Sacrifice - WIP
Not even a whole chapter yet. Just posting it for the hell of it.
Sacrifice - WIP
Watching the Dark Lord slowly bleeding to death, his body twitching, his face pale and stricken; Harry had wished fervently that he had learnt Avada Kedavra. Killing was one thing - but watching this man dying painfully, by inches at a time, was worse than having those tainted words fall from his own lips.
Even before Voldemort had rattled his last breath, Harry could feel a magnificent fatigue engulfing him. There were apparition cracks around him. His head felt a hundred times heavier than his feet, and he couldn’t turn to see if his visitors were friend or foe. Instead he lost his balance - all the strength in his legs waning - and someone caught him as he fell forwards; soft hands, the sweet smell of the burrow, hair whispering against his face.
It was the last thing he sensed before blackness enveloped him, and when he woke, there was only the nightmare of what had happened to accompany him.
-----
The grass beneath him was soft and sweet smelling; warmed from a body lying upon it for so long, but Harry was shivering; the tremors enveloping his body from head to toe even before he opened his eyes. There was dew lying cold and wet across his body; morning mist graying the sky above him.
After a concerted effort, Harry raised his damp and sleep ruffled head and righted his glasses. He looked around as a fresh wave of shivers rolled over him. He looked around, blankly, for a moment, before realizing that he had slept in the same place where he had fallen.
Voldemort’s body lay not far from him, reclined against Dumbledore’s tomb, which had been turned silver by the obscured dawn light. There was blood everywhere. It had turned the beautiful old stone soot black in places, and where it lay in the wet grass it was a glistening crimson.
It was a macabre sight. Voldemort’s head was twisted to the side unnaturally, a dribble of black blood mottling his jaw and the top of his robes, where he had bitten through his tongue in his pain. His long, clawed hands dug wet with mud, and his own blood - having instinctually sunk his fingers into anything he could reach.
Harry must have been looking for a long time, because the mist had broken, and the sun had risen, giving the Dark Lord’s eyes a maniacal, almost virile ruby glow, which made him look as though he was still alive; despite other signs to the contrary.
The sun had raised just a little further, warming Harry’s back, so that he turned his frozen front towards the warmth like a flower, absorbing its glow. In the wet grass in front of him he spotted his wand, and he dropped down, curling his fingers around the wood and holding it tightly; it was comforting to just have it in his palm.
He motioned with his wand, casting a warming charm over his body. He warmed instantly; and it made him feel significantly better, so he allowed himself to have another look around; pointedly ignoring the white stone and its unwelcome visitor.
After a moment to himself his head cleared. Where were the people who had come to him when he had fallen? Why was he alone, lying there beside Voldemort’s corpse when morning came? He had never had a quiet life…he had been plagued constantly since his reappearance in the wizarding world. Why now, when it was finally over, was nobody here to hound him or congratulate him? And why did he feel so very abandoned and bitter? Were they so ungrateful for his selflessness that they would abandon him as though tainted as soon as he won for them?
Hogwarts glistened, pristine and perfect, right where he had left it. Harry almost didn’t notice it at first; the odd differences, here and there. Gryffindor Tower still stood, instead of being a pile of rubble; stone, tiles and splintered wood. The greenhouses were still intact too. He registered what it was that plagued him: Hogwarts was as he liked to remember it, rather than how it had been the last time he saw it. Harry knew that even with magic, the school couldn’t have been restored in one night.
Slowly, Harry left the grave, where he’d awoken, making his way towards the great front doors of the castle. In the fresh morning sun, Hogwarts looked like some fairytale castle. Blue, yellow, green and red banners fluttered like kite tails from her tallest towers. At the doors, Harry came to a stop. He tried the handle, but it wouldn’t turn. He tried pushing. He tried knocking. He tried to call out. Nothing he did would get the door open.
He advanced to the right, and he tried every door that he could to try and get in. And when he couldn’t find a door, he doubled back and tried a few of the secret passageways, which he soon found were blocked off too.
Already exhausted and hungry, Harry sank down on the plateau on which the statue of a unicorn reclined, letting out an exasperated sigh. Why couldn’t he get in? And why was it so quiet? The only thing he’d heard since he’d arrived was birdsong. It was as though he and the two dead men taking up the same patch of space behind him were the only ones here.
Unhappily, Harry turned and made his way back across the lake towards Dumbledore’s resting place. As he approached, Harry had the uneasy feeling that something was dreadfully, terribly wrong. The grave was as he left it; but he had to go to the other side of the tomb to see the awful truth: Voldemort’s body was gone.
He spun on the spot wildly, his wand back in his hand. But even though he looked all around, and squinted deep into the shadows of the Dark Forest, he could see no sign of movement. Whoever had come and stolen the cadaver from right under his nose had disappeared with just as much ease.
A long, determined examination of the grounds, however, presented no hope of finding out who had come to take away Voldemort, and after a few birdsong filled minutes, Harry found himself wondering if the red glitter in the dead man’s eyes had really only been a trick of the light.
His eyes drifted down to the gleaming gravestone, and with a sigh, Harry stepped around the stone, using a thorough Evanesco on the bloodied grass before crouching in the place where Voldemort had fallen. At first, Harry thought of using the same spell to clean the blood from the stone. It didn’t feel very personal though; so instead he used his wand, channeling a jet of water against the stone and scrubbing away every fleck of dry, ebony blood with the hem of his robe bundled up in his palm.
When he finally retreated from the stone, it looked as though nothing had happened. The stone gleamed again, and the sun was rapidly drying the wet patches that Harry had made as he cleaned. He admired the epitaph carved into the stone for a moment, before turning away. He’d long got over the tears and pain; instead he drew strength from the cold stone and it’s forever deceased contents. But what did he need strength for now?
Slowly, Harry turned his eyes down in the direction of Hogsmeade. The other side of the lake, then down the steep hill from the corrie; along to where the little village lay nestled amongst the hills. He could not see the village from where he stood, but he knew it was there. Slowly he began the tedious walk. Someone would be in Hogsmeade - he knew it. He would find some explanation there.
The walk always seemed to take a far shorter time on the descent. Harry circled the lake, all the time keeping alert for any sign of movement, although there was none, and made his way down towards the village.
As he rounded the end of the lake though, looking down into the v-shaped valley below, he was stunned to see that there was absolutely nothing there. No Hogsmeade, no roads, and no railway. He let out a broken cry and moved down the path in an unbalanced run; by some miracle managing to stay upright as he galloped down the hill.
Nothing changed when he reached the bottom. Hogsmeade didn’t reappear. There was an untamed little stream meandering along the bottom of the valley - and all that seemed to remain was a little brick wall with a gate that hung off its latch. Harry knew where this gate led: up the steep, rocky path on the other side of the valley to the cave where Sirius had lived three years ago.
Harry took a breath and sank down on top of the stones, being careful not to knock any aside. A blackbird landed a few feet from him, letting out its shrill call into the morning chorus. It waited for a reply, and then flew off into the blue, leaving Harry very much alone again.
He’d expected something…somebody. If Hogsmeade had been here, then he knew that someone would be here too. He hadn’t expected Hogsmeade not to exist. He looked around, shakily. What was he going to do?
Well, he could Apparate of course. Strictly speaking, he still hadn’t passed his test, he hadn’t had time - but nobody had ever bothered to make him take the test. He only Apparated when he needed to; and it was clear that he was quite capable. Besides, the Ministry had had far more important things to do at the time. There was no train to follow, nobody to ask for help. He couldn’t even get into Hogwarts castle. He was utterly alone here; a lonely guardian to a place that nobody would find him. And so Apparition was the only way to go.
So Harry gave it a try: as hard as he spun, as intensely as he deliberated - he only managed to make himself dizzy, rather than go anywhere.
It took some time to contain his shaking this time. He was distressed; and he cried for at least a half hour; sinking down with his back against the stone wall, yellow and black garden spiders clambering through his hair. He was starving beyond coherence when he finally pulled himself back to his feet; his face red where his tears had burnt at his skin mutinously.
He needed to find something to eat, and work out just what he was going to do: imprisoned as he was at an abandoned Hogwarts. There was nothing here that looked edible. The Hogsmeade valley was clearly a lost cause. So, ever the weary traveler, Harry began to make his way back up the hill. At the very least, Hagrid’s vegetable patch had looked as untouched as ever; and carrot and onion soup didn’t sound so bad right now.
Sacrifice - WIP
Watching the Dark Lord slowly bleeding to death, his body twitching, his face pale and stricken; Harry had wished fervently that he had learnt Avada Kedavra. Killing was one thing - but watching this man dying painfully, by inches at a time, was worse than having those tainted words fall from his own lips.
Even before Voldemort had rattled his last breath, Harry could feel a magnificent fatigue engulfing him. There were apparition cracks around him. His head felt a hundred times heavier than his feet, and he couldn’t turn to see if his visitors were friend or foe. Instead he lost his balance - all the strength in his legs waning - and someone caught him as he fell forwards; soft hands, the sweet smell of the burrow, hair whispering against his face.
It was the last thing he sensed before blackness enveloped him, and when he woke, there was only the nightmare of what had happened to accompany him.
-----
The grass beneath him was soft and sweet smelling; warmed from a body lying upon it for so long, but Harry was shivering; the tremors enveloping his body from head to toe even before he opened his eyes. There was dew lying cold and wet across his body; morning mist graying the sky above him.
After a concerted effort, Harry raised his damp and sleep ruffled head and righted his glasses. He looked around as a fresh wave of shivers rolled over him. He looked around, blankly, for a moment, before realizing that he had slept in the same place where he had fallen.
Voldemort’s body lay not far from him, reclined against Dumbledore’s tomb, which had been turned silver by the obscured dawn light. There was blood everywhere. It had turned the beautiful old stone soot black in places, and where it lay in the wet grass it was a glistening crimson.
It was a macabre sight. Voldemort’s head was twisted to the side unnaturally, a dribble of black blood mottling his jaw and the top of his robes, where he had bitten through his tongue in his pain. His long, clawed hands dug wet with mud, and his own blood - having instinctually sunk his fingers into anything he could reach.
Harry must have been looking for a long time, because the mist had broken, and the sun had risen, giving the Dark Lord’s eyes a maniacal, almost virile ruby glow, which made him look as though he was still alive; despite other signs to the contrary.
The sun had raised just a little further, warming Harry’s back, so that he turned his frozen front towards the warmth like a flower, absorbing its glow. In the wet grass in front of him he spotted his wand, and he dropped down, curling his fingers around the wood and holding it tightly; it was comforting to just have it in his palm.
He motioned with his wand, casting a warming charm over his body. He warmed instantly; and it made him feel significantly better, so he allowed himself to have another look around; pointedly ignoring the white stone and its unwelcome visitor.
After a moment to himself his head cleared. Where were the people who had come to him when he had fallen? Why was he alone, lying there beside Voldemort’s corpse when morning came? He had never had a quiet life…he had been plagued constantly since his reappearance in the wizarding world. Why now, when it was finally over, was nobody here to hound him or congratulate him? And why did he feel so very abandoned and bitter? Were they so ungrateful for his selflessness that they would abandon him as though tainted as soon as he won for them?
Hogwarts glistened, pristine and perfect, right where he had left it. Harry almost didn’t notice it at first; the odd differences, here and there. Gryffindor Tower still stood, instead of being a pile of rubble; stone, tiles and splintered wood. The greenhouses were still intact too. He registered what it was that plagued him: Hogwarts was as he liked to remember it, rather than how it had been the last time he saw it. Harry knew that even with magic, the school couldn’t have been restored in one night.
Slowly, Harry left the grave, where he’d awoken, making his way towards the great front doors of the castle. In the fresh morning sun, Hogwarts looked like some fairytale castle. Blue, yellow, green and red banners fluttered like kite tails from her tallest towers. At the doors, Harry came to a stop. He tried the handle, but it wouldn’t turn. He tried pushing. He tried knocking. He tried to call out. Nothing he did would get the door open.
He advanced to the right, and he tried every door that he could to try and get in. And when he couldn’t find a door, he doubled back and tried a few of the secret passageways, which he soon found were blocked off too.
Already exhausted and hungry, Harry sank down on the plateau on which the statue of a unicorn reclined, letting out an exasperated sigh. Why couldn’t he get in? And why was it so quiet? The only thing he’d heard since he’d arrived was birdsong. It was as though he and the two dead men taking up the same patch of space behind him were the only ones here.
Unhappily, Harry turned and made his way back across the lake towards Dumbledore’s resting place. As he approached, Harry had the uneasy feeling that something was dreadfully, terribly wrong. The grave was as he left it; but he had to go to the other side of the tomb to see the awful truth: Voldemort’s body was gone.
He spun on the spot wildly, his wand back in his hand. But even though he looked all around, and squinted deep into the shadows of the Dark Forest, he could see no sign of movement. Whoever had come and stolen the cadaver from right under his nose had disappeared with just as much ease.
A long, determined examination of the grounds, however, presented no hope of finding out who had come to take away Voldemort, and after a few birdsong filled minutes, Harry found himself wondering if the red glitter in the dead man’s eyes had really only been a trick of the light.
His eyes drifted down to the gleaming gravestone, and with a sigh, Harry stepped around the stone, using a thorough Evanesco on the bloodied grass before crouching in the place where Voldemort had fallen. At first, Harry thought of using the same spell to clean the blood from the stone. It didn’t feel very personal though; so instead he used his wand, channeling a jet of water against the stone and scrubbing away every fleck of dry, ebony blood with the hem of his robe bundled up in his palm.
When he finally retreated from the stone, it looked as though nothing had happened. The stone gleamed again, and the sun was rapidly drying the wet patches that Harry had made as he cleaned. He admired the epitaph carved into the stone for a moment, before turning away. He’d long got over the tears and pain; instead he drew strength from the cold stone and it’s forever deceased contents. But what did he need strength for now?
Slowly, Harry turned his eyes down in the direction of Hogsmeade. The other side of the lake, then down the steep hill from the corrie; along to where the little village lay nestled amongst the hills. He could not see the village from where he stood, but he knew it was there. Slowly he began the tedious walk. Someone would be in Hogsmeade - he knew it. He would find some explanation there.
The walk always seemed to take a far shorter time on the descent. Harry circled the lake, all the time keeping alert for any sign of movement, although there was none, and made his way down towards the village.
As he rounded the end of the lake though, looking down into the v-shaped valley below, he was stunned to see that there was absolutely nothing there. No Hogsmeade, no roads, and no railway. He let out a broken cry and moved down the path in an unbalanced run; by some miracle managing to stay upright as he galloped down the hill.
Nothing changed when he reached the bottom. Hogsmeade didn’t reappear. There was an untamed little stream meandering along the bottom of the valley - and all that seemed to remain was a little brick wall with a gate that hung off its latch. Harry knew where this gate led: up the steep, rocky path on the other side of the valley to the cave where Sirius had lived three years ago.
Harry took a breath and sank down on top of the stones, being careful not to knock any aside. A blackbird landed a few feet from him, letting out its shrill call into the morning chorus. It waited for a reply, and then flew off into the blue, leaving Harry very much alone again.
He’d expected something…somebody. If Hogsmeade had been here, then he knew that someone would be here too. He hadn’t expected Hogsmeade not to exist. He looked around, shakily. What was he going to do?
Well, he could Apparate of course. Strictly speaking, he still hadn’t passed his test, he hadn’t had time - but nobody had ever bothered to make him take the test. He only Apparated when he needed to; and it was clear that he was quite capable. Besides, the Ministry had had far more important things to do at the time. There was no train to follow, nobody to ask for help. He couldn’t even get into Hogwarts castle. He was utterly alone here; a lonely guardian to a place that nobody would find him. And so Apparition was the only way to go.
So Harry gave it a try: as hard as he spun, as intensely as he deliberated - he only managed to make himself dizzy, rather than go anywhere.
It took some time to contain his shaking this time. He was distressed; and he cried for at least a half hour; sinking down with his back against the stone wall, yellow and black garden spiders clambering through his hair. He was starving beyond coherence when he finally pulled himself back to his feet; his face red where his tears had burnt at his skin mutinously.
He needed to find something to eat, and work out just what he was going to do: imprisoned as he was at an abandoned Hogwarts. There was nothing here that looked edible. The Hogsmeade valley was clearly a lost cause. So, ever the weary traveler, Harry began to make his way back up the hill. At the very least, Hagrid’s vegetable patch had looked as untouched as ever; and carrot and onion soup didn’t sound so bad right now.