A/N: Hi, me again, with a second fanfic and hopefully, less confusing than Deluge.
This is supposed to be a mystery; I hope you'll forgive me for it, for I certainly doubt I will.
That being said, there's not much to tell. This fanfic was actually inspired by Demosthenes' Into a Darkened Room, which I loved even though I apparently read it months late. Updates will not be speedy, as I have some school stuff to deal with too, but I'll try. If anyone is OOC, I demand to be flamed for it, and one more thing, major character death ahead.
Disclaimer: Ha, ha, ha, if this was mine… ha! *serious voice* You know full well I don't own this, if I did we would have enjoyed HBP, heck I wouldn't be here now.
*****
The Prophecy Fulfilled
When he finally opened his eyes again after that bright light, it was to a still night. A clear, inky black sky sequined by infinite sparkling blue diamond stars hung above him and the mildly swaying tree tops. Once or twice, the cry of an owl resonated through the stillness, followed by the saccharine song of a nightingale to comfort him under this dark canopy. No wind blew, it had done enough of that earlier, but he could almost feel a slight caress every now and then that kissed his warmed skin.
It was beautiful.
He was so tired that he barely wished to move, seeking comfort on his cool, earthen bed instead, but he could not remain where he chose to lie. No matter how much he just wanted this moment to simply absorb what was surely, finally peace, he had to go back to help those still fighting behind.
Propping up on his left arm, for his wand arm was throbbing with pain from a nasty gash on his shoulder; he felt the world swimming round him.
He was nauseous, bile rising quickly to his throat in this moment and he was forced to roll over to expel it. He retched painfully, noticing now that he must have bruised a few ribs in a fall he could not remember taking. But he had every right to be ill; his body was now accepting all that he had undergone, all that he had had to deal with in those past… years that he fought the husk lying merely feet away from him.
And it was seeing him that ended his illness.
There he laid, the so-called "Dark Lord Voldemort", "You-Know-Who", "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named" and he was dead. Killed, by a scrawny eighteen year old boy with messy black hair and vivid green eyes behind round-rimmed glasses; the same boy he had tried to kill seventeen years before and instead marked with the lightening bolt scar of his attempt; the same boy whose existence he had haunted like a vengeful poltergeist worthy of Peeves to his own end.
It was pathetic.
How miserably his attempt at immortality had failed, how horrible it must have been for him to realise that his soul was once more completely within him and when he died this time it would be for good. How terrible it must be for him now as he descended into the depths of hell and his lifeless, disfigured corpse lay unnaturally sprawled mere feet away from his enemy, to the mercy of those he had made suffer. Those red, snake like eyes knew fear the moment the spell's light touched him and tore through his body to his soul.
Harry could not help himself at that moment, he had to laugh.
It was raspy, gasping and hoarse, his laughter, as it echoed through the night and this clearing in the forest, but it was there.
He laughed until water sprung to his eyes and his throat clenched and he knew he was crying but could do nothing to stop it. He laughed until sobs forced their way out and his body rattled as he cried and cried and cried for all those who had had to die for this night to come true.
His parents, Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore and hundreds of nameless, faceless others whose only crime was that they were in his way… He cried for they were not here to see this moment, and then his rage built, he rose from the ground with sudden vigour in his fury and attacked the corpse before him.
He kicked and cursed and spat upon the body, expounding all his pent-up agony on that which had haunted his existence before he was even born. And then he laughed again and cried, "You bloody monster, even hell is too good for you!" before he fell back on the ground, exhausted in his effort but content for his victory.
He had to help the others but now, for now he just needed this moment of peace.
He could not tell then, how long he lay there after, just listening to the sounds of the night, his own breathing, feeling the touch of the night air on his skin and smiling up at the sky.
Eventually though, he rose from where he lay again, this time with more effort as his blood had cooled and his injuries began to reveal themselves and began to stagger away. But not entirely before turning round and in one last surge of fury, shouted, "INCENDIO!" at the corpse and watched it burst into flame and slowly burn to nothing.
No need to befoul the earth and creatures round with the filth that was it.
He put back on his smile as he went away this time, stumbling wearily through the small forest that surrounded the village of Godric's Hollow.
There was nothing but silence now, the sky above was paling to a clear blue-grey, though the stars were still just visible, and the creatures of the night giving way to those of the day.
Life had probably not changed for them, but it would for the human inhabitants, they would soon understand that they were safe when the day came and they were still alive. Around them would be littered with the bodies of their attackers, well, not literally speaking, but they would be soon all captured or dead. And that made him grin now.
He emerged at the end of a street near what had once been his parents' home. The overgrown ruin looked as forlorn as ever, but its ghosts were at peace now, now it would be silent. He had to stop a moment then to just look at it.
This was where it had all begun for him and this is where he had ended it. In the living room just downstairs, his father had fought valiantly for his wife and child, and was struck down mercilessly. In the bedroom upstairs at the back, his mother had given her life to protect him. In that same bedroom he had been marked with a scar that cursed both him and his enemy. And now, in the forest behind, he had won.
The emotions that began to fill him now, elation, despair, anger and hope, brought tears he refused to fight to his eyes. He cried all the way to it then, painful sobs and gasps for breath and all.
He never made it to the door though. The pungent smell of blood cut through the air and drew his attention back to the reality of the situation.
This was no time for quiet reminiscence.
Two bodies lay in the front lawn, one a Death Eater with sleek blond hair, Lucius Malfoy, the other, his wife, also with light blond hair, and now open lifeless eyes, Narcissa Black Malfoy.
What was this?
What had happened while he was fighting?
He wanted to drag them away, how dare they desecrate his parents' home in their death? And when did Narcissa get here? But he did not; he turned round and looked for evidence of what may have caused this end for the pair.
Their son was nowhere in sight, but slumped against a tree, just across the road and barely out of his view, was Peter Pettigrew, as dead as they were. He had been so violently killed that he had been eviscerated so that Harry had to turn away again before he was made ill.
What had happened in this street?
And then, as if finally waking from a dream, he remembered his friends.
Ron and Hermione, engaged in a fight with a few Death Eaters who had been attempting an ambush. Ron had been hit by a spell, he had fallen, but he was alright.
He and Hermione had been shouting for Harry to go on, "Don't come back, don't look back, you have to stop him!"
"Don't just stand there looking like an idiot, he's coming here, now!"
"We'll be right here waiting for you when you get back!"
"Run Harry, now!"
So he ran, and he headed away from the house and into the forest, almost drawn to the dark wizard in there awaiting him. But where were they now? Their absence was unnerving as the first reaches of lancing white sunlight traced the horizon behind him.
He thought to go into the house, but he did not go past the gate. Instead, he tore off the last of his tattered robes and began heading up the street away from the house, past a few more mutilated bodies of some familiar enemies.
Each death was seemingly worse than the one that came before it. Someone had lost their limbs, another had seemingly been splinched while attempting to Disapparate, or probably torn limb from limb in a fight. Someone else had endured the Dementor's Kiss; a woman he hoped was Bellatrix, lay in a bloody heap beneath tattered robes still clutching her wand; a smouldering pile of ash was the remains of another still. A few just lay there peaceful, as if asleep, and save for the absence of the rise and fall of their chests, you would think they were. But they were all dead, quite dead, and with no master to come to their rescue anymore.
These were images he would surely never forget, but finding Ron and Hermione was more important at the moment than to dwell on them.
He did not want to think of it but he had an idea of where they were, where he had last seen them, the graveyard.
His fear for them meant that he managed to run all the way there and did not stop till he was past the gates and along the main path looking on in horror.
Someone had raised Inferi, someone else had stopped some of them, but now they were all spread in their fetid glory for the world to see. The smell of the rotting corpses was nauseating and he hated the thought of finding Ron or Hermione in there among them. He could not deal with that, face that thought; he suppressed it quickly and weaved his way amongst the bodies and tombstones looking for even the smallest trace of fiery red hair or bushy brown.
The more he walked, the less he saw and he began to hold a building hope that they were not there.
Maybe they had stopped the Inferi and then went off with the Order to find him. Maybe one of them had done in the Malfoys. Maybe even they were still engaged in a fierce battle that would end when both friend and foe caught sight of him alive and above them ready to join the fight.
It all fell apart when he saw them slumped against his parents' tombstones.
Ron looked as if he had fallen over sitting; his wand tightly gripped in one arm behind him while the other stretched forward and supported his head as he lay on his side. Hermione was seated, arms limp, wand loosely in her grip, legs drawn to one side and her head lolled back onto the marble.
As the light of the approaching sun turned golden and warmed parts of him he had not known were cold, he advanced to them. If they were dead or merely sleeping he could not tell, and he did not want to, but he rushed at them nevertheless.
He grabbed onto Ron first, shaking him as violently as he could, "Ron! Wake up mate! Ron! Wake up, wake up Ron!"
But the red head did not respond, his head merely fell back and his blue eyes looked strangely hollow. His body was cold, but that could have been from the night air, there was nothing wrong with him, he just was having trouble waking up….
He dropped him at once and turned to Hermione, she would know what to do. She would wake him.
The moment he gripped her and started to shake her she groaned.
He stopped shaking her at once, and said, "Hermione! Hermione, come on, wake up Ron! I'm shaking him and he's not moving, Hermione wake up Ron!"
She began to flail about in his arms, unaccustomed and not at all appreciative of his vice grip. She forced her head up and opened her eyes, saw him and began to scream, struggling all the while with enough noise to wake Ron….
"Hermione, it's just me, Harry! Come on, we need to wake Ron! I did it Hermione! But we have to wake Ron so I can tell him too!" he gasped painfully as he shook her.
The activity was taking its toll on him.
To his surprise though, as she began to calm and coherence came to her, she began to cry. He did not know what to make of it.
She gripped onto his arms and cried and sobbed, muttering all the while in between. He just knelt before her, smoothed her hair from her face and wiped her tears away. But she would not stop crying and he did not know what to say.
"Come on Hermione, come on, stop crying, we have to wake Ron! Hermione, come on, we have to wake him up, I can't tell you…" he was saying and then he stopped.
Somewhere in him, thoughts unbidden were forming themselves in his mind, warring for control. They were all the same, all clearly whispering sadly, "You won't wake him… he won't wake… he's gone… he won't wake…"
He refused to listen to them, they were wrong, but then, they were strangely coming from Hermione's mouth too….
He gripped her arms so tight he was sure that he was hurting her and she gave a tremulous gasp. When she looked up at him now, eyes wide and fearful as he said, "Hermione stop saying that, you have to help me wake him, stop saying that Hermione!" he began to feel his resolve ebbing away. As much as he would not admit it, for all the noise they were making it was enough to wake the dead… and Ron was still sleeping….
He changed tack, "No Hermione, he's not dead Hermione! Stop saying that!" and then began to cry too.
She suddenly freed herself from his grasp and drew him into a desperate embrace as he cried protests into her shoulder and hair. She was crying still, but softer now as her arms pressed him to her and he clawed at her back until he had managed to expose her neck to the air. She shuddered at the cold wind on her warmed skin but she would not move.
All the while he cried, "He's not dead, he's not… he's just sleeping… we have to wake him… Hermione…" He stopped, unable to convince himself anymore and came anew, "You don't leave me too, you can't leave me too, you have to stay with me… promise me you won't leave me too… don't leave me… don't go away… don't leave me…."
And she gave only her mumbled assents to his shoulder, and any around who cared to hear.
In the shadows of a mausoleum nearby, someone did.
A hooded figure in dark grey looked on numbly at the scene unfolding at the tombstones of the late James and Lily Potter. The two teenagers crying over each other amidst the gory battlefield of the graveyard and the greater fight that no doubt was still going on in the distance seemed oblivious to it.
All it took was the death of the Weasel and they fell apart.
If he had known before how easy it was to fell them he would have done something sooner. But he had not time and he did not want that psychopath to win, so this was all he had, the aftermath.
Funny, he pitied them.
He could not stay here for pity though, it was getting later in the morning and the bright daylight would make escape difficult. The faint mist of the still breeding Dementors was barely covering; soon the Aurors and others would be banishing them to Azkaban. There would be many others, though human, to follow after that. He had lived this long in freedom; he had no intentions of giving that up.
Granger had risen, and got Potter to move with her.
He seemed so weak, and he knew that she was hurt but she was apparently concealing that. Such courage, Gryffindor courage, even Weasel had had it, though it had not done much for him in the end.
Someday he would have to tell them about that.
He slipped out of the touch of the spreading light and walked silently away.
A/N: Yes, I know what I did. So please, be brutally honest when you review, okay?
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