Anew

Chapter Two: Broken Dawn Part Two

There is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in.

-Leonard Cohen

***

He felt as if someone had hit him very hard right in his stomach, taking all the breath from his body, momentarily freezing him in his place. He should not have come here, should not have opened the door. He should have stayed away.

"Potter--?"

He closed his eyes, blocking out the gasp from behind him. All he knew was that when he had left the Great Hall, someone had noticed his absence. And someone had followed him.

There was a dull thud from behind him and Harry knew without looking back that Draco had fallen against the wall in the shock, or at least something resembling it.

He had then proceeded without thinking to the first door he saw, not eager for a confrontation; this door happened to be the one right off the Great Hall, the room Mr. Weasley had told him about. All he wanted was to get away from Draco and think for a minute.

But Draco had followed him.

So here they were, in that room off the Great Hall, staring at the neat rows of bodies in front of them. Well, not bodies, actually-- black tarps were covering them-- but the effect was the same nonetheless.

There were so many of them. Harry felt the inexplicable desire to count them, but forced himself not to. He knew how many there were, had heard it from the snatches of conversation before he had even ventured to Dumbledore's office. It had not seemed like such a large number then, but it was staggering now.

He felt sorrow swell inside him and he twisted it until it turned into something entirely different. "Congratulations," he spat at Draco, "your cause was not entirely unsuccessful."

He could not see Draco; all he could see were the outlines of bodies, black tarps, the death people had put aside because they did not want to see it. He could not see Draco, but he could imagine what he looked like: face white as death, gray eyes huge in his face, mouth slightly open in horror.

"I-- I never--"

There was something about Draco now that brought out the sarcastic side in Harry, the bitter, cruel side that he usually reserved only for those he vehemently despised. And he had never really hated Draco-- for the worst of his hatred had always been for Voldemort, and Draco received only the rags of it. Looking at the bodies before him, even knowing he had succeeded, he felt helpless, a failure; he could not have won. How could he have won and yet lost so much? And the boy close to him was such an easy target to vent his anger and frustration on.

"No, of cource not. Killing innocent people? You would never support that. I must be getting you mixed up with the other Death Eaters. Sorry, it's just there's so many of you. Hard to keep track, you understand.

Draco's voice shook from behind him. "I didn't-- didn't want-- H-- how many?"

"Fifty, give or take," Harry said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. It was then that he noticed Percy and George in a far corner, huddled over a black tarp that was pulled down slightly to reveal a violent shock of red hair: Fred Weasley.

All the air seemed to vanish from Harry's lungs. He sucked in a dry gasp and tried to slow the pounding of his heart. Percy and George seemed not to notice them, too caught up in their own world to acknowledge the two living beings that had entered this room so full of dead ones.

Dimly, Harry heard a sort of choking noise from behind him. He turned around and looked at Draco for the first time since entering the Death Room. The other boy was, as he had predicted, ashen-faced, eyes impossibly wide and silver. He was leaning against the wall as if without it he might not be able to stand up.

Harry felt the stirrings of sympathy from someplace deep inside him. Still looking at Draco, he said, the harshness now gone from his voice, "You can leave."

Draco looked at Harry, tearing his still-wide eyes from the scene before him. "You saved my life."

It was now evident the reason he had followed Harry into this room from the Great Hall. Draco wanted to thank him, or something along those lines.

Harry did not think Draco could have picked a worse time.

"I--" Harry began, and then stopped.

He had been about to say, 'I would have done the same for anyone,' when he remembered something. It was not his memory-- it was not even a real memory, at least, as far as he knew. But he could picture it clearly: He knew that his father had once saved Snape's life from Lupin-- a fresh wave of grief swept over Harry at the thought of his old professor-- who had been in his werewolf form that night when Harry imagined the moon had been huge and full and white. He could see his father dragging Snape out of the tunnel and away from the Whomping Willow after having transformed from a stag back into a man, his glasses askew, his black hair even more untidy than usual. And for the oddest reason, Harry could imagine Snape, in a state of terror and fear, thanking James without thinking about it. And James, being James at that age, would have probably said, "I would have done the same for anyone," in a cool, contemptuous tone. Harry imagined that that would have cemented Snape's dislike of James.

Maybe it was because he had seen so much of Snape's memories recently, or because magic was an unexplainable phenomenon that rarely made sense, or because his mind had undergone such a series of traumatic experiences since birth that it had finally snapped, like all those articles in the Daily Prophet had claimed in the previous years-- although he doubted the last one-- that he could picture it as clearly as if he had actually been there.

Unexpectedly, a phrase drifted to the surface of his mind: "Of cource it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"

Forcing back a wry smile, he focused again on Draco. "I did," he said, and left it at that-- after all, history did not have to repeat itself.

"Why?" asked Draco, and his voice was almost pleading. "I should have died tonight."

Harry sighed, and looked across the room again at George, Percy, and Fred, feeling suddenly very old. "You didn't. Make of it what you will."

Harry felt, rather than heard Draco move away from the wall to stand next to him. Harry looked sideways at him. The other boy was pale, but steady on his feet. He swallowed once, looked around the room, and spoke very quietly, so that Harry had to strain to hear him.

"My father told me death was for the weak, but..." He looked at Harry warily, as though expecting an attack. When none came, he continued, "...these people, they died because they fought... they were strong."

Harry looked at George and Percy, kneeling next to Fred's body, and tried to get himself used to the idea of going over there. "They were," he agreed.

Draco looked at the tarp-covered bodies, his right hand clutching his left unconsciously. "I never realized..." He looked at Harry, tearing his eyes from the dead in front of them. "I'm sorry," he said, looking wretched.

Harry knew Draco was sorry, could tell from his face. He wasn't sure, though, what Draco wanted from him. If he wanted some sort of forgiveness, Harry wasn't sure he could give it to him. Not that he didn't feel that Draco could be worthy of it, he just didn't feel like he should be the one to forgive him. There was too much to forgive, to have one acknowledge all of it.

"Yeah..." Harry said quietly, looking around the darkened room. "So is everyone else. Sorry that they weren't here, didn't believe me, didn't fight harder, couldn't save someone they loved, didn't survive." He sighed and let his eyes settle on the boys across the room for a moment before turning back to face Draco, feeling suddenly exhausted. "Everyone's sorry."

Draco did not say anything to that, and both boys lapsed into silence. Harry was just about to begin walking towards where Percy and George were gathered around Fred when a voice called out from the door.

"Draco?"

Narcissa Malfoy had entered the room, her robes slightly askew, and her face as white as her son's. Seeing Draco immediately, she sighed in relief.

"I was wondering where you had gone. Your father and I were so worried--" She caught sight of Harry and broke off, color flooding her face at the sight of him.

Harry could not help but feel a stab of pity at the sight of her. She was very thin and strained, her skin pressing tightly against the fine bones of her face as she stared at him at a loss for words. Gathering herself together, she seemed to regain some composure. "Draco told me what you did for him," she said, straightening her shoulders. "I wanted to thank you. It was very brave."

If someone had told me yesterday that I was going to be thanked by Draco's mother for saving his life the day after I defeated Voldemort, I would have called them a complete and utter git.

Shows what I know.

"Thanks for not telling everyone I was alive," he replied, unable to think of anything else to say.

Narcissa smiled and wrapped an arm around her son's shoulders. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could say anything, the door opened and a third person came in.

Lucius Malfoy, Harry thought, looked a great deal worse than his wife and son. While Draco and his mother merely looked as though they had been through an emotional ordeal, Lucius bore the unmistakable signs of war: His usually sleek blond hair was scraggly, resembling the coarse tail of an ungroomed horse. He had numerous cuts on his face and there was a gash on his arm that was bleeding rather badly. He had wrapped a white cloth around it tightly, but the blood had stained through it, seeping to the outermost corners of the fabric.

"Potter," he said curtly, and Harry could tell at once that his attitude towards him had not changed in the slightest.

"Lucius," Harry replied, daringly

As Harry looked at Lucius, he remembered in a rush that this was the man who had slipped Ginny the diary when she was only eleven. Harry knew what it felt like to be possessed by Voldemort and, as he thought of Ginny and the trauma Lucius had caused her, hatred bubbled inside him. He had the sudden, violent urge to curse Lucius so thoroughly that his body would not be recognizable.

Lucius' lip curled as if he knew exactly what Harry was thinking. "Well, Potter," he said, his tone mocking, "congratulations."

"Funny," spat Harry, "that's what I said to your son."

Lucius raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to his son and then back onto Harry. "Oh? And what has my son done to earn the praise of the famous Harry Potter?"

"Your cause," said Harry, gesturing to the bodies behind him. "I told him it wasn't a complete failure."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Narcissa tighten the arm around Draco's shoulders protectively and look around at the room. Her face grew, if that were possible, even paler.

Lucius' eyes, however, flicked over the tarps without changing expression. "So, I suppose you think I'm going to jail, do you, boy?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Obviously."

"You're hardly the first to say that to me today," Lucius ruminated. "Whether it holds true... Well, that is the question, isn't it?" He did not seem concerned. On the contrary, his eyes were glinting with malice.

"Of cource it will-- " Harry broke off. He stared at the man before him. "Who else told you that you were going to Azkaban?" Curiosity flooded through him. Had the officials from the Ministry of Magic already arrived? And if so, why had they merely threatened Lucius instead of arresting him? It wasn't as if they hadn't arrested him before.

"They didn't say I was going to Azkaban," Lucius corrected him impatiently.

"Who didn't say?" Harry asked, even more interested now.

Lucius glared at him, obviously irked by this line of questioning. Harry didn't know if it was the fact that he had saved Draco's life or because he had defeated Voldemort and won that Lucius was tolerating him, if barely, but he was not about to waste his good fortune.

"Who was it?" he asked again.

"The horse," Lucius replied tersely, tightening the cloth around his arm so that the stain of blood grew darker.

Harry blinked. "The centaur?"

"Is that what you call them?" asked Lucius with a twisted smile. "He was horse with a man's face and torso. A mixed breed, a hybrid, a--"

"A centaur," said Harry, cutting across him angrily. "His name is Firenze. He talked to you in the Great Hall?"

"Your time has ended," Lucius quoted bitterly, "and you will fall, dragged down by those you have tried so hard to oppress. Mars has dimmed, but your battle has just begun. For your cruelty you will henceforth receive it thrice over and for your delight in your wickedness you will face a reckoning such as you have never witnessed, even by your own hands. Respice post te, mortalem te esse memento."

Harry said nothing.

"I suppose you think its true?" asked Lucius, his voice escaping in a sort of snarl. "This foul horse's... prophecy?"

Harry looked at Draco and Narcissa, pale and apprehensive, and then back at Lucius, white-faced and furious.

"If you still doubt the value of a centaur's words, Mr. Malfoy," said Harry quietly, "then you really haven't learned anything from this war." He nodded towards the door leading back towards the Entrance Hall. "I think you should leave now. I doubt that your presence is appreciated here."

Lucius' eyes flashed, and for a moment his hand twitched as though to reach for his wand. But then it was over. The Malfoys turned as one and left the room.

Before the door closed behind him, Draco cast one last look around the darkened room, his eyes catching Harry's. And then he left, his gaunt face searing itself into Harry's memory like so many others he wished he could just forget.

***

George's face was void of tears when Harry went over and kneeled down next to him and Percy. He was just staring at his twin's face, his eyes as vacant and dead-looking as Fred's. Harry tried not to look at Fred, but the harder he tried, the more his eyes seemed to gravitate towards him.

Fred was pale, his red hair a shock of color on his otherwise colorless face. Even his freckles looked dull and were less noticeable than before, when he had been alive. Harry felt a shiver run over his skin and felt the sudden urge to pull the tarp up over Fred's face.

Harry tore his eyes away from the body and glanced at George and Percy. George had not moved. He was sitting on the cold stone floor, his legs pulled up to his chest, his chin resting on his knees. He was staring at Fred as if waiting for something. Percy was sitting next to him, his arm around George's shoulders, not talking. He kept looking apprehensively from Fred to George, his eyes watchful and cautious.

"Took you long enough," Percy said after a moment, glancing at him, but his tone was not reproachful.

"Malfoy invasion," Harry replied, trying to not look at Fred and wondering how Percy could stand sitting in this place for so long. "Sorry, I'm here now."

Percy nodded, but didn't say anything. He was looking at George again, as though steeling himself to do something. Harry saw his free hand clench and unclench at his side.

"George," Percy began tentatively, "Fred--"

Harry was fairly certain that Percy was about to say something along the lines of 'Fred is,' or 'Fred was,' but George interrupted him.

"No," said George suddenly, and his voice was hoarse from lack of use. He shook his head vehemently, his red hair sweeping across his face like slashes of blood. "No. Not George and Fred, Fred and George. It was always Fred and George. Always. And now... now it's just George. George." He choked and swallowed, his eyes never straying from Fred's face, even as tears began to spill from them. "It doesn't-- it-- it sounds all wrong."

"George," said Percy, looking horrified. He grabbed George and pulled him into a fierce hug as tears fell faster and faster from under George's closed lids. He seemed unable to look at Fred anymore.

Harry scrambled backwards, feeling the pressure around his chest again, twisting, squeezing. That feeling of discomfort that was starting to become familiar washed over him and he got up, trying to not look at Fred, or George, or Percy. Standing, he glanced around unconsciously, still averting his gaze from the scene in front of him, when something caught his eye from across the room.

There was a piece of parchment magicked to the wall. It had what looked like a numbered list on it. He walked closer to it, feeling an inexplicable wave of dread come over him as he did so. He moved around the bodies, eyes to the floor, his heart beating with trepidation. The world had gone oddly quiet. He raised his eyes to look at the list in front of him.

Fallen:

The pressure around his chest was unbearable. He stumbled back, knocking into a body. His mouth had gone dry. Those people-- 'fallen' could only mean one thing. Breathing heavily, he glanced around the room, his eyes flicking from black tarp to black tarp.

There were numbers magicked onto the tarps that he had not noticed before, small gray numbers printed on the upper right side that were twisted versions of nametags.

Unwittingly, he glanced down at the body closest to him. It had the number 9 on it. He looked back up at the list, feeling sick.

9. Jason Samuels

Harry dimly recalled him as one of the Ravenclaw Beaters. He scanned the list again, feeling the unpleasent jolt of familiarity when he came across a name he recognized: Justin Finch-Fletchley... Dean Thomas... Alicia Spinnet... Fred Weasley... Remus Lupin... Severus Snape

He knew these people. They could not be here, just under these black tarps. But he knew, even as the thought brought on a wave of revulsion, that if he pulled back the numbered tarps, he would see the people labled on the list.

He noted, dimly, that George and Percy were still sitting near Fred. What number had Fred been? He could not remember.

From what seemed like a far distant place, the noise of a door being opened reached Harry's ears. He turned, feeling dizzy, to see who had entered the room.

A woman had walked in. She was small, and in her arms she carried the body of what Harry could only assume to be her son. She did not seem aware of his presence, but with another horrible jolt, he recognized her as the woman he had seen when he first entered the Great Hall.

Behind her was a Healer; Harry recalled the crossed bone and wand emblem that was emblazed on the witch's robes. So, people were coming from all over to help, Harry thought distractedly, as he watched the Healer help the mother lay her son down in an empty spot. She then raised her wand and conjured a black tarp out of thin air; it folded itself neatly next to the body that was Colin Creevey.

The Healer was walking towards him. It took him a minute to realize she was actually moving towards the list on the wall. He stepped aside to give her room. Smiling sadly at him, she pointed her wand at the parchment. Writing appeared there.

57. Colin Creevey

The Healer turned and exited the room, murmuring something inaudible to the weeping woman before she left. Harry stood there for a few moments, unable to move. He felt as if something huge was rising over him, about to crush him, a tidal wave he would not be able to surface from. He forced himself to take a breath. And then another. By the third one, he was halfway to the door.

By the time he took another, he was out of the death room and running blindly up the Grand Staircase, not caring where he was going. Anywhere was better than where he was right now. So he ran, away from everything and everyone he could not change, could not save.

***

Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, Harry reflected as he slid down the slightly damp wall, was probably the worst place he could have chosen to escape his depressed state.

Yet here he was, for reasons that escaped him, in this dark, dingy bathroom that smelled faintly of tears, salty and sad. He closed his eyes and let himself adjust to the quiet darkness. There was no crying or voices, no noise; it was blessedly, peacefully silent.

"Harry?"

His eyes snapped open. Myrtle was hovering over an empty stall across the darkened room that seemed to have a permanently gray and green tinge to it, like an old disease.

He blinked to focus his eyes on her, while simultaneously willing her to go away down a toliet and leave him alone. It had been so quiet.

As he watched her, she floated towards him slowly, pale and transparent. She fit very well into this depressing little room, with a tear-stained sheen on her cheeks and her mouth turned down in a frown. She stopped a few feet from him and idly twirled a stringy bit of her dark hair, wrapping it around her thin finger and letting it unravel. She did this while staring at him expectantly, like she was waiting for him to speak.

Brilliant.

He sighed and massaged a crick in his neck. "Hey, Myrtle."

She eyed him shrewdly for a moment, as if uncertain of his intentions. Well, he thought (rather irritably), if she thinks I'm going to throw something at her, she's giving herself too much credit. I have better things to do that taunt ghosts; I have to deal with the living.

Still toying with her hair, she asked, bypassing all pretense, "Is it over? It was so loud, I could hear it in the pipes."

Memories flashed in his mind: bursts of color and screams that echoed, bodies that took up whole rooms, names on lists that burned against the back of his eyelids even when he screwed them shut and tried not to see anything.

"Yeah, it's over," he said tersely.

Myrtle's mouth twisted into what might have been a smile or a smirk. She glided closer to the wall and sat down next to him-- or maybe she hovered with her knees drawn up to her chest-- could ghosts even sit? He didn't have the energy to wonder, however, and the thought slid past him.

She put her head on her knees, but turned it towards him. "Did you win?"

"Yes," he said tonelessly, trying not to notice how, sitting that way, her neck looked broken.

"Then, why are you crying?"

He blinked, confused. "I'm not crying."

"But you want to. I can tell."

"No," he said, feeling oddly insulted, "I don't."

"Yes, you do."

He glared at her pale eyes, seeing right through them to sinks across the room. He really was getting tired of talking to ghosts.

With one hand, she began tracing patterns on the damp floor, making twisting lines and imperfect circles. After several moments of this, she asked, unexpectedly, "Why are you here?"

Harry rubbed the back of his hand across his tired eyes, momentarily seeing bright white spots of vision. Dropping his hand, he replied, "I just wanted to be alone-- sorry," he added, checking himself at her expression. "It's fine if you stay."

"Oh, thanks so much."

"Myrtle..." He was starting to regret ever coming here. He hadn't even thought about where he was going after he left the death room. His feet had just led him straight to this dark bathroom, and it had been quiet, so he hadn't left.

She was still staring at him, trying to read his face, gauge what had happened outside her sanctuary. "Someone died, didn't they?" she asked finally.

Harry forced back another sigh. He should have expected this. Myrtle loved death; it was her favorite topic of discussion. Well, that and himself, but he chose to ignore the later. "A lot of people died."

She had taken her head off her knees and was staring at a bare patch of wall across the room; it seemed to be growing mold. They sat in silence for a few moments, and Harry felt oddly calm, despite Myrtle's proximity and inquires.

"You shouldn't be here," she said unexpectedly, her voice a whisper, almost sinister in the dark, lonely room.

"What?" he asked, surprised and a little irritated. "Why not?"

"Because..." she sighed, as though he was being obtuse, "you don't belong here. You belong out there, not in the dark with me." Her hands continued to move restlessly across the floor.

He eyed her for a few moments, but she wouldn't meet his gaze. She was focused on her quickly moving hands and the molten tile floor. He reached for her hand to still her, forgetting momentarily that she was a ghost instead of a sad little girl; his hand went right through her, knocking against the wet title. She looked up then, her mouth slightly parted and her eyes curious.

Harry stared at her for a moment. "Myrtle," he asked slowly, "why do you stay here?"

"I left... a few times, but I always come back. It's..." she sighed, grasping for words, "better here."

"Oh." He looked around the room and thought that he could not think of a more depressing place to spend so much time. "Why don't you leave for good?"

Her eyes looked towards the ground for a moment before meeting his again. "I like the quiet," she said softly, an odd smile coming across her face.

Getting up unexpectedly, she floated away from him, towards her favorite stall. She turned before she reached it and gestured to the door. "You should go." Her voice was not unkind and he stood up obediently, feeling a little better, but not knowing exactly why.

Before he reached the door, he heard her call to him: "Pick your battles, Harry."

He turned. "What?"

"Pick your battles. You can't win them all or have everything." She smiled at him, a real smile, the first he had ever seen on her face. "Pick your battles."

"I have," he said, thinking of the war and all that happened, all that he had lost and gained, everything that was left.

"Did it work out?"

He opened the door and a bright, blinding ray of light burst through the room, illuminating the darkness so that it glowed anew in the presence of the dawn.

"It's starting to."

***

References:

The bit about James and Snape ("I would have done the same for anyone.") - Draco Sinister by Cassandra Claire, whom I adore.

"Death had closed its arms around the school." - From a poem regarding the 1999 Columbine shootings

"Respice post te, mortalem te esse memento." - Look around you, remember that you are mortal.

The Fallen list is comprised of all Harry Potter characters. Not all people on the list actually died during the final battle, but some did. I did not put any people on there that JK specifically mentioned she let live (I think), and if I repeated any, my sincerest apologizes as it was very difficult to choose that many.

"I like the quiet." - Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Next chapter: Harry talks with Ginny-- and they realize that all those lose ends can never really be tied up neatly, that no one ever knows what happens next.