with his chessboard tactics, but Dumbledore's motives have never been that simple.
"Sir, things are beyond even your control now," I'll tell him hopefully without the smirk that I'll have to bite back, "Your plan was to be dead. With all due respect, I like my plan much better."
Then he'll have to acknowledge that it seems likely that I'm not terribly fond of him. He'll probably force the point, asking me to confirm or deny that I dislike him. However, I'll simply leave him to make his own conclusions, disapparating away to the Ministry of Magic, where my life will effectively end.
I run my fingers through my hair nervously, take a deep breath, and pour the contents of the bottle down the "dead" man's throat, waiting for his revival. It should only take a couple of seconds, but I can't leave until I'm sure that he's okay. I start counting.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
I try to remain calm, but as five turns into thirty, I begin to sweat. He isn't waking up! Why won't he wake up? I bite my lip anxiously as I continue to count.
Thirty-one.
Thirty-two.
Thirty-three.
Thirty-four.
Thirty-five.
Desperate, I begin to shake his shoulders, but they remain limp in my grasp.
Come on, Professor, I mentally beg, You have to wake up!
Sixty-two.
Sixty-three.
Sixty-four.
Sixty-five.
I frantically try to wrack my brain for an answer to why this is happening, but I can't think of anything. I brewed the potion correctly. I had to have brewed the potion correctly. I mentally run over every step of the process, checking myself for the hundredth time, but I can find no error.
Eighty-eighty.
Eighty-nine.
Ninety.
When I reach one hundred, I stop counting. It's taken far too long. I stare helplessly at Dumbledore, willing him to wake up and be okay, but I know from my reading that it's hopeless by now. Professor Dumbledore is dead. He's really, truly dead.
I feel this despair start to grow inside of me, a despair that leaves every pain I've ever felt in the dust. Dumbledore was supposed to vouch for me; he was supposed to be my only hope. No one will believe the word of a Death Eater, not one who killed Dumbledore. Not only that, but I wasn't supposed to be a killer. I wasn't supposed to do something like this: something that I'll never shake.
I killed Dumbledore.
I'll go to Azkaban—maybe even without a trial—and receive the Dementor's kiss. I'll be stuck, just like Snape had said in his lecture all those months ago. I'll be the victim screaming in agony throughout eternity, my mind begging for things that my body will never listen to again. I'll be that stupid and mindless cat-like thing from my nightmares; and all because I killed Dumbledore. I killed Dumbledore. I'm a murderer and Dumbledore is dead. Dumbledore is dead.
Shit.
What have I done? What have I done? I pace frantically in circles like it's the only thing keeping me sane. Correction, it is the only thing keeping me sane. I jerk my hands forcefully through my hair and clamp my teeth down on my lip: anything to attach me to reality. I breathe in and out shakily and fast, unsure of what I'm even doing anymore. I've always had a plan. There's always been a plan. There is always a plan. Why isn't there a plan? What do you do when the plan—your carefully handcrafted, mastermind plan—falls apart? When it all turns out to have been for nothing? The truth is that I don't know.
Think, Blaise, think I silently command myself, but it's pointless. My mind is spinning and whirling past thousands of images and ideas, failures and futures: none of them solve my dilemma. I'm just about to fall apart; and probably only seconds from completely losing my mind. Where is Theo when you need him? Where is anyone when you need them?
Oh, that's right, I remind myself bitterly, I've pushed them away.
"Blaise?" I'm snapped back into reality as suddenly realize that I could be in great danger of being discovered, what with Dumbledore's open casket and a rather large pile of dirt to my left. I'm also dressed as a Death Eater to a T with my long robes that billow in the breeze, my Dark Mark occasionally peeking out as the wind blows the sleeves around, and the mask laying not far from the brush I crawled from moments ago.
"What do you want?" I growl harshly, whipping around to face . . . "Ginny?"
She looks a wreck, her oversized black gown hanging awkwardly off of one shoulder, the hem muddy from dragging on the ground. Her face is streaked black with makeup that follows distinctly tear-like patterns, her eyes red at the edges and slightly swollen. Her hair is barely held back into the semblance of a braid, chunks falling out at her shoulders. She holds herself tightly with her arms, a wand clutched in her left fingers.
Her eyes widen for a second when she takes in the scene before her, but the feisty Weasley girl swiftly falls into to what looks like disinterest. After a long pause, she removes her wand arm from its position around her shoulder and points it weakly at me, the lack of fight left in her astonishing. Where is the spitting, fierce redhead that strikes fear into the heart of anyone who dares get in her way? Before me all I see is the shell of a broken child, yet another thing ruined by this terrible war.
"B-Blaise," she questions, "I thought . . . I thought I could . . ." She looks down at her feet, her wand dropping to the ground with a thud.
"Ginny," I begin as gently as possible, my heart breaking for this girl, but the rest of my statement dies at my lips, for I notice that she's shaking. My mind instantly snaps to that bathroom and to Draco Malfoy, shaking with sobs like I'd never seen before; like something inside him was broken beyond repair.
Without hesitating, I pull this girl into my arms. I didn't do anything when Draco fell apart, and I'll be damned if I do nothing now. As though physical contact let lose whatever was holding her back, she beings to sob and wail. She pushes her face deep into my shoulder and I feel the moisture against my shoulder as her tears soak my robes. She sniffs unprettily, but I don't really care. People who cry ugly are the kinds of people that you know are truly alive.
I'm not sure how long we stand like this, but when she pulls away the tears are gone. All that's left from her breakdown are the smudgy streaks left over from her makeup. I pull my wand from my pocket and whisk these streaks away, leaving her eyes slightly red, but otherwise without a trace of misery.
"What's happened?" I tentatively ask when she seems fairly calm. "School is over, Ginny. You should be home right now with your family."
She sighs. "That's just it. I don't want to be home. I don't want to be anywhere. Mum's so sad; dad's so worried . . . I just, I can't breathe. Dumbledore's dead now and no one knows what to do? What should we do, Blaise?"
"I . . ." I gulp guiltily. So I'm the idiot that ruined everything; me and my stupid plan.
Suddenly she pushes away from me frantically, falling onto her back and desperately trying to escape on her hands and knees. This is exactly what happened after the incident at my mother's, and I realize that she probably just remembered who I am and what I've done. Her eyes are so full of terror that my heart aches for the days when everything was so much simpler, where the Dark Lord wasn't even a consideration. I miss the days when everything was so calmly pointless, so mundane. I miss the laughing first years, the gossiping fourth years, and the traditional scowls of the sixth and seventh years who think they're better than everyone.
Everything I've done . . . I crash to my knees and press myself against the ground, praying that it won't let me fall apart. I killed Dumbledore. I set out to save the world and instead I have destroyed it. I was right to say that I'm not a hero: I'm a villain. I am the very thing I loathe and the very thing that everyone else ought to loathe, too.
"Blaise?" I look up into Ginny's face as she peers over at me, a quiet confusion settling over her features.
"Yeah?"
"You killed Dumbledore?" It comes out as more of a statement than a question, but I know that she wants an answer.
"Yeah." The silence that follows only hurts me further, and I begin to wonder again what on earth I am to do. I killed Dumbledore. That's unforgivable, of course she hates me. She'll never speak a word to me again. Unless I am wrong, and I am never—
"—Blaise?"
I stare up at her, unsure of what to say. Simply speaking to me after I admitted something like that; it's . . . well, it's incredibly merciful.
"Come with me," she continues without hesitation, as though it were the most normal thing in the world. "Come to the Burrow."
I feel a grimace take over my features. "I can't."
"And why not? I mean—"
"—I killed Dumbledore, Ginny!" I wail before calming myself and trying again, "I didn't mean to do it, but it doesn't matter anymore because I did kill him. They'll all hate me, and they could never trust me, not after something like this. Besides, I'd only get in the way."
"What's the alternative, though?"
I tilt my head, considering. What other options do I have? I suppose that there are only three alternatives to Ginny's plan. I could become a full-fledged Death Eater and devote myself to the cause, which besides completely contradicting my morals, would also likely end badly should the Dark Lord fail. I could also stay here and allow myself to be found by the Dark Lord, which would cause him to become suspicious and possibly distrust me anyway, likely leaving me to suffer torture until I'm begging him for death. Or, I could turn myself in and go to Azkaban, which would definitely end in me receiving the Dementor's Kiss.
"I . . . I don't know." It's all I can say because I can't fathom what other better alternative there is than facing everything I've done like a man. I need to apologize—beg for forgiveness—and hope that they'll accept me, or at least accept my services.
Ginny smiles slightly in a comforting way before turning and lowering the casket back into the ground, swishing her wand in precise movements so as not to disturb the dead. Then she flicks all the dirt back above it and repositions the tombstone so that the place looks completely untouched. She turns again to face me.
"It's settled, then. Everything is settled." She nods somberly. "Look, I know you're scared. I'd be worried if you weren't scared. But I promise that my family will come around. You just have to prove to them that you can be trusted."
I try to look brave, but there's a reason I didn't end up in Gryffindor.
"And—" she adds, "You owe me an explanation. You said—no—you promised that you would tell me everything, Blaise Zabini, and you will have to come through if you expect me to take you to the Burrow." She glares at me, that Weasley determination settling over her features. It's slightly relieving, honestly, to see her acting normally.
"Okay, okay!" I raise my arms up in defense. Then, more gravely, I continue. "Let's do this. Let's go to the Burrow." I take her now outstretched hand and allow her to side-apparate me.