Lord Voldemort sat in the Headmaster’s office, his slit eyes fixed upon his pointed fingers, musing silently to himself. A red sun rose over the Forbidden Forest and cast its bloody rays over the walls and grounds of Hogwarts, bathing everything in a deep, surreal hue. The cold stone of Hogwarts was unnaturally quiet, and the empty portraits filling the Headmaster’s office cast a deep, empty shadow over the room. Lord Voldemort raised his head to the deep stone basin on the massive desk in front of him. The contents of the basin, usually silver and gracefully swirling, were now a deep inky black, churning and producing fierce looking peaks and valleys.
Lord Voldemort let out a hiss which vaguely resembled an exasperated sigh. His head fell in an unusually human way into his hands as he vigorously rubbed his eyes and then suddenly, violently pounded on the desk. His eyes burned with reptilian anger as he gripped the sides of the Pensieve, staring deeply within it. With his ugly face contorted in rage, he leaned forward into the basin, disappearing from the office.
He saw it again. Harry Potter’s expression of triumph as his killing curse hit him in the chest. Voldemort let out a shrill cry of frustration and leapt back into the office.
Nobody was talking at the Burrow. Hermione, Ron, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Fleur, Tonks, Remus, and Neville Longbottom sat around the large dinner table in the dining room, staring at the wood. Nobody could think of anything to say. There was nothing to say, not right now.
Ron saw Harry as he fell slowly to the ground, eyes still bright and open. He saw Harry on the Quidditch pitch, cheering him on when nobody else would. He saw his argument with Harry in the fourth year, their fight over the tribulations of fame. He thought of all of the adventures he’d been on with Harry, from their sneaking around the school to the dangerous and daring situations they’d narrowly gotten away from.
Mr. Weasley thought of Harry and how bad he felt for never realizing how grateful he was for his presence. Harry had been another son to him, and he had loved him fiercely. He would have given as much for Harry as he would have for any of his other sons.
Mrs. Weasley’s mind raced with painful memories of worry and fear for Harry. She loved the children in her life with a torturous passion that consumed her and kept her nerves as tight as a drum. She had spent years tormenting herself with fear over Harry’s wellbeing. Feeding him well had not been her only priority; she had regularly sent letters to Dumbledore inquiring not only over the state of her own children, but over Harry as well. Now that her fear had come to fruition, her mind echoed with an empty shadow. There was nothing there, she felt, nothing left. The feeling was freeing, and though she was incredibly sad, Mrs. Weasley felt stronger than she ever had and energized with a vengeance only a mother could possess.
Remus stared at his hands, his heart feeling too heavy even to carry. He had lost so much. James, who was more than even a brother could have been to him, Sirius, who was more than any friend could ever have been to him, and now Harry, who was his only tie to all of his memories as a Marauder. He reached over to Nymphadora, not meeting her eyes but grabbing her hand in a vice like grip, clinging to all he had left with loving intensity. This was it, he thought, and they wouldn’t take anything more from him without a fight. He was paralyzed with sadness, unable to think of anything cheerful.
Bill and Fleur held hands on the table, contemplating this newest lost with terrible sadness. Though neither had spent much time with Harry, they valued him deeply, as did all of the wizarding world. Bill remembered waking in the Hospital Wing last summer to find his family and Harry waiting anxiously for him. For the past few years, any time Bill was with his family, he was with Harry. Harry was a brother and a hero. Fleur remembered the second task of the Triwizard tournament three years ago and how Harry had saved Gabrielle from the Lake. Though she had been informed through her hysterical shouts that Gabrielle would have been safe without Harry’s help, she had never forgotten his heroic personality and his well mannered sense of equality in competition. Harry’s brief stays at the Burrow had given her more time to get to know Harry, and she had proudly accepted him as a member of the Weasley and Delacour families.
Neville remembered his first year at Hogwarts and Harry’s selfless sense of friendship and openness toward the shy, forgetful Neville. He saw Harry in his mind, flying for the first time on a broomstick as he pursued Draco Malfoy, trying to recover the Remembrall. He remembered the feeling of acceptance Harry had given to him and so many others as the leader of Dumbledore’s Army. He remembered the battle in the Department of Mysteries in his fifth year, when his friendship with Harry had solidified.
Hermione sat in a state of deep shock, barely believing what she knew must be true. Her sharp mind, dulled with anguish, raced through possibilities and calculations as she scanned that past year and remembered Harry’s behavior. How could it be possible? How could he have done it? Was Harry really capable of murder? Or did he find another way?
Harry was alive. She knew it. Harry had created a Horcrux, unbelievably, and he was alive, somewhere. She knew her calculations were premature, but she sorted through the possibilities, trying to make sense of it all.
Surely Harry had not placed his Horcrux in Hogwarts; the Order knew for months that Voldemort would try to take the castle. Was it hidden in the wilderness? Was it here, at the Burrow? Was it at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place? Questions burned through Hermione’s mind as she felt a pounding headache rip through her skull. And what of Harry? Surely he was afraid and alone somewhere, existing as insubstantial spirit. How had he expected to be resurrected? Hermione’s mind reeled at the thought of how deeply Harry must have delved into Dark magic. Was it all really for the best? How could Harry have done it? Hermione did not like to think about it, but she knew, unlike the others, that there was some kind of dark, twisted hope for the Order and for the world.
Voldemort still sat in the Headmaster’s office, staring at the churning surface of Dumbledore’s blackened Pensieve, when he heard a clear, kind voice coming from the wall behind him. The portrait of Dumbledore was occupied again.
“You knew it was coming, Tom,” said the portrait of Dumbledore.
“You are dead, old man, and you do not scare me.” Voldemort’s eyes burned red and his face was twisted as he replied to the portrait.
“Tom, when will you see?” said Dumbledore, a twinkle of parental frustration in his voice, “That weak shell of a body may be gone, but do you really think I am dead? The Order continues to fight, Harry continues to exist, and still your eyes betray horror at the sound of my voice. I am dead, yes, but I live on in those who knew me. You knew it was coming, Tom, and it is only drawing nearer.”
Horror and revulsion filled Voldemort’s face as he rose to his feet fluidly and drew back his head like a cobra ready to strike. “You do not know what you are talking about, you speak nonsense. The boy was never capable of anything like it.”
“Why do you think I was never afraid of you, Tom?” asked the portrait of Dumbledore.
“Liar! You do not know what you are talking about!” screamed Voldemort.
The portrait of Dumbledore chuckled. “I am just a portrait, Tom. Who are you trying to convince?”
Voldemort roared with fury once more, and the portrait of Dumbledore was empty again. There was work to be done, but even the great Lord Voldemort did not know where to begin. He had known anger before, but never this kind of anguish. So many years of work, all for nothing. He knew that Harry’s actions were deeper than they seemed; that the cosmic repercussions of Voldemort’s own actions would be monumental. He was coming face to face with himself. He sat back down quietly, fear and hatred etched onto his snake like face. He was afraid, and he couldn’t deny it.