Requirements

Requirements

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Company

*

Harry did not cry. He could not cry, for he'd a long time ago cried every tear that would still come out. Sirius had been the last person he'd mourned by tears. Everyone after him only got sad thoughts.

He remembered the one time he'd visited the Room of Requirements, right after Sirius's death, seeking comfort. He'd truly got comfort from it, in some odd, twisted way. For a moment, he had almost thought he could be happy some day.

This time, he was not seeking comfort, for he knew it wouldn't come. It hadn't ever come since. The one time he'd visited the room after that short moment of comfort, it hadn't been Sirius's being there. In the middle of the room, he had seen the sword of Gryffindor, buried deep down in the floor. Easily pulling it out of the stone, like some twisted repeat of Arthur Pendragon, he had then walked out of the room to face his destiny in a battle against Voldemort.

That battle was still going on. Every day, more and more people on both sides lost the fight. To this day, nobody had won. Most probably nobody ever would.

A tired chuckle, brought up by desperation and some strong need that bordered insanity, escaped his lips. No, nobody would ever win this fight. Even if he some day managed to destroy Voldemort -- which he really doubted -- he wouldn't still be the winner. Some thought that he would, that it would be a victory if he managed to fulfill the task the fate had thrown to his way without even asking, but he knew that it wouldn't be so. Even killing the Dark Lord wouldn't bring his friends back. Even triumph over the destroyed body wouldn't mend his broken heart, wouldn't take the loneliness away.

He'd lost them all, now. One by one, his friends had been taken down by the Dark Lord's followers, and he had been unable to save any of them. Sirius had only been the first one in a long chain of deaths and losses.

Ron had been the next one to go, he and his mother. While the others had stayed at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, Molly had gone with her youngest son to fetch some things from home. Unfortunately, they'd soon discovered that the Burrow had been surrounded by Death Eaters. When the rest of the Order got to help, they hadn't even been able to recognize their bodies -- or what had been left of them. They'd put up a strong fight, yes, but in the end, they'd been beaten -- only because they cared for Harry, only because they were important to him.

Needless to say, he'd been very reluctant to let anybody near to him ever since. Hermione had been the only one whom he'd allowed to come through his hard cover. Even that had been hard -- Hermione was a wise and powerful witch, yes, but even she couldn't win a group of Death Eaters, and Harry didn't want her to come through -- but Hermione, being Hermione, had immediately seen through him. She'd told that he couldn't push her away with his cold behaviour, that he couldn't make her not care for him. Even if it took her life, she'd said, even if it took her life, she would stand by him to the very end, giving herself for the cause of Light.

Those words had echoed bitterly in his mind when the news of Hermione's death had reached him. It had been a suitable end for her, anyway. There had been some Dark Arts books in the restricted section of the Hogwarts library that Voldemort had wanted and the Order hadn't wanted to give to him. Hermione had just been fetching those books to safety when a couple of Death Eaters had managed to get through the wards -- not enough to take down the castle, no, far from that, but more than enough to get those precious books. Knowing their importance, as well as the fact that Voldemort would win if he got them, Hermione had made the Death Eaters chase her and the books to an abandoned corner of the restricted section. There she had pressed the books against herself and managed to whisper a spell that caused the books' self-defence charms flare up. The books had been burned to ashes, as well as the Death Eaters. As had Hermione.

She was the one who still remained, though. Her ghost, just as fast and brisk as Hermione had been in her life, now floated through the shelves in the library, helping them to research information in their fight against the Dark Lord. She was always there if Harry needed somebody to talk to, but it was not the same. In fact, Harry only became more agitated if he spent time with her, knowing that it had been this endless War and his inability to take Voldemort down earlier that had caused her untimely death.

After that, it had only got worse. Luna Lovegood had died while trying to protect some younger students, taken down by a well-aimed dagger a traitorous Slytherin third-year had thrown to her back. Her last words, told by the first-year Hufflepuff who'd alone still been alive when help came to the place, had been, "I'm seeing my Mother... And she's smiling at me." Harry truly hoped she had seen her. If it had been so, Luna had died happy.

He didn't think that kind of happiness could ever be given to him.

Neville. What had taken Neville? Ah, yes -- he'd gone along with Fred, attracting the Death Eaters after himself to give Ginny time to escape. Rather pointless, considering that Ginny had been killed only two days later.

More names floated into his mind, names and faces, dear friends and important allies. They'd all died, died for him, to give the others after them a couple of moments more time to live, him some more time to destroy Voldemort. And he'd failed them all. He still hadn't done what he had been born to do, still hadn't made their deaths mean anything. And now he was alone -- true, there were still many on their side alive, but not one he would call his friend.

Wondering what would await him inside, he opened the door and stepped inside.

The room was almost empty except for a small basket in the middle. Walking to the basket, Harry found a jet-black pup and a note inside.

He crouched down to look at the note. "My name is Sniffles," it read. "Please take care of me."

An almost hysterical laughter escaped Harry's lips. Sniffles, really. The only Snuffles had died ages ago -- okay, so it had only been two years, but it felt like forever! To him, at least -- as well as all his friends, died like mice in a monstrous cat's jaws, and all he could do was sniffling. He couldn't bring them back, he couldn't even have revenge, no, he just sat and mourned and did nothing to ensure that tomorrow there would be somebody who still remembered that they had ever lived, that they had once existed.

"Very well, Sniffles," he murmured, reaching out a hand to pet the pup's soft, midnight-black fur. "I will take care of you. But will you still exist if I take you out of this room? Or will you disappear, like I lost the comfort of Sirius?"

The pup opened its eyes, and two pale orbs locked their gaze at him. For a second, a flicker of hope flared high in his heart, only to die at the next moment. This dog wasn't an Animagus, it wasn't Sirius. It was just a pup -- a Grim pup, maybe, but still just an animal with no understanding of his pain and need.

Sniffles licked his outreached hand like trying to assure him of the fact that no, he wouldn't disappear, he would stay right by his side. He would stay, even if his Harry's friends were now away.

Then the pup sat up, and Harry's breath caught in his chest. Sniffles had a collar around his neck -- it was black, and almost unnoticeable. And there was something hanging on the collar.

A star, a tiny star hung there, no bigger than a thumbnail. And yet it was brighter than any star in the night sky.

"Sirius..." whispered Harry, not daring to touch the star, fearing that it might disappear. Long-forgotten tears dwelled up in his eyes again as he realized that no matter what, there was still somebody who was always with him.

He realized that no matter what, Sirius would keep him company.