In the Hour of Darkness

1. Chapter 1

Nightmares

*bows down to everyone who is about to read my story*

I'm such a horrible person, I know. I leave you guys hanging on TWO cliffhangers (in my other stories), and then I post another. *hits forehead* I'm SO SORRY! Please forgive me. Care of Magical Creatures is taking awhile because I need to research some random stuff, and well, Downtrodden is taking a long time because I decided to re-read OotP to make sure some facts are correct AND because I've been having writer's block on how to “present” the story (I think you know what I mean by this… hopefully…)

Okay, well, on to this.

Well, basically I was feeling really angst-happy and spacey. And, if you want to really get into “inspiration”, I guess you could say it's kinda sorta based on real life. Eh. I hope you enjoy it all the same, and I SWEAR I'll get my stories updated soon.

Also, it's my birthday on Monday (tomorrow)! Yay! I'm so excited! It's my present from me to you! (er, yeah)

-Lauren

* * *

Darkness.

It was a darkness in which nothing could grow or survive. It was absolute; complete; filled with all things evil and sinister. They dwelt there, smothering in their own hateful nature, wasting away until all that was left was a soulless, bodiless being. Their breath was tainted with the wickedness of their ways; their water was the blood of their enemies. One could hardly say they lived at all; they were a shadow of what had been, and a barricade guarding what could be. The darkness drove them mad, conveying their reason into oblivion, plunging them headfirst into unreachable realities…

Trustworthy men found themselves lying cheats, scoundrels and piteous scavengers. Diligent, buoyant men became old and worn, and their faces… their faces became gaunt and stretched. Consumed with evil, they fled to the darkness, searching… waiting…

Suddenly, a shadowy light.

They were all there, scattered across the earth, as if God himself had suddenly uprooted each one in turn. There was not so much as a foot of space between them, the wretched souls, yet there was nothing close about them at all.

Men, women, and children. All dead. Wasted away at the hand of the beholder. The hand of whom had started this madness.

Did it matter who they were? Whether they were evil or good, magical or non?

Now it did not matter. Now their faces were gone, blank and empty. They held no identity, no sense of self. One was no longer distinguished from the next. Did that always happen when one died? Were they forgotten completely?

But they were still there, rotting away on the battlefield, feeling every squirm of maggot or decaying of skin. Bloodcurdling screams still sounded across the seemingly empty graveyard, awakening the animals that lived there - the dark animals that would devour putrid flesh with malice and greed.

He could hear their anguished cries as he weaved throughout their tormented bodies. He watched the animals tear off chunks of rotting meat with lusty satisfaction. Through his eyes, he could see the creatures fading in and out of darkness. Only a gleam of their attentive eyes told him that they still lingered.

Three solitary bodies stood out above all, giving off their own shimmering light. A beacon, drawing him closer.

They alone had faces. Once beautiful faces contorted and disillusioned by fate and time.

Obsessively, he reached for them; touched their cheeks and hair, their noses and forehead. They felt warm and alive, yet he knew… they could not be…

A hushed, bodiless voice spoke indifferently, “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…”

The woman's emerald eyes flashed open, staring expressionlessly up at the heavens. Her tangled hair flowed down her bony, decrepit shoulders, ending in soft, auburn ringlets.

“… And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…”

Naught but a breath of wind stirred. The men opened their dark eyes.

“… And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other one survives… The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…”

He turned his head as a light shone down on the bodies, illuminating their decaying, inexpressive features. As he watched, the bodies convulsed and twitched, and he could hear their screams above the rest, burrowing deep inside his very soul. He wanted to reach out to them, but found he couldn't…

Their skin mended; their rancid flesh disappeared… their eyes brightened…

He could hear heartbeats coming from all of them, strong, beautiful heartbeats. The light became stronger… closer…

He saw them as they were then, pure and whole. His eyes filled with grateful tears…

Without a warning, they began to shrink, their hair sliced shorter, then longer, their faces changed… Horrified, he watched them grow younger… until all that was left were three delicate babies, crying desperately for their mothers.

He stretched out his arm…

His groping hands closed around nothing as the bodies shriveled and sank into the earth, leaving nothing but swirling dust in their wake. He fell to the ground and buried his two hands into the soil, shamelessly sobbing over the mockery of their being. Tormented and filled with anguish, he closed his eyes tightly.

Something soft and silky brushed against his leg, and he looked down in surprise.

A pair of intelligent, playful eyes, bordered by a whiskery face, gazed up at him.

The otter, a silvery creature with a squat body, made a quiet, contented humming noise, and sniffed at his hand. It cocked its head for a moment, seemingly listening, then scampered around him.

He turned his head.

A little girl stood before him, looking almost as surprised as he felt, protectively holding the silver otter's head to her thigh.

He moved towards her, to reassure her haunted brown eyes, but in one swift movement, she backed away and clutched the otter tighter. She was stiff with terror, and she began to weep, burying her tearstained face into her arms; her little body shook with silent tremors.

Her figure rapidly became unfocused as a light mist swept across the forsaken meadow as quickly as it had appeared, making not a rustle of wind as it passed. It was as though a blanket had been mercifully cast upon the beleaguered corpses. The girl's purring otter seemed to melt into the haze.

But as the mist crept into his whole field of vision, he realized that he could no longer see anything but darkness, and he began to move forward in fear, wanting to reach that poor, lonely girl with the deep brown eyes.

He trudged and stumbled in the darkness, not seeing the path ahead, not seeing even his own hands and feet. It was cold; so cold the tips of his fingers tingled and his teeth chattered. The stretch of pitch-blackness ahead seemed to go on endlessly… He walked onward in vain, hoping against hope that the finish would come soon.

But the obscurity never ceased, and briefly he wondered if he had gone blind.

Unexpectedly, silken material brushed against his face. He reached out his hand, and took it in his fingers. It was thin and wispy and old, black with age. It was radiating with energy; so much energy in fact, he could feel his hair crackle with static electricity. But it was an evil energy, he knew… And he knew he had to get past…

He attempted to push the material aside, but it just fluttered and swept back into place. Whispers and murmurs hissed alien words in his ear.

He felt something touch his arm, and he wheeled around, breathing heavily.

Then someplace, in the depths of his mind, someone screamed.

* * *

Soft moonlight streamed through the hospital wing's closed window, past the various cabinets of potion and medicine, past the sink and basin, past the old, gently humming clock, and then onward past the neat, tidy beds. Outside the weather was dreadful, but warmth and comfort took its place indoors - in this obsessively tidy room - and the occupants slept soundly, unaware and unperturbed by a boy's sudden terrified awakening.

Harry awoke from his nightmare, beads of sweat dripping from his hair, perspiration on his brow. His whole body shook. He had seen images and things that no seventeen-year-old should ever see or experience. They were permanently etched, scratched deeply into the very roots of his mind. But it would be demoting to say he was haunted. Scarred. He had been scarred for fifteen long, painful years.

Harry couldn't remember why he was in the hospital wing. All he remembered - and it was hard to distinguish - was coming face to face with him… Harry shuddered involuntarily… He saw the catlike eyes narrow in distaste, the white, thin mouth curl into a smile… a truly evil smile…

He saw, in his mind's eye, the battles going on around him. The screams. The shouts of incantations. The felled bodies… He remembered turning his head, watching his fellow classmates duel and collapse… the Death Eaters laughing in pleasure.

His friends… all his friends…

An emotion he had never felt before coursed through him. Hundreds dead. Hundreds more barely alive. His own classmates, pushed into the war. Many times he felt sorrow, many times he asked why life was so unfair to him, why he was the one. Oh, but if he had known. The horrors of war were far worse than anything he had experienced.

He knew the casualties. He joked with them. He ate with them.

Sometimes you can read about a war, think about it, and forget it all in five minutes. Because you weren't there. You didn't know the people who passed away - they were just names on a page. But when you were there, fighting for your very life…

Harry's heart clenched; he bent over the side of the bed and retched violently.

Shakily he got to his feet. Walked to the sink.

There he washed his mouth clean, looking at his pale reflection in the mirror.

He didn't remember… everything was blurry… It seemed as though no time had passed at all, though he could have been unconscious for minutes… hours… days…

Fiercely he scrubbed his gums and teeth, ridding them of their ill taste, but also desperately trying to cleanse his head.

Had he been killed? Was this some sort of cruel joke?

Slowly Harry backed away from the sink, mouth aching, but it was nothing compared to the horrible nagging feeling at the back of his mind…

“Knut for your thoughts, Harry?” said a soft voice. “You seem distraught.”

Harry whirled around. There, standing in the shadows, was Albus Dumbledore.

“Did I startle you?” he said in the same compelling tone, “I'm sorry. I mustn't make a habit of showing up whenever I like…”

“It's okay,” Harry said flatly. He turned around and flopped down onto his bed.

Dumbledore didn't move, but merely watched him. “You were heroic, Harry. You were brave. There is no fault in what happened.”

Harry didn't answer him, but stared determinedly down at the carpet.

“Harry, your classmates fought valiantly. They risked their lives to save our next generation…”

Harry could feel the stinging sensation in the corner of his eyes, and turned away. He could still feel Dumbledore's light-blue gaze on his back. The plummeting feeling was back.

“But it didn't work,” Harry croaked, “It didn't work…”

Dumbledore smiled a slow, almost melancholy smile. “Yes it did, Harry. Tom Riddle is gone.”

It took Harry a moment to register. He turned around sharply and faced his headmaster.

“How…? I didn't - I don't -,”

“There are still followers, yes, but they will disband eventually - they are much too weak to overpower the Aurors.”

“But, Professor, I don't understand why -,”

“Nor does anyone else.” Dumbledore smiled. “They say he's not really gone. But I know, my dear friend, I know. He won't ever come back.”

Harry stared. “That doesn't explain why he's gone…”

Dumbledore smiled again. “Not easily distracted, are we?”

He backed away, and Harry thought for a moment he would disappear back into the shadows and leave the mystery unsolved, but instead, he reached out a gnarled hand and grasped the curtains separating Harry's small area from the other.

“Your answer,” said Dumbledore quietly, drawing the curtains aside.

There, fast asleep on the hospital bed, was a small figure, enveloped in warm blankets.

“Hermione,” Harry breathed.

“She saved you, Harry,” Dumbledore said solemnly. “Tom is gone, because of her and you. Together. If there was one thing he despised most...”

Harry could barely hear him. He walked to Hermione's bed, and looked down upon her. She was having a restful sleep - she was motionless and there was even a small smile on her lips. Harry knelt beside her.

“Harry, you need to understand,” said Dumbledore softly, “that this was not a war of power and authority. That's the mistake Tom made. He wanted power. All you wanted, Harry… was a family… love…”

“Erised,” whispered Harry.

He touched Hermione's cheek with a trembling finger, and turned around to face Dumbledore. But he was gone.

He just watched her for a while. Relished in her presence.

None of it had sunken in. He felt numb with shock. Denial.

The war. It killed so many.

Destroyed their lives. Destroyed their rights and ideas.

“Hermione,” asked Harry quietly, “why did this happen?”

He knew she would not answer. He knew that Ms. Pomphrey had doubtlessly given her a Sleeping Draught. She deserved to be without nightmares, without thoughts. For at least one night. She deserved to have anything… everything…

“I'm sorry,” he whispered.

He leaned down, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face, and kissed her gently.

She had saved him. They had saved each other.

* * *

I know it's really short - sorry!

If I'm right, you're probably wondering - “what about Ron?” Well, I sort of “forgot” him… Use your imagination, if you please… lol…

I appreciate you guys taking your time to read my stories! ^_^

Love,

-Lauren