Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Chapter Twenty-Five — In Restless Dreams

"And in the naked light I saw

Ten thousand people, maybe more

People talking without speaking

People hearing without listening

People writing psalms that voices never share

No one dares disturb the sound of silence."

-Simon and Garfunkle, "Sound of Silence"

Tuesday, November 11, 2003

Harry had lost an entire day in shock over Ernie’s death. Someone, probably Ron, dragged him down to his room. Or maybe it was Charlie, or George. A woman had sat there all day by his side, talking sometimes. Hermione, though he supposed Ginny might have done it. It didn’t much matter. He hadn’t noticed a word she’d said.

Another death hanging on his conscience. There wasn’t a single word anyone could say that would make Ernie’s gruesome murder not his fault. The marks on the body proved it beyond a doubt.

He’d fallen asleep after a while. Passed out, more likely. Hours of staring at a wall without seeing, without speaking, without listening was enough to drive a soul mad. And as he’d fallen asleep, after the early morning hours of Tuesday the 11^th, he dreamed.

He was sitting placidly on the edge of the lake, with James on his knee and wand in hand, tapping the wood against his knee in rhythm. James looked to be three or four years old and was happily swinging his feet in the air. "Daddy, where’s Mommy?"

"Mommy’s in heaven," he found himself answering.

"Where’s heaven?"

The sky darkened to showcase millions of glittering stars. He knew it was a dream, then, but there was no Voldemort invading it, no horrible deaths. "I don’t know where heaven is, James. But didn’t grandmum tell you how good heaven is?"

"If Mommy’s there, can I go too?" Green eyes looked up at him pleadingly.

And suddenly James wasn’t sitting in his lap, but sitting beside him. And he was older; older than Harry. He was another James Potter. "Gryffindors don’t run away, Harry."

"It’s been five years since I was a Gryffindor, Dad." But Harry looked down at himself and realized he was wearing student robes and the Gryffindor crest. He was twelve again, with the Sword of Gryffindor clasped in his hand.

"The rivalries aren’t worth keeping, but the friendships and the values are. Did you know that the blood of Gryffindor flows in your veins? So does the blood of Slytherin, and Ravenclaw. And Hufflepuff too. You’re hardly the only one to have claim to the blood of the Founders, though. All of that heir nonsense — what does that matter? You’re special, son, and I’m proud of you." James smiled and ruffled his son’s hair.

He was older again, and wearing the tuxedo he’d married Rachel in. Lily bent down to fix his bowtie and James smiled. "Dad, when am I going to see Rachel again?"

But it was Lily who answered. "Soon, honey. She’s lovely. Just the kind of woman we hoped you’d find. We watched the wedding from here."

"Harold, why didn’t you tell me?" He stood and stepped past his parents onto the lawn of the little house in Godric’s Hollow. Rachel looked at him mournfully, her business suit covered in the dust of the two buildings whose collapse had changed his adopted country just as Voldemort’s reappearance had changed the old. This was the way he’d seen her, looking frantically through the crowds to find him, and he’d been so close to telling her everything...

"I couldn’t, Rach. Please, believe me. I didn’t want to put you in danger."

The dream Rachel turned and pointed at the cloud of dust rising above the streets of New York City. "Never seen anything like it. God Almighty, I wish I’d never had to see this."

Harry wrapped his arms around her waist and sheltered her head against his chest. They were the only people standing on the street, watching the dust settle. "I’m a wizard, Rachel. I’m a freak. Uncle Vernon always said something bad would happen to me."

"Will James be a wizard too?" Never mind that James hadn’t been born in 2001. Rachel looked up at him expectantly, brown eyes glittering with suppressed mirth.

"He might. I hope not. He’d be a freak like me."

Rachel shook her head. "I want him to be just like you. Lily and James are such wonderful people, I wish you’d told me about them... I want James to grow up in your world, where there aren’t any terrorists."

"But there are, Rach. They’re terrible. They come in the night in black robes and kill your family. They killed mine — both of mine." Harry set his head on his wife’s shoulder.

"You can stop the terrorists of your world, Harold."

"You can stop the Death Eaters, Harry." They came simultaneously, and Harry turned to come face to face with Albus Dumbledore.

He shook his head. "I don’t have magic anymore. I gave it up, and now I can’t use it. You told me the spell, but I can’t use it."

"There are ways to borrow magic. There are books in the library to help you." Dumbledore smiled mischievously. "But you know that already, don’t you."

Harry gestured around at the walls and isles of books in the Hogwarts Library. "Where do I look, Headmaster? I’ve been all over the Restricted Section. Where should I look?"

"Sharing magic is not Dark Magic," he whispered, giving a wink, eyes twinkling in amusement. "You’re looking in the wrong place. Sharing magic is the highest sort of friendship."

Harry jerked awake, snatching his glasses from the bedside table without thought. The words of an annoying Muggle movie that Rachel loved with all her heart came to mind. "I had a dream, Auntie Em! And you were there.. and you!"

"And I’m certainly in Oz," he grumbled, getting out of bed. Images were fading already, as they did for most dreams, but one remained. Dumbledore had come to him, to help. And Rachel, to give him strength.

Sharing magic is the highest sort of friendship.

Harry threw on a robe and dashed toward the library.

~

Severus Snape sat in the rain on the steps of Hagrid’s hut, aware of someone walking up behind him. "Minerva?"

"I’m here," she replied, coming to kneel next to him. "You’ll catch your death."

He gave a snort. "Sorry, I’m not the one who was to die in the rain today." Standing, he led Minerva around the side of the one-room house, where a bundle of black was tossed carelessly beside the bushes. Snape knelt down and pulled the black robe away from the face of the bloody body.

"Terry Boot," she whispered, turning her face away.

Severus scowled, letting the fabric rest where it fell. He’d been a Death Eater. He’d seen horrors. But this... nothing in the depths of Lucius Malfoy or Macnair or Crabbe or Goyle resided the mind that could think of this monstrosity.

Lightning-bolt scar carved into the forehead, "Potter" carved down the arm, the Dark Mark carved on the chest — and the numeral six on the man’s cheek. He didn’t want to consider the fact that Terry might’ve been alive when it was done. The mere vision of it made him want to retch.

But long years of control held him back. He yanked the robe over the dead man’s face, as much for his own relief as Minerva’s. "Hagrid found him here when he came outside this morning. I’ve taken the liberty of relocating his quarters to the guest wing."

"The last hostage dies on Sunday, Severus."

Stating the obvious. "Potter won’t be ready. I saw him try to summon a book in the library. It fell off the shelf." Severus stood, unconsciously wiping his hands on his robe to take away the blood.

"Merlin help us," Minerva murmured.