Pink in the Night.

Chapter Fifty-Four.

Harry felt himself slam flat into the ground; his face was pressed into the grass; the smell of it filled his nostrils. He had closed his eyes while the Portkey transported him, and he kept them closed him. He did not move. All the breath seemed to have been knocked out of him; his head was swimming so badly he felt as though the ground beneath him were swaying like the deck of a ship. To hold himself steady, he tightened his hold on the two things he was still clutching: the smooth, cold handle of the Triwizard Cup and Cassius' body. He felt as though he would slide away into the blackness gathering at the edges of his brain if he let go of either of them. Shock and exhaustion kept him on the ground, breathing in the smell of the grass, waiting... waiting for someone to do something... something to happen... and all the while, his scar burned dully on his forehead.
A torrent of sound deafened and confused him; there were voices everywhere, footsteps, screams... He remained where he was, his face screwed up against the noise, as though it were a nightmare that would pass.
Then a pair of hands seized him roughly and turned him over.

"Harry! Harry!"
He opened his eyes.
He was looking up at the starry sky, and Albus Dumbledore was crouched over him. The dark shadows of a crowd of people pressed in around them, pushing nearer; Harry felt the ground beneath his head reverberating with their footsteps.
He had come back to the edge of the maze. He could see the stands rising above him, the shakes of people moving in them, the stars above.
Harry let go of the Cup, but he clutched Cassius to him even more tightly. He raised his free hand and seized Dumbledore's wrist, while Dumbledore's face swam in and out of focus.

"He's back," Harry whispered. "He's back. Voldemort."

"What's going on? What happened?"
The face of Cornelius Fudge appeared upside down over Harry; it looked white, appalled.
"My God— Warrington!" it whispered. "Dumbledore— he's dead!"

The words were repeated, the shadowy figures pressing in on them gasped it to those around them... and then others shouted it— screeched it— into the night— "He's dead!" "He's dead!" "Cassius Warrington! Dead!"

"Harry let go of him," he heard Fudge's voice say, and he felt fingers trying to pry him from Cassius' limp body, but Harry wouldn't let go. Then Dumbledore's face, which was still blurred and misted, came closer.

"Harry, you can't help him now. It's over. Let's go."

"He wanted me to bring him back," Harry muttered— it seemed important to explain this. "He wanted me to take care of her..."

"That's right, Harry... just let go now..."
Dumbledore bend down, and with extraordinary strength for a man so old and thin, raised Harry from the ground and set him on his feet. Harry swayed. His head was pounding. His injured leg would no longer support his weight. The crowd around them jostled, fighting to get closer, pressing darkly in on him— "What's happened?" "What's wrong with him?" "Warrington's dead!"

"He'll need to go to the hospital wing!" Fudge was saying loudly. "He's ill, he's injured— Dumbledore, Warrington's guests, they're here, they're in the stands..."

"I'll take Harry, Dumbledore, I'll take him—"

"No, I would prefer—"

"Dumbledore, the girl's running... she's coming over... Don't you think you should tell her— before she sees—?"

"Harry, stay here—"
Girls were screaming, sobbing hysterically... The scene flickered oddly before Harry's eyes.

"It's all right, son, I've got you... come on... hospital wing..."

"Dumbledore said stay," said Harry thickly, the pounding in his scar making him feel as though he was about to throw up; his vision was blurring worse than ever. "Where are my parents?"