Dark Memories

Book 4 - Part 9: The End and Start of Things

Crack!

Dumbledore appeared in the center of the chamber, the entire place in shambles, but that didn't concern him. Pausing just for a moment, he spotted Voldemort in a heap on the floor, very clearly and utterly dead.

Voldemort had finally been defeated. The war was finally truly over.

It was surreal.

Dumbledore mentally shook himself before he turned, hearing a strangled moan behind him.

For what he was about to see in that moment would remain forever clearly etched in his memory. No pensieve would ever need to be used for him to recall every detail.

"Oh Merlin," he breathed, his eyes falling on a form, way too small to be Mage, resting against the collapsed half wall. Blood was gathering on the floor at his side, a smudged red mirror held loosely in his little hand.

Harry?

Dumbledore felt as if his entire body had been dumped in ice water and shaken violently before being tightly squeezed.

Harry was not dead.

Miraculously, he had not been consumed in the fiendfyre as Voldemort had shown and claimed.

Somehow, he had gotten away, tricking Voldemort into believing he was actually dead, before returning and defeating him . . .

. . . as Mage.

Suddenly, all the things that had been bothering him all year fell into place, before those thoughts, just as quickly, were slammed aside by overwhelming concern and fear, as well as unbelievable gratefulness and hope.

Hurrying forward and going to his knees, paying no mind to the fact that blood was now seeping into his robes, he leaned closer to Harry, his wand instantly in his right hand as his left went to Harry's bloody side.

"'M sorry I didn' tell you sooner," Harry managed regretfully.

"Shhh . . . I understand, my boy. Like you said, it was complicated." Dumbledore barely managed to keep his voice level. There was a lot of blood and Harry's color was fading right before his eyes. And why did he look so heart-wrenchingly young? "Now just hold still as I try to stop the bleeding," Dumbledore said, pulling up Harry's shirt to get to the wound.

Trying not to flinch from the pain, Harry remained as still as he could, not that he really could have moved much anyway.

"You've lost a lot of blood, Harry," Dumbledore said, frowning at the still bleeding wound. It was just over an inch wide and a few millimeters thick. He didn't know how deep it was. He reached in his robes and pulled out some shrunken vials. Unshrinking them, he helped Harry drink them. "I've slowed the bleeding, but I can't get it to close for some reason."

"The blade was cursed an' poisoned. Riddle still has it," Harry stated, feeling a little better as the potions went to work.

Dumbledore looked over to Voldemort's body.

He waved his wand and quietly cast a special form of accio. Harry had never heard that spell before. Suddenly, the blade in Voldemort's hand soared toward Dumbledore, before stopping and hovering within his reach.

Dumbledore then waved his wand again, muttering an analyzing spell. He hummed slightly in an irritated fashion as he seemed to gather an understanding of the blade's nasty attributes.

"I think I'll place this in one of my secure pockets," Dumbledore said, and he did just that without touching it.

Harry didn't ask questions, like how Dumbledore could be so sure it wouldn't just stab through the fabric. He was Dumbledore, sometimes things just were.