Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

The Serpent's Gaze, Book Five: The Lernaean Hydra	By : DictionaryWrites Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 3108 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and the characters therein belong to JK Rowling; I'm playing in the sandbox, as it were, whilst claiming no ownership and making no money.

Chapter List
- 14
- 15
- 16
“You cannot be serious, Potter. Get back to the castle, now!” Flitwick snaps at him, but Harry doesn’t so much as flinch away: he stands his ground, his chin raised, his voice steady. It’s no longer raining, and the clouds are swiftly clearing above their head: above them, full moon brightly shines.
“I’ve cleared it with Professor Snape, Professor Flitwick, I—”
“Don’t you lie to me!” Flitwick bellows, his voice an abruptly low rumble, and his eyes flare with anger. “You’ve no more cleared this with Severus than you’ve convinced him to dye his hair pink.” But they’re already moving, and the gates of the castle have closed behind them: it’s too late to send Harry back. He’d waited as Flitwick had given instructions to the staff and the students, splitting them into groups of three to split out into the village, and he’d only run up to meet Flitwick’s stride when they’d begun to set off down the hill. Frustrated, Flitwick says, “You’ll be with me, Potter, and you’ll stay with me. Do you understand?”
Harry smells smoke, forcing its way into his nostrils and making his lungs ache and sting as he breathes in. The air is a haze of white and grey, the fog mixing with the smoke from the fires down in the village. “Yes, sir. Will you take points off me for cursing this time around?”
“Still bitter about that, Potter?” Flitwick lets out a short, barked laugh: Harry wonders how he thinks of the battle with the Dementors two years ago, if he thinks of it at all. “You’re a duellist, aren’t you?”
“I’m on the way there,” Harry says, and Flitwick gives a nod of his head. They’re entering the village, now, on the path into the main square, and Harry can see that the majority of the smoke is coming in thick billows from the Three Broomsticks, thick flames obvious within the wreckage. Its windows are shattered and strewn over the cobbled stone, and Harry frowns, his brows furrowing deeply. Professor Sinistra stands with her shoulders against those of Professor Burbage: as Burbage casts spells to extinguish the flames, Sinistra faces outwards, ready to fight anybody they see. Is it strange, Harry wonders, that nobody is attacking them, or— “Stupefy!” he says sharply, and the shadow that had been moving from behind the well crumples in a heap on the floor.
The silver mask shines in the light.
“Good reflexes, Potter,” Flitwick says, and he pulls the mask quickly off the Death Eater’s head, letting her hit the ground. Harry doesn’t recognize the woman’s face, but Flitwick pauses for a second, staring, before flicking his wand at the mask and saying a few charms under his breath. He drops the mask on the Death Eater’s chest, and she disappears with a glow of blue light.
“To the Magical Law Enforcement offices?” Flitwick gives a nod of his head. Lights are on in all the village windows, and he hears people screaming further off into the village, but he stops himself from running off: the streets around them are suspiciously empty, although Harry can see people moving in the houses closest to them.
“This girl wasn’t important,” Flitwick murmurs. “There’ll be more important people around us – Death Eaters who can actually fight.” Harry’s blood feels hot under his skin, and he can feel every pound of his heart as a tingle in the tips of his fingers. He squeezes the hilt of his wand, and his left hand goes to the blade hidden between the folds of his robes: he’d taken the one imbibed with basilisk venom, goblin-made with a bone handle.
“What now?” Harry asks, fingering the hilt of the blade and wondering if he’ll have to use it. Part of him – the part of him that killed Stan Shunpike and wants blood on his hands – relishes the thought.
“Follow me,” Flitwick says. Flitwick is light of step, and Harry does his best to mimic him, keeping close to Flitwick as they walk down one of the paths and further into the village. Harry can hear yells and bangs in the distance, and as they move forwards, they come closer. They come to an embankment that that marks the end of the village’s territory: just outside Hogsmeade, in the children’s park before the woods, Cedric Diggory is duelling with a Death Eater. Two girls in Gryffindor robes already lie sprawled on the ground, and Harry doesn’t wait for Flitwick’s cue: he lunges forwards.
“Expelliarmus!” he mutters under his breath, but the Death Eater hears him and turns his head, flicking a sickly yellow spell back in Harry’s direction: Harry dodges. He is breathing heavily as he comes to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Cedric, and they naturally match their footing together as they face the Death Eater.
“Oh ho ho,” he crows, his voice rich and yet cracked, as if it’s gone unused for a long time. “What’s this? You two have fought together before!”
“Expelliarmus,” Harry tries again. “Stupefy! Rictusempra!” He throws off spells in quick succession, but each is deflected, and the Death Eater’s laugh rings loudly over the park. Where is Flitwick? Up in the village, there’s a sudden bang, followed by a burst of sparks that lights up the sky, and more smoke. Shit.
“You need to learn silent casting, young man! Struggling with it, are you?” the man asks, and he laughs again. Harry feels his hand tighten on his wand, but Cedric moves his wand in a complicated spell, letting out a volley of spells at once, going through a rainbow of several, and Harry joins him, whispering his spells as best he can: it is surprisingly easy to sink into rhythm with Cedric, to step as he steps, to mirror him.
It doesn’t make any difference: the other man is stronger than both of them, and he disappears with a sound like a whip crack. Harry immediately turns to the girls, and he realizes suddenly that only one of them is wearing Gryffindor robes: the other is Cho Chang, who’d only just turned 17 a few days back, and there is so much blood soaked into the fabric of her robes that they’ve been stained red.
“You can’t heal her,” Harry says immediately. “Apparate with her to St Mungo’s.” Cedric, his face pale in the dim light, puts his arms under Cho’s limp form and carefully lifts her off the ground: he turns on his heel and he too disappears from sight – his Apparition sounds like a car backfiring. He searches uselessly around him, but it’s not use: Flitwick is gone, probably further into the village.
Harry bends over the girl left: the Gryffindor, Angelina Johnson. He checks her pulse and she is breathing, but she’s knocked out cold. Rennervate has no effect at all, but she’s breathing evenly and with a normal heartbeat. Up in the village, there’s boom and the sound of grinding stone, but Harry can’t just leave her here, and he doesn’t even know how to cast a spell for a stretcher to levitate her without harming her. He puts his arms underneath her, but before he even tries to lift her he knows he won’t have the strength to carry her far: Johnson is a Quidditch player, tall and built with muscle, and Harry isn’t an especially strong boy.
A scream from behind him and a shower of sparks: he has to do something. He focuses on the ground in front of him and conjures a length of wood that is long and flat, about an inch thick, and he pushes Angelina’s prone form onto the platform. It isn’t well-conjured – in places, the wood is dappled and bleached, lacking colour, but it’s solid enough.
“Wingardium leviosa,” he whispers, focusing on the wood beneath her, and she levitates slowly into the air. But now, where to put her? He can’t possibly take her into the village…
“Oi! Boy!” says a hiss to his left, and he turns. Aberforth, the barman from the Hog’s Head, is holding a lantern aloft, and he gestures for Harry to follow him; keeping his hand on his wand even as relief bursts through him, Harry does. The last time he’d seen Aberforth, he’d been smirking: he isn’t smirking now. His blue eyes are dark with thought, and Harry thinks he spies a mar of blood on his filthy beard. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Can’t tell,” Harry says. “Can’t wake her up, anyway. Haven’t they attacked the Hog’s Head?”
“They bloody tried,” the old man retorts, shaking his head. “They were pathetic excuses for wizards when they were at Hogwarts – wearing masks and poncing about hasn’t made ‘em better at it.” The doors of the Hog’s Head open when they come close enough, and Harry levitates Angelina’s body through the door: the Hog’s head is swarming with people, and he spies the tell-tale red hair of Arthur Weasley inside. It’s good to know some members of the Order are around, at least. “You’re too young to be out here.”
“What are you going to do about it?” Harry asks archly. “Deny me a drink when it’s all over?” Now, Aberforth does smirk.
“You find injured, Potter, you get ‘em out of the fray, bring ‘em back here. We’ll see what we can do.” There’s a yell behind them, and Harry doesn’t stop to thank Aberforth: he turns on his heel and runs into the middle of the village. The yelling continues, ragged and desperate, and Harry stares, stopped short: a man Harry recognizes vaguely from the village is sprawled out on the ground, ripped from his ribs down to his crotch. He’s screaming at the top of his lungs, his hands bloodily grappling with his own intestines and organs, as if he’s trying to stuff them back into himself. A beam of white light hits the man square between the eyes, and he stops mid-scream, his mouth still open, his hands abruptly still.
Harry whirls on the man who’d thrown the spell.
“You’re a little’un,” the Death Eater says. He has a thick accent – from Birmingham, it sounds like – and Harry stares at him: he’s a huge man, towering with broad shoulders, and his silver mask has been crafted to resemble the skull of some sort of sharp-toothed thing. The Death Eater steps forward toward him: Harry is frozen in his place, sick with the awareness that he’s standing in the dead man’s blood. “You scared?” the Brummie asks, seeming to take pleasure in the thought. “I like it when they’re scared – but not loud.” He clucks his tongue, nodding his head to the man on the ground. “He was too loud.”
“Right,” Harry says, and he raises his wand.
“You think you can go toe-to-toe with me?” the Brummie asks, and laughs.
“Maybe not toe-to-toe, but I’ll take my chances wand-to-wand,” Harry retorts; the Brummie is moving with slow, careful steps to his left, so Harry mimics him and moves to the right. They circle each other, and Harry is fully aware that they’re in an alleyway of Hogsmeade, surrounded by the backs of buildings on all sides, with no windows where somebody might see Harry go down. There’s a squelch underfoot, but Harry doesn’t look to see what part of the unfortunate soul he’s stood on.
The Brummie moves suddenly to cast, and Harry dodges, stumbling forwards: he’s closed the gap between them too much, and the other man lifts Harry by the front of his robes. Harry lets out a harsh gasp, losing his grip on his wand and feeling it drop.
“What now, little man?” the Brummie asks, and Harry can hear the sound of his breathing inside the mask. He tries to kick his feet, but the Brummie just shoves him up against one of the alley walls, and the blow he lands against the Brummie’s chest feels like kicking steel. “Can’t go wand-to-wand any more… What should I do with you? Break your neck? Strangle you?” That chuckle again, low in the man’s throat, and he comes in closer, so close that even through the mask, Harry can smell his breath – firewhiskey mingled together with the scent of sweat and blood.
Harry slowly moves his left hand down to his side, feeling for the hilt in his robes. “Is this really what he ordered you to do? Go around, set some things on fire and murder a few villagers? Please.”
“Ah ah ah,” the Death Eater says mildly. “The Dark Lord has us do as we pleases: he said go out to Hogsmeade, have a good time, and leave a signature when you’re done. I don’t know about you, lad, but I’m having a grand old time. Wonder how many teeth I can pull outta you before you stop screaming?”
“I’m already missing one in the back,” Harry says. “Maybe teeth won’t be so satisfying.”
“Oh, you’re funny,” the Brummie says. “I might ‘ave to keep you. I’d have to get rid of them specs, though – very unbecoming.”
“And the scar?”
“Scar?” The Brummie’s chin shifts up, his eyes no doubt squinting in the dark at the mark on Harry’s forehead, barely visible in the ill-lit night. Harry hears the Brummie’s sudden intake of breath, and in that moment he lunges: the knife punches through the thick flesh of the Brummie’s neck and Harry keeps on dragging it through, even as the knife catches on something hard inside the skin.
The Brummie’s scream dies on his tongue, turning into a bloody burble, and his grip loosens on Harry’s robes, letting him drop to the ground. He rips the knife back, and the Brummie’s hand goes to his throat, pressing tightly to the rip in his flesh and trying to hold it closed. He staggers toward Harry, but Harry dodges out of his way. It’s taking too long, part of Harry screams, frustrated and snarling. End it, end it, end it! The Brummie is on his back now, both hands pressed to his neck as he takes in feeble, shaking breaths, and Harry picks up the Brummie’s wand from the ground, unable to spy his own under the light from the moon.
“Please,” the Brummie says, the words coming out wet and rasping. “You’re Harry Potter, you can’t—” Harry brings his heel down hard on the Brummie’s neck: the man’s right hand crunches under the sudden pressure, and the sharpness of the dragonhide opens up the wound a little more: the blood comes forwards in a little swell, and after a few more moments, the Brummie stops moving. Harry feels a grim sense of satisfaction.
Harry turns to look around for his wand, frowning. “Lumos,” he says, trying to imagine the feel of his wand in his hand as he says the spell: his wand tip illuminates, and Harry stares at his wand: it rests in the midst of the dead villager’s organs, and Harry grimaces as he leans to pick it up. His knife he wipes on the Brummie’s robe skirt before putting it back in his hilt: he realizes with the light from his wand that the Death Eater’s wound is turning black at the edges, likely from the corrosive element in the Basilisk Venom – he didn’t need to bring his foot down like that.
But you liked it, says the voice. So what’s the harm?
Harry puts the Brummie’s wand in his pocket and looks to the villager: the man is dead, and it would take too much difficulty and too much mess to move him. He can’t linger and do something more about the poor man right now can he?
Harry runs on, and he nearly runs into the path of a spell, just managing to dodge it: it hits the old well with a shattering of stone, and Harry whirls on the figure who’d cast it. “Accio shoes!” he snaps, and the Death Eater lets out a yell as his feet are pulled out from under him: his head collides with the cobbles with a sickening thunk, and Harry turns away, shaking his head.
“Potter!” says Flitwick, staring at him. “When you told me you were on your way to being a duellist, what did you think that meant? That you were absolutely mad?”
“He’s unconscious, isn’t he? He’s out of the fight, sir, that’s the important thing!”
“Come on,” Flitwick says. “When you went after Diggory, I had to run the other way – there was a group of them all together, passing this poor Squib girl between them. That’s the last of the Death Eaters, I think: we need to get everybody all together. The Aurors are mobilized.”
“Everyone’s in the Hog’s Head,” Harry says, and Flitwick looks to him, then gives a small nod.
“Yes, of course, with Rosmerta’s… I haven’t seen her, you know, and she’s a fearsome woman in a duel. She’s probably at the defences there. Come on.” They move into the square, and Harry sees the navy blue robes the Aurors wear as their uniform. Several of them keep disappearing and then reappearing with soft blue glows, Portkeying prisoners to the Magical Law Enforcement Offices, Harry would guess.
“Professor Flitwick!” Kingsley Shacklebolt immediately comes toward them, his deep eyes landing on Harry with apparent concern. “You injured, Potter?”
“No, sir. It’s not my blood,” Harry says, a little shakily. “In the alley behind the secondhand shop, there’s a man hit with a disembowling curse, and—” There is a sudden flare of white light that burns so brightly it hurts Harry’s eyes, and he feels his scream tear in his throat more than he hears it: the pain is sudden and all encompassing, heat biting over his skin and grabbing at his hair, but it doesn’t last long.
♌ ♊ ♑ ~ ☾ ϟ ☽ ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ ☾ ϟ ☽ ~ ♑ ♊ ♌
Black is locked in the Wizengamot chamber, according to the missive Lupin had sent Severus this morning, and Lupin himself is abed, barely able to walk, let alone Apparate into the castle. This transformation was a hard one, so his missive had said, but Severus had hardly cared to think too much on the topic.
Dawn is breaking, and pale light streams in through the wide windows of the infirmary, which are slightly open to accommodate the breeze. The infirmary is silent, except for the quiet murmuring of Rebekah Amstell, who has been sat with the body of Abraham Hamish since she carried him up to the castle last night.
Severus sits beside Potter’s bed: the boy is laid on his back, still except for the even rise and fall of his chest. The burns on his face have all healed, but a white bandage is wound tightly around his head, keeping his eyes protected from the light. On the next bed, Filius lies in a similarly prone state, his eyes closed; although comatose, one could believe he was sleeping.
Setting aside his book, Severus stands. The doors open, and Severus meets the gaze of Hamish’s mother. He gestures to the curtained area of the infirmary, and immediately Hamish rushes through the curtain, and he hears her speak in a not-German language to Amstell, hears both women cry.
The Hogwarts infirmary had been full of patients last night: Severus had assisted Poppy in the simpler disenchantments and healing, fixing broken bones and healing heavy bruises, but now Filius and Harry are the only ones left in the room.
Everyone except Hamish, and Hamish is dead.
Potter abruptly stiffens on the bed, and Severus can see the thought cross over his face as he tries to ascertain where he is. “You’re in the Hogwarts infirmary,” Severus says, stepping closer to the bed and reaching out, pressing his thumb to the inside of Potter’s wrist and feeling for his pulse. A little fast, now that he’s suddenly awake, but not unusually so. “It is the second of September: you’ve been unconscious for perhaps five hours.”
“We were talking to Kingsley Shacklebolt,” Potter says. The burns on his lips had been rather extreme – the boy’s own saliva had steamed from his open mouth – but they seem to be well-healed now. “Bright light.”
“An enchanted flare,” Severus says, feeling Potter’s forehead with the back of his hand even as he casts a diagnostic charm over him. “Quite illegal, but I am sure one of your foes has several stocked away. It would seem the Death Eaters attacked, demobilized, and then attacked once more once the Auror forces were gathered in the village’s square. The flare landed at your feet.”
“Kingsley?”
“Was released from St Mungo’s two hours previous,” Severus answers dryly. “Most of the damage you and Filius received was due to the blast to your faces; Auror Shacklebolt was primarily hit in his side.”
“I can’t see,” Potter says. His voice is small, and for the first time his resolve shakes: Severus hears the fear in his voice, and he presses his lips together, staring down at Potter’s stiff form.
“You aren’t blind, Potter,” Severus says quietly. “Your spectacles were forced against your eyes by the force of the explosion, and we were forced to put a special ointment under your eyelids, which will heal your eyes, but amplifies your sensitivity to light twelvefold.”
“Heal my eyes? So, I won’t need glasses anymore?”
“Don’t be stupid, Potter,” Severus growls, and he sees Potter’s lips quirk into a small smile. It is a good sign, he thinks, that Potter can show his usual sarcastic humour. Obviously the skirmish hasn’t scarred him too much. “You know—”
“I know how visual impairments are healed, Professor,” Potter says, chuckling slightly. “They have to regrow the nerves behind the eyes, whereas this is an injury to the eye itself. Sorry.” The diagnostic charms have returned nothing out of the ordinary, which is a good sign. When Potter and Filius had been transported into the Infirmary, both had suffered heavy burns, and it was necessary to daub balms for the injuries onto their faces, their necks – all of the skin that was exposed. “What happened? After the flare?”
“A battle ensued,” Severus says. He turns to look at Filius as the older man sits up in bed, his eyes serious as they regard Severus. “It was naught but a display of power, it seems. Many injuries were suffered among the Aurors, some quite severe. I was remanded as an assistant to Poppy this evening: we made sure the students and staff were all healed of their injuries, except for Aodh Delaney, who is currently in St Mungo’s.”
“What happened to him?” Flitwick asks, and Severus leans back in his seat. He had seen Delaney, a portly man some way into his seventies, babbling like a fish as Poppy had tried to parse out what curse had hit him, and she had had to transfer him to St Mungo’s.
“Some sort of curse upon his mental faculties,” Severus answers. In Delaney’s status, he had recognized nothing, but he would guess it as the result of some of Crouch’s spellwork, which is ever-creative and deeply affecting. “Ms Chang has been healed of her injuries, Mr Potter – Mr Diggory advised that I pass that on. And Ms Johnson is hale and hearty.”
“Is anybody dead?” Potter asks. Were he another child, Severus might have called over Poppy and had her answer him, but Potter is barely a child now, and is less and less one with each passing day.
“Yes,” Severus says simply. “Abraham Hamish is some beds away from you: he will be buried later today.” Severus has scarcely believed it when he had seen Hamish limp and still in his fiancée’s arms, and when he had seen the truth of the situation in Amstell’s face, he had felt genuine shock. Hamish had always excelled at jinxes and hexes, and had received Os in his Defence classes since he arrived at Hogwarts.
(“It was the Killing Curse,” Amstell had told him quietly as she had come through the gates. “At least it was clean… I have to stay with him.”
“Ms Amstell, a Portkey—”
“I have to carry him, sir. It’s forbidden to transport the dead like that.”)
Severus looks to Filius, and he breathes in slowly. “A few members of the village were killed during the fracas. John Caster, the smith’s son, was killed. Anita South, who worked in Zonko’s Joke Shop, succumbed to her injuries some hours ago. And— I’m sorry, Filius.”
“What?” Filius asks, his white brows furrowing. Severus thinks of the single tear that had run down Albus’ cheek, and the way Minerva and Poppy had immediately clutched at each other. Poppy had let out a sob such as Severus had never heard – they had been school mates, in the very same dormitory – and Minerva’s blue eyes had been swimming with tears. Pomona’s head had been down… Well. Severus had never been especially close to her, but he had seen the deepness of the friendships she formed with many of the staff in the school.
“Rosmerta Whittington, the proprietor—”
“No,” Filius says, his voice heavy with sudden emotion, his eyes wide.
“— of the Three Broomsticks is dead. She was killed by shrapnel from an explosion inside the main part of the tavern.” Filius’ face is in his hands, shock painted on his every feature. Potter is silent for a long few moments.
“The shrapnel was on the outside, sir,” Potter murmurs. “The glass was on the grass – I thought it was weird. A Death Eater broke in and set the explosive, I guess. What about Death Eaters? Did we capture any? Are any dead?”
“Rickard Mulciber is dead,” Severus says. Who killed him is as yet to be determined: Severus had seen the body, and blackness was heavy in Mulciber’s open wounds, where acid had bitten and burned away at the flesh. Whatever curse had been used must have been very dark in nature, and was likely performed by another Death Eater nursing a grudge. “Filius apprehended Marina Dake, and I believe it was you, Mr Potter, who knocked Gordon Twain’s skull on the cobbles.”
“I Summoned his shoes,” Potter says. Severus stares at the boy: it’s hardly a usual way to go about a duel, but his ingenuity is to be commended. Not by Severus, however. Filius shifts in the bed, his expression distracted, and he pulls on his clothes – Severus makes no move to stop him.
“Are you going, Filius?” Poppy asks as she comes into the infirmary, and Filius nods his head before pulling the curtains closed. “Severus, you ought go to bed for a time.” Severus stands, readying himself to leave; Minerva can easily be trusted to keep Potter from moving about while his eyes are still bandaged, and Severus steps out into the corridor.
“Professor Snape!” a voice calls him back, and Severus looks to Amstell. The girl’s skin is abnormally pale, and she looks at him with her lips slightly parted. “I wished to ask… Abraham was very fond of you. We’d like for you to come to the funeral.”
“Of course,” Severus murmurs. He feels stiff and uncomfortable in this situation, a girl about to cry in front of him, and he supposes he ought offer some word of comfort… But none spring to mind. “You and Mrs Hamish ought support one another,” he advises quietly. Amstell nods, and Severus moves again down the corridor, desperate to be alone.
♌ ♊ ♑ ~ ☾ ϟ ☽ ~ THE LERNAEAN HYDRA ~ ☾ ϟ ☽ ~ ♑ ♊ ♌
“Madame Pomfrey?” Harry asks.
“I’m afraid Madame Pomfrey’s in need of rest, Mr Potter,” says a voice to his left. Her voice is just as distinctive as Snape’s, albeit with a very different accent, and he turns his head toward her as he pushes himself up to sit in bed. “I’m told you eluded capture as you ran into the village.”
“I felt like I needed to be down there,” Harry murmurs quietly. He wonders about his robes, where they’re set aside, and what had happened to the knife at his waist, or the Brummie’s wand – Mulciber’s. “I know everyone else was of age, but I’ve already gone head to head with Voldemort, Ma’am. If he sees me as an adult, I think I have the right to act like one.” There’s a long pause, and he wishes he could see McGonagall’s expression, or hear some nod to whatever it is she’s feeling.
“A curious logic you have there, Potter,” McGonagall murmurs: she sounds sad.
“I’m sorry about Madam Rosmerta,” Harry says softly. “Professor Snape just said.”
“She was a very good friend,” McGonagall says. Her voice shakes slightly, and for the first time it occurs to Harry that she really is old. She’s seen a lot of friends die, Harry would wager – more friends than Harry’s had. Harry feels an ache in his chest at the thought, and he knots his hand in the sheet. What can he possibly say?
“Will you tell me about her?” Harry asks quietly. “I’ve spoken to her once or twice, but I never knew her well.”
“Yes,” McGonagall says, surprise in her tone. “Yes, I’d… I’d like to, Potter. Let’s see… She and Poppy came to school in the same year, of course: that was in ’57. She was a good girl – she and Poppy were both Ravenclaws…” Harry sits back against the wall, and he listens as McGonagall talks, listens as she tells story after story.
“When people die,” Augusta Longbottom had written him once, “the best we can do, as wizards and witches, is tell stories about them. Talk about them as they were alive, and share the very essence of what they were as they lived and breathed and loved. In that way, we can keep some of the magic that was in them alive.”
McGonagall sounds tired, and full of grief, but as she talks on, a little of that seems to alleviate. Harry thinks of Rosmerta as he’d last seen her, laughing as Sirius had flirted with her over the bar. She’d been a brightly smiling woman, joyful.
It’s sad that she’s gone, and he feels himself turn to steel inside.
Voldemort needs to be defeated, and for that, the Death Eaters have to die too. And the responsibility, as he sees it (ha!), falls a lot on his shoulders. He reaches up, adjusts the bandages over his eyes, and listens more intently to McGonagall’s story about Rosmerta falling in the lake in her sixth year.
For the time being, listening is all he can do.
- 14
- 15
- 16
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

The Serpent's Gaze, Book Five: The Lernaean Hydra