The Longest Night

Chapter Two - Voices Within

I can see the lights in the distance. Pinpoints of luminescence cloaked in the black velvet of night, dipping and swaying like spectral dancers in some eerily choreographed ballet. If I listen hard enough I can hear their music, a somber score featuring the endless babble of the mad and the choked moans of the dying. And above it all, carried on a bitter wind that reeks of corruption, the high-pitched, mirthless cackle of evil.

People have been returning to the castle all night, straggling back in groups of twos and threes. Some are wounded, some are insane, and some are just dead. There was a time, not so long ago, when I would have been horrified by the thought of being in such close proximity to the dead with their self-righteous, mute accusations. But that was before...before I became so intimately acquainted with the shades and nuances of death. Now I gaze dispassionately upon their faces and they stare sightlessly back at me. Blank, unfathomable eyes that somehow still manage to see through me into the dark secret places, and there glimpse the awful truth.

No one reproaches the living quite like the dead - after all, I should know.

My memories of those awful days are jumbled and confused, like a book that has been torn asunder and then re-bound with all the pages out of sequence. And there are gaping holes, black stretches of emptiness, which I fervently hope I never recover; I am fearful of what those dark depths may hold. I never knew that it was possible to encase myself in ice until then. I embraced the numbing cold and the welcome release it provided from my anguished guilt.

Professor McGonagall cried when she told me the news, but I didn't shed a tear. I sat in stunned disbelief while she told me that a group of Death Eaters had murdered my parents. Not until I saw the Dark Mark floating over the wreckage of my home like a noxious, green cloud, not until I stared into the lifeless faces of my beloved mother and father, did the terrible truth strike me with the force of a sledge hammer. I staggered then from the weight of a sudden, irrefutable knowledge. And I screamed; I screamed for the love and security that were mine no longer, for innocence lost forever, and for absolution that would never be granted.

My parents' vacant, staring eyes blamed me, condemned me, and I, in turn, held Harry accountable. I realized too late that to be friends with Harry Potter carried great risks, unacceptable risks. My friendship with Harry, my loyalty to Harry, my love for Harry caused this. In my grief and rage I shoved all culpability onto Harry's shoulders, and he bore it silently, without complaint. And I hated him for it.

Oh, no. No, no, no! I refuse to dwell on the past tonight, although ghostly tendrils of memory beckon temptingly. I am only concerned with now, with this moment as it unfolds. There is a sickening sense of power in the air; the castle walls fairly vibrate with it. An unseen force swirls faster, faster, and still faster, like a cyclone whipping itself into a fury before bearing down on a sleepy, unsuspecting town.

We will win - we have to. There are times when victory unequivocally belongs to the righteous, and this is one of those times. We are right and Voldemort and his followers are wrong - it's that simple. But then, why, why am I plagued with this gnawing sense of unease? Why am I so fearful of what victory will bring and what its final cost may be?

Rumors have been flying through the Great Hall faster than you can say "Rita Skeeter," each one more contradictory and ridiculous (riddikulus - ha ha!) than the last. The battle is lost - we're all doomed. The battle is won - we're all saved! Voldemort is dead. No, wait a minute...Harry is dead. The sky is falling! Hang on, reliable sources now report that both Harry and Voldemort are alive and have been sucked into a vortex; the sky, however, is definitely not falling. The Dementors are coming, and are they ever hungry. Harry and Voldemort are both dead, and what the hell is a vortex, anyway? The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse have been spotted on the Quidditch pitch. And my personal favorite of the night: Harry Potter is Lord Voldemort.

Have people always been this gullible, or has the fear simply enhanced their susceptibility? Do they feel less anxiety once they have shared those fears and, in turn, succeeded in frightening others? Do the individual terrors appear small and insignificant once absorbed into the group psyche? I wonder what they would do if I mentioned that one of the house elves had spotted the Aurora Borealis in the kitchens tonight?

"What does it mean?" their hushed, puzzled voices will ask.

Never fear, Professor Trelawney will provide the solution, claiming beyond a shadow of a doubt that it is an obvious and indisputable portent of our imminent defeat at the hands of our enemies.

Unless, of course, we win.

In which case she will claim that her Inner Eye was temporarily blinded by the brilliance of the victory omen as it broiled in the ovens. The image tickles my fancy; after all, it's so ludicrous. The Aurora Borealis...at this time of year...completely localized in Hogwarts' kitchens. And when I close my eyes I can see everyone, even the corpses, lined up in orderly fashion to witness the phenomenon firsthand.

I haven't laughed like this in ages, and I am helpless to stop. There is something about solitary laughter, especially in the silent watches of the night, which unsettles people. And tonight is no exception; the uneasiness I see on the faces around me only serves to increase my mirth. Tears stream from the corners of my eyes and I rock back and forth, giggling and sobbing, held fast in the grip of delicious laughter.

They all think I am hysterical, that grief and fatigue have taken their inevitable toll. What do they know? I haven't seen hysteria in months, years actually. Not since Harry disappeared. These days I move methodically through a bleak, desolate landscape devoid of hope or forgiveness. I balance precariously on a tightrope that spans the chasm between yesterday and today, all the while maintaining a calm, composed façade.

Now, let me see...where was I before natural phenomena and tabloid rumors and death so rudely interrupted me? Guilt...I was wallowing in my guilt. Shared guilt, mind you, but mine nonetheless. Ron and I were so close to each other then in that turbulent sea of memories we could have reached out and offered the other a lifeline. But we didn't. We drifted helplessly along in splendid isolation. Alone, somehow the guilt was manageable. Together, I think we would have drowned in it, dragged down by the undertow of blame.

Ron blamed himself; I blamed myself; Ron and I both blamed Harry; I blamed Ron; Ron blamed me, and Ginny blamed us both. I think that covers it. I could make up excuses, thousands of them if I wanted o. But I am too weary for that, and I am expected to be candid here, no matter how difficult that may be. The cold, impersonal hand of honesty grips my heart like a vise, and it's so tight, and it squeezes so mercilessly. "The truth! The truth! The truth!" it demands in time with my hammering heartbeat. "Tell the truth, even though the pain of telling is too much to bear."