My Immortal

'These wounds won't seem to heal,

this pain is just too real,

there's just so much that time cannot erase.

When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears.
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears.
I held your hand through all of these years,
but you still have
all of me.' -Evanescence, My Immortal

There was nothing in particular to suggest that horrible things were to happen in moments. For, on the battlefield there was no sound but an eerie sort of silence. No movement except for the mild stirs of the lifeless and the grieving. The ground was cold and hard, frozen and dead under the blank, gray sky. Faint shouts were heard from the valiant warriors still fighting for what was right, although the battle was already lost. A raven sat on a branch and watched with what could have been amusement, or utter terror, as the scene below him settled down to a horrible, frightening stop. He let out a wavering call that rang out in the silence, a harsh warning.

One boy, or man, he could be called, lay unnoticed in the frosted grass. His black hair was dampened with cold sweat; his face was glistening with sweat and blood. His robes were torn and ragged, wrapping around him almost halfheartedly, knowing, almost that their wearer was dying. A strangely shaped gash on his forehead was torn open, and bleeding profusely as he lay on the ground, alone and the frosted air entered and left his lungs for the very last times. With his last, ragged breaths, he scanned the masses of people, dead and alive, for someone, anyone that would help him. He saw her. Standing among the many dead strewn on the frigid ground, an expression of determination and inexpressible pain etched along her sharp features.

He couldn't feel his himself calling out, or hear their returned cries, but he knew that she would come and be there for him, whenever he needed her. She was his constant. Always a pillar of support during the hardest times of his short life. He knew that whatever hardships the school, his home, or he would face, she'd be in the background. Ready with advice, a reassuring nod, or even a hand to reach for when he couldn't reach to anyone else. She got him where he'd wanted to go, and subtle as her help was, he knew that it would always be there.

She rushed to his side, hair coming loose out of its tight, restricting bun and flying about her face. Her eyes were wide with fear and dread as she rushed to his side. She fell hard on her knees beside the dying young man. She placed her hand to his head. His face was hot, and his hands were clammy and shaking. The Cruciatus can break a man, leaving him worn with the aftereffects for life, but it can kill; it's a slow, painful, and agonizing death, as every nerve, every cell in the body dies, slowly weakened and ravaged by the intense, mortifying pain. This was happening, as the young man lay on the ground with the kneeling woman at his side. She reached for his hand, clasping it in two of her own; it was as cold as ice. An old man with a long, silvery beard knelt beside the woman and patted her shoulder in a comforting way.

A tear trickled down her cheek.

"Harry," she whispered desperately.

She could see his trembling lips trying hard to form a word.

"P-professor?" he asked, trying to raise his head a little to see who was holding his hand.
She smiled a little through her tears, and gently forced his head down. Her voice was soothing and maternal as she spoke.

"Yes Harry, I'm here. Shh, it's alright, don't sit up."

"Where's...where is...V-Voldemort?" he asked, trying to sit up again.

"He's dead Harry. You did it. You saved us all." She smiled with a morbid kind of pride.

His eyes closed a little and smiled a small, vengeful smile. His voice was faint, and his breathing ragged.

"That's good. I hope he suffered."

The woman at his side nodded and closed her eyes too, giving the cold hand in her grasp a slight squeeze. More tears dripped down her face, and on landed on the boy's face, clearing a spot in the dirt. Concern found its way onto his face.

"Professor, don't cry. Am I...am I going to die?" he asked. He began to cough hard and a little bit of blood came up. They racked his already worn and ravaged body even more.

"We'll get Poppy. She'll fix you up, Harry. Just take a nap, now, Mr. Potter. Go to sleep." She was reassuring herself, as well as him.

The man beside her placed a hand on her shoulder with a grim expression.

"Poppy has been killed. As have Hagrid, Ms. Granger, and Severus," Albus said.
She took a deep, steadying breath, and the tears came unbidden to her eyes; she prayed that Harry hadn't heard that.

The boy on the ground took in a deep shuddering breath, and she turned to him in an instant, whispering comforting words, and all the while knowing that he was gone. She knew him as an infant, and all through his schooling. She'd kept a close watch on him, and had felt as if it were her duty to protect him as her own; which, to her, he was. She was the mother he'd never known, and he the son she'd never had. They completed each other. Though Harry may not have known it, he'd felt it, and somewhere inside he knew that she would be there, guiding him like a teacher, and loving him like a mother.

Since that faithful night, sixteen long years ago when she'd left him on the step of an unloving family, she'd longed for the time when, again, she could have him in her protective clutches once more. Eleven painful years passed by, when she'd waited and waited for news about him, and if he was still alive and well. She let out a shuddering sigh as she watched the boy she'd seen grow up, mature, and brave dangers some twice his age had never seen, leave the world.

She ran a hand along his face and smoothed his raven hair. He winced in subconscious pain.

"Shh," she said soothingly.

She could never have loved this child more if he had been her own.

"I know, Harry, I know. It's so unfair how the world can take you out when you aren't ready. You had so much ahead of you. Just sleep now, Harry. Close your eyes. It'll be over soon." Had Harry's eyes been open, he'd have been one of the only people to have seen Minerva McGonagall weep.

She stroked his cheek in a comforting way, trying to coax him into sleep, knowing that he'd never wake again. Softly, slowly, she recited a lullaby that she remembered her own mother singing to her so many years ago.

"Hush, close your eyes now.
Don't let the moon peek in.
The sun will rise and wake you
when the new day will begin.

Snug under your blankets,
fall into sleep's embrace.
Let sweet dreams take you to
another time and place.

Sleep can give you comfort, dear.
Rest your weary head.
I always will protect you
while you're safe inside your bed.

So you'll be well and rested
as a new day dawns.
For now give in to comfort
and your weary body's yawns."

The lullaby's comforting, haunting melody had put her to sleep as a young child, and even now on restless, weary nights. She could see Harry's body go limp as his last breath left his body. Minerva turned and rested her head on Albus' warm, comforting shoulder, and wept. She wept for the lifeless youth, who only days ago had bee happy and energetic. She wept for his friends, having lost such a loyal and brave friend. But mostly, she wept for herself; she lost what had been most dear to her. She'd lost part of her family.

She remembered how, when he had been just a small child, sitting outside lonely and alone, while his 'family' praised their son showered him with gifts, she would show up in her Tabby form and comfort and amuse him for hours. She'd loved him as much as she loved Albus. Now, she knelt on the ground beside her husband, clutching the hand of surrogate son, even though his spirit had departed to somewhere better. Cold snow fell from the blank gray sky, scattering itself over the still and silent battlefield. A bitter wind picked up and whipped Minerva's already frozen face, drying her painful tears. Albus lifted her gently by the elbow.

"Come now, Minerva. He's gone, there's nothing we can do." He reached over and brushed a tear from her face.

Minerva followed numbly, dimly aware of releasing Harry's hand.

In the years to follow, Minerva never forgot Harry's pained expression and limp form, lying on the cold, hard ground of the battle field. It haunted her dreams and flashed in her mind. She'd protected her bravest little lion as best she could, but he was gone, and now she needed someone to dry her tears, though they never left her face.