The Girl Who Hid | ✓

|91| the Prophecy

Everything seemed to have repaired itself during the headmaster's absence. The delicate silver instruments stood again upon the spindle-legged tables, puffing and whirring serenely. The portraits of the headmasters and headmistresses were snoozing in their frames, heads lolling back in armchairs or against the edge of their pictures. I looked through the window. There was a cool line of pale green along the horizon: Dawn was approaching.

The silence and the stillness, broken only by the occasional grunt or snuffle of a sleeping portrait, was unbearable.

I looked over to Harry with tears in my eyes and he opened his arms, letting me hug him. Tears streamed down my face as Harry rubbed my back. Based on the inconsistent breaths he took, he was also crying.

It was our fault Sirius had died. If we had not been stupid enough to fall for Voldemort's trick, if we had not been so convinced that what Harry had seen in his dream was real, if we were only opened to the possibility that Voldemort was, as Hermione had said, banking on our love of playing the hero...

The empty fireplace burst into emerald-green flame, making me jump from Harry's embrace. As Dumbledore's tall form unfolded itself from the fire, the wizards and witches on the surrounding walls jerked awake. Many of them gave cries of welcome.

"Thank you," said Dumbledore softly.

He did not look at us at first, but walked over to the perch beside the door and withdrew, from an inside pocket of his robes, the tiny, ugly, featherless Fawkes, whom he placed gently on the tray of soft ashes beneath the golden post where the full-grown Fawkes usually stood.

"Well, Harry— Maisey," said Dumbledore, finally turning away from the baby bird, "you will be pleased to hear that none of your fellow students are going to suffer lasting damage from the night's events."

I nodded, not trusting my own voice. Harry only looked down.

"Madam Pomfrey is patching everybody up now," said Dumbledore. "Nymphadora Tonks may need to spend a little time in St. Mungo's, but it seems that she will make a full recovery."

Harry nor I said anything to Dumbledore, causing him to sigh.

"I know how you both are feeling," said Dumbledore very quietly.

"No, you don't," said Harry, and his voice was suddenly loud and strong as I just shook my head, tears slipping down my cheeks.

"You see, Dumbledore?" said Phineas Nigellus slyly. "Never try to understand the students. They hate it. They would much rather be tragically misunderstood, wallow in self-pity, stew in their own —"

"That's enough, Phineas," said Dumbledore.

Looking away from him, I looked out of the window trying to find a reason to stop crying, but nothing came.

"There is no shame in what you are feeling," said Dumbledore's voice. "On the contrary... the fact that you can feel pain like this is your greatest strength."

Anger bubbled in my chest at his words. How is that a strength? But before I could talk, Harry whipped around to face Dumbledore.

"Our greatest strength, is it?" said Harry, his voice shaking. "You haven't got a clue— You don't know—"

"What don't I know?" asked Dumbledore calmly.

"I don't want to talk about how I feel, all right?"

"Harry, suffering like this proves you are still a man! This pain is part of being human —"

"THEN— I— DON'T— WANT— TO— BE— HUMAN!" Harry roared, and he seized one of the delicate silver instruments from the spindle-legged table beside him and flung it across the room.