Half a Person [Harry Potter; Albus, Harry]
Title: Half a Person
Pairing: implied Albus/Harry
Rating: PG-13 (warnings for angst, and a corpse)
Summary: Harry goes to visit Dumbledore after the end of HBP.
Word Count: exactly 500
A/N: dedicated to xylodemon.
~~~
It is two days after Dumbledore’s funeral, and the world is silent. The summer grass grows long, and the wind is still, waiting.
The mausoleum is dark in the half light of the evening, and Harry spells open the stone entrance with a whisper, stepping reverently into the shadowed tomb.
Dumbledore lies in the center of a cool white pedestal, his white beard flowing out in spider-web strands over his royal blue robes. His eyes are closed, almost as if he were sleeping.
The room smells musky already, even though the walls are clean and the floor is swept. There is a lingering sound in the shuffle of Harry's feet as he steps forward, a the cloying scent in the air of something lost.
He touches Dumbledore's face, his index finger tracing the wrinkled skin, still now and lined with worry of so many years. Dumbledore is impossibly pale now, his lips the color of a crisp winter's day. Harry wants to clench his fingers around Dumbledore's hand, hit him with a hex, pry his eyelids open so that Dumbledore will look at him. He doesn't, though. Can't. He just stands there, as if he's waiting for something to happen, although nothing will.
The air is stale and silent and will not be filled with Dumbledore's wise and reassuring words. It's just Harry inhaling and exhaling quietly now, thinking a thousand things he cannot ever possibly say.
He smoothes his fingers down the sleeve of Dumbledore's robes. It's soft just as he expected it to be, but different somehow now that the skin underneath is cold. Harry thinks that no, this isn't Dumbledore. This is a shell, a disguise, a fake. This is not the wizard Voldemort feared.
"You're not Dumbledore," Harry whispers, leaning in close as if that will make him heard. The corpse smells like ash, like burning, but it's not comforting like the fires in the Gryffindor common room. He should step back. He's too close.
Harry's feet don't want to move.
He didn't mean to come back, isn't even sure why he did. He has nothing left to say, and there is nothing left for Dumbledore to give to him. The man is dead. Dead like Sirius and Cedric and Harry's parents. The man is cold and lifeless and his fingers don't curl around Harry's own when he places his palm flat on the stone beside them.
There are no more adventures into the depths of pensieves, no more quests for horcruxes, no more questions and answers. There’s only a weathered body of one who should have, could have, might have been Harry’s mentor. There are only the memories Harry remembers vaguely of twinkling eyes and ”I’m with you,” and a gentle grip on his shoulder. There are only scenes that cannot reconcile with the cold emptiness of now. There is a stranger on the stone table in the darkened mausoleum.
Harry thinks that somewhere, the real Dumbledore is chuckling, his blue eyes gleaming with hope.
~~~
Pairing: implied Albus/Harry
Rating: PG-13 (warnings for angst, and a corpse)
Summary: Harry goes to visit Dumbledore after the end of HBP.
Word Count: exactly 500
A/N: dedicated to xylodemon.
~~~
It is two days after Dumbledore’s funeral, and the world is silent. The summer grass grows long, and the wind is still, waiting.
The mausoleum is dark in the half light of the evening, and Harry spells open the stone entrance with a whisper, stepping reverently into the shadowed tomb.
Dumbledore lies in the center of a cool white pedestal, his white beard flowing out in spider-web strands over his royal blue robes. His eyes are closed, almost as if he were sleeping.
The room smells musky already, even though the walls are clean and the floor is swept. There is a lingering sound in the shuffle of Harry's feet as he steps forward, a the cloying scent in the air of something lost.
He touches Dumbledore's face, his index finger tracing the wrinkled skin, still now and lined with worry of so many years. Dumbledore is impossibly pale now, his lips the color of a crisp winter's day. Harry wants to clench his fingers around Dumbledore's hand, hit him with a hex, pry his eyelids open so that Dumbledore will look at him. He doesn't, though. Can't. He just stands there, as if he's waiting for something to happen, although nothing will.
The air is stale and silent and will not be filled with Dumbledore's wise and reassuring words. It's just Harry inhaling and exhaling quietly now, thinking a thousand things he cannot ever possibly say.
He smoothes his fingers down the sleeve of Dumbledore's robes. It's soft just as he expected it to be, but different somehow now that the skin underneath is cold. Harry thinks that no, this isn't Dumbledore. This is a shell, a disguise, a fake. This is not the wizard Voldemort feared.
"You're not Dumbledore," Harry whispers, leaning in close as if that will make him heard. The corpse smells like ash, like burning, but it's not comforting like the fires in the Gryffindor common room. He should step back. He's too close.
Harry's feet don't want to move.
He didn't mean to come back, isn't even sure why he did. He has nothing left to say, and there is nothing left for Dumbledore to give to him. The man is dead. Dead like Sirius and Cedric and Harry's parents. The man is cold and lifeless and his fingers don't curl around Harry's own when he places his palm flat on the stone beside them.
There are no more adventures into the depths of pensieves, no more quests for horcruxes, no more questions and answers. There’s only a weathered body of one who should have, could have, might have been Harry’s mentor. There are only the memories Harry remembers vaguely of twinkling eyes and ”I’m with you,” and a gentle grip on his shoulder. There are only scenes that cannot reconcile with the cold emptiness of now. There is a stranger on the stone table in the darkened mausoleum.
Harry thinks that somewhere, the real Dumbledore is chuckling, his blue eyes gleaming with hope.
~~~