The Longest Night

Chapter Three - The Letter

"I'd hear the ocean breathe, exhale upon the shore;

I knew the tempest's blood, its wrath I would endure."

-Loreena McKennitt ("Skellig")

I can't forget that night. Try as I might, I am unable to erase the searing images from my memory. The scene replays itself again and again, leaving a worn and tired groove in my mind, and a hideous, disfiguring scar on my heart. A tidal wave of bitter recrimination crashed over us that evening and swept away the last vestiges of our childhood. Two shaken and spluttering survivors remained in its wake where there should have been three. And I would give everything that I have, everything that I am, to go back and set things right. I would offer my eternal soul on a silver platter to the Dementors, I would pledge my undying loyalty to Voldemort himself, for just one chance to do it all differently. But that would be impossible...nothing can bring back the dead and I no longer have a soul.

More than anything else I remember the anger. I have never been that angry, so consumed with an irrational, bitter fury, in all of my life. White-hot rage festered within, corrupting and devouring me until my wrath overflowed like a potion that's been forgotten and left to simmer too long. It clouded my mind, impaired my judgment, and eventually led to a terrible, unforgivable decision on my part.

It was so much easier to blame Harry; he already blamed himself, why shouldn't I allow him to shoulder my burden as well? I just couldn't face the appalling truth that stared back at me from the mirror; I couldn't bear the guilt that weighted me down so that some days I could scarcely move my legs. Deep down, tucked carefully into the darkest nook where not even the bright searchlight of my conscience could penetrate, knowledge colored my thoughts with a black poison. Much as I had loved and adored my parents and now mourned their loss, I was relieved to be alive, glad that it had been them instead of me. What a wretched, selfish experience...to grieve so deeply and yet feel so thankful. Rather than examine those morsels of self-knowledge, I chose to ignore them. I focused my energies on blame, and discovered that the fine line between love and hate, lucidity and madness, was easily blurred but nearly impossible to restore.

That December was one of the coldest on record. For those of us of an historical bent it felt like Hogwarts was caught in the middle of another Little Ice Age. The grounds were shrouded in an icy mist and bitter winds howled around the castle. The earth was frozen solid and it crunched loudly beneath my feet as I hurried to complete my errand. To this day I don't know if that sense of urgency stemmed from my desire to carry out my plan or from the fear that my resolve would crumble before I could complete the task.

I used to love the winter - the fresh, glittering snow, the thick, lacy frost, the hushed, unbroken stillness that made it seem as though the entire world held its breath in wonder and reverence at nature's frozen beauty. Snowflakes kissed the trees, fairies and sunbeams danced together in icy castles and magic wafted gently down from the stars.

No longer capable of such joyous flights of fancy, I now looked upon the winter landscape as a dismal depiction of sorrow and loss. Bare, black trees stretched their skeletal limbs toward the sky like rotting lace overlaid on a drab, ancient fabric. Icicles, long and lethal, yet somehow beguiling in their glacial loveliness, hung precariously from the castle. I stared at them for the longest time, wishing that one would fall and impale me so that my scheme could end prematurely. But then the anger surged back, stronger than ever, frightening in its intensity. The voice I always associated with my rage whispered at first of grief and heartache, but then swelled to a head-pounding crescendo of accusation. This was Harry's fault; he deserved to suffer! And I wished suddenly and savagely that one of those lovely crystal daggers would fall and skewer him, perhaps then this cold fire that raged within me would finally be extinguished. I could see him so clearly in my mind's eye; sprawled across the hoary earth, blood seeping slowly but inexorably through his robes to stain the virgin snow a vivid, Gryffindor crimson. He would die slowly, painfully...and I would savor every second of it.

I continued walking, head bowed to lessen the bite from the moaning wind. It was far too cold for any icicles to fall, but apparently not for tears. They squeezed from my eyes like small, cruel diamonds and cut a savage path down my frozen cheeks. My God...who was this person I had become? Where did this malice and hatred spring from? I didn't want Harry dead. He was my dearest friend, my brother...I loved him, I needed him. And yet that insistent voice still clamored to be heard, reminding me that Harry Potter was the reason my parents were dead. Dear, dangerous, unwitting Harry - bodies piled up around him faster than at the cemetery during an outbreak of plague.

I owed it to my parents to exact some form of vengeance. But once the deed was done, perhaps life would regain some semblance of normalcy. I seized upon this idea with the desperate strength of a drowning woman. Our broken circle could be repaired; we could live again, laugh again, love again.

My hand tightened convulsively around the object in my pocket, and a sudden, blinding thought illuminated my tired mind. This was quite possibly the worst, most foolhardy plan that I had ever concocted. The rational part of me, the old voice that I rarely heard from these days, spoke up distinctly. My actions would be far more deadly and destructive than anything that I had accused Harry of doing. If I carried this out I would lose everything else that I held dear, and this time there would be no one for me to blame.

I was tempted to stop, to turn back, to save myself and countless others before it was too late. If only someone had chanced upon me at that moment of tortured indecision, I think I could have avoided taking the final step. But I was alone, bereft and irresolute, and fast approaching the abyss. If I succeeded I would be awash in a sea of blood, and like Lady MacBeth my hands would never come clean.

Why didn't someone notice what was happening?

Why didn't someone show up to save me from myself?

Why?

Without knowing exactly how I got there, I found myself in the Hogsmeade post office, requesting an express owl. The clerk brought over a beautiful, snowy bird that reminded me of Hedwig, and I smiled at the delicious irony. My hands were steady as I pushed the letter across the counter, and I thanked the clerk who assured me that my confidential message to Percival Weasley would arrive at the Ministry of Magic within 24 hours.

I watched the owl take flight with the fatal missive clutched in its talons, and I tracked its progress until it was little more than a speck against the late afternoon sky. I think I loved Harry more at that moment than ever before, knowing as I did that he was now lost to me forever.