On Hollow Ground

Dark clouds hung in the sky, shrouding the moon, which had moments before casting a silvery glow on Hogwarts castle. I sat on the damp grass, the earth beneath me cold and unyielding in contrast to the warmth that once radiated from the heart of our beloved school. Now, an unsettling silence enveloped everything, amplifying the weight of my despair, rendering the occasional comforting hand on my shoulder futile and distant.

"He can't be dead... he can't be." The words wavered in the air, heavy with disbelief, barely rising above the soft sounds of anguish that permeated the crowd of students and teachers alike. I felt myself mirroring that sentiment, a deep, gnawing denial lodged in the pit of my stomach. How could this be? This wasn’t how it was meant to end.

I gripped my wand tightly, the cool surface grounding me as icy fingers of wind danced around my neck. Shivers raced down my spine, not from the cold but from the terrible reality before me—Albus Dumbledore, our guiding light, lay motionless on the Hogwarts grounds. Just hours ago, we had ventured into the depths of a cave to hunt down a horcrux; another piece of an immortal puzzle had been retrieved, but at what cost? Now a darkness that felt too tangible blanketed every operation of my mind, every heartbeat underscoring a relentless ache with the finality of loss.

Sirius. I thought about him, the pain of his loss still fresh from the previous year. It felt as if the sorrow had carved out space inside me, a hollow where hope used to reside. I never expected another wound so soon, so deep. I couldn't breathe.

As tears pooled in my eyes, I focused on the grass beneath me, counting blades and tracing their edges with my gaze. That was easier than facing the truth. Yet, the realisation sank deeper—it felt cruel to hide, to retreat into denial when the mourners, my friends, were contorted in expressions of horror and grief. I could sense their worried glances and the way they leaned toward me, wishing to comfort me and share the burden somehow. But all I felt was crushing isolation—a pit where I was alone in the suffocating black.

Suddenly, arms enveloped me, a protective cocoon that exuded warmth, yet I flinched, pushing it away. I didn’t deserve comfort. Not when Dumbledore lay lifeless in front of me, when so many around me were shattered. I attempted deep, steady breaths, but each inhale turned ragged, deeper panic pushing against my ribs, demanding release. I pressed my palms against my temples, compounding the ache—a futile effort to halt the relentless tide of grief that surged forward.

“Harry…” I heard someone’s soft voice, filled with the trembling of restrained tears, but all I could focus on was the emptiness rising within me, a void that no word could fill. My throat was too dry to speak. Words felt irrelevant; they could never capture what lay heavy in my heart or justify this senseless absence.

I turned, catching a glimpse of Ron and Hermione; both had tears streaming down their cheeks. I wanted to reassure them, to vow that we would get through this together and that Dumbledore's teachings would echo in our strength. But I found myself silent, existing in the throes of sorrow, stripped bare of resolve or promise.

I fixated on Dumbledore’s motionless chest, desperately hoping to witness a breath. When I finally lifted my gaze, students and professors surrounded us, their faces a blur of concern and disbelief. It was as if the tragedy had stolen the very colours from the world, leaving only monochrome hues of grief and despair.

“Harry, we... we should go,” Ron croaked, unable to meet my eyes. It was a small, simple suggestion fraught with a heaviness that turned my stomach.

Amidst the cacophony of muffled cries and sobs, Hagrid gently nudged my shoulder, urging me to return to the castle. “Let’s go, Harry, 'fore the night gets darker.” His voice rumbled, thick with sorrow, yet the kindness in it pulled me back from the abyss. I looked around as if expecting magic to conjure him back, laughing that warm laugh that had always filled our hearts with hope.

“Harry, let’s go,” Ginny whispered softly, her voice breaking like glass against stone.

It was then that I realised she was the one sobbing beside me. Emotion churned within me, battling with a pang of futile anger. What good were words when every syllable felt like a betrayal? At that moment, I struggled to find the right way to comfort her. I could barely even console myself.

A rush of nausea hit me as I slowly got up. Everything around me spun. Ginny was quick to catch me, steadying me with her grip. Without her, I would have crumpled to the ground like discarded parchment. I could feel her heartbeat against my shoulder, vulnerable yet alive. For the first time that bleak evening, I realised I was not alone, and yet the crushing weight of my sorrow still ran deeper than I thought possible.

The students parted, their eyes glued to me, wide with a mixture of pity and anxiety, as if they could sense how close I hovered to collapse. Each step was an excruciating reminder of the loss I felt. It clawed at my insides, a ravenous beast that demanded I submit to its despair. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take.

Out of nowhere, a sharp pain shot through my scar, more intense than the relentless ache that had become my constant companion since that fateful night. I fell to my knees on the cold, unforgiving ground. I held my head in agony, the familiar weight of grief pressing against my temples.

“Harry!” Ginny’s voice echoed in my ears, swelling with fear that sliced through the torment enveloping me. Despite the chaos around us—faint cries of others, the wind whistling past us like a warning—I couldn’t find the strength to respond. I was on the ground, writhing, trapped in a hell of my own making.

“Stay with me, Harry!” she urged, the gravity of her concern pulling at my heart, though all I could focus on was the searing pain that spilt from the lightning bolt scar on my forehead.

I tried to speak, to tell her that I was trying, but words were swallowed by the agony constricting my throat. More hands reached out, warm yet insistent, gripping my back and arms as I fought to ground myself in reality. Shadows danced around me, faces of friends who had once fought beside me now twisted in expressions of horror and helplessness.

When I finally managed to pull my hand away from my forehead, gasps filled the air like shattering glass. Staring down at my trembling fingers, I couldn’t comprehend what I saw. My scar hadn’t bled like this before—thick, crimson rivulets flowing, painting my skin with traces of ancient fear. It felt like a cruel reminder that I couldn’t escape the past. My nightmares had bled into reality.

Hermione kneeled beside me, her eyes scanning my injury with fierce intensity.

“Harry, focus on me,” she said, her voice a steady anchor in the chaos. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” I breathed, the words tearing from my throat. “It feels—.”

My heart raced as I heard the sudden pops and a scream close by. A dread washed over me, the kind that made my skin crawl. I sat frozen, the weight of an unbearable decision pulling at my very essence. If I dared to look up, I knew I would come face to face with him—Lord Voldemort, but for some reason, his presence didn’t terrify me like it did with others, particularly when I bared my vulnerabilities.

Somehow, he had managed to penetrate Hogwarts' protective spells, likely due to Dumbledore's death and his own formidable magic. My mind screamed the unthinkable. Had we become that weak?

The people surrounding me stood frozen in shock, their eyes widening in alarm. Even members of Dumbledore's Army and the professors were immobilised, many of them seeing him for the first time. I felt their terror radiating, a heavy cloud blanketing the courtyard. He had arrived, and Voldemort certainly knew how to make an entrance.

His lean figure floated into view, tendrils of shadow clinging to him like a second skin. A sly smile crept upon his lips, cruel and assured. I drew in a breath, a whirlwind of emotions churning—fear, anger, and an insatiable need to help. I was rendered speechless, feeling utterly insignificant against the onslaught of darkness that threatened to engulf us.

As a surge of Death Eaters sprang from the shadows, fans of black robes billowing around them, panic began to swell within me. They formed a tight circle, their wands drawn, shields raised in unison, a wave of malevolence ready to crash upon us. At that moment, I realised the scale of our predicament—the odds were against us. They had the advantage in numbers, and escape was but a distant thought.

“No!” I had screamed before I could stop myself. The scream erupted from my throat, an instinctive plea for those around me to fight back, to rally against the darkness. My imploring voice fell flat against the blank, unyielding stares. I could feel it then—the rising pressure in my scar—a throbbing that pulled tight like a vice. The pain hit, sharp and focused, launching me into an abyss of agony that tore through my being.

“Ah!” My scream echoed through the night, the sound absorbing the gasps of fear that met it, capturing everyone’s attention. The sharpness reverberated off the castle walls.

Voldemort's gaze locked onto mine; his eyes paisley pools of serpentine rage and dark victory. For a fleeting second, I felt a connection—a gravitational pull. He was not just a figure of evil; he was a reflection of the choices I faced. It was as if he could see into my heart, recognising my fear but also my unyielding spirit.

The night was thick, suffocating, like the dread settling in the pit of my stomach. I had seen horrors before, but this—this was different. "Children wandering around the castle grounds at this hour," Voldemort's chilling voice sliced through the silence. "Such a delightful sight.”

The laughter that erupted beside him belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange, her cruel delight cutting through the tension like a knife. The people around me were a portrait of terror—whimpering, trembling, some too shocked to react. I could barely breathe, the air heavy with fear and the lingering scent of decay.

Then there was my scar. It throbbed, a hot serpent coiling around my skull, squeezing harder with each heartbeat. My body trembled, and I fought against the instinct to flee, knowing there was no escape that would suffice. The figure of Voldemort loomed closer. The faint glimmer of his eyes, red and insatiable, pinned me down, and my heart nearly stopped.

As he approached, the pain shot through me, unforgiving and relentless. Each step he took drained my resolve, my strength ebbing away. I felt like a marionette, strings severed, suspended in the air. My wand lay just out of reach. I couldn't muster the courage to reach for it; it felt pointless, futile.

Gasping, I tried to inhale as if oxygen would chase away the pain. But there was no reprieve. The scar pulsed with a life of its own, and with it, my fear swelled, wrapping around my heart like Devil’s Snare.

He was right in front of me now, Voldemort's presence suffocating. I could see the contours of his ghastly features, the way shadows clung to him, twisting him into a nightmare made flesh. I looked up, locking eyes with him, and for an instant, the world around me faded away. Those eyes—they burnt with a vile mixture of hatred and hunger, a reflection of everything wrong in the world.

"Ah, Harry Potter," he growled. His voice felt like ice, fragments of darkness that threatened to bury me alive. My pulse raced, a wild, frantic drumbeat against the relentless chill of his words.

Another scream tore from my lips, raw and undignified. Tears streamed down my face, blurring the hideous figure before me. I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms, desperate to anchor myself to some reality that felt real. But with every moment, the darkness surged, rising up to greet me like an old friend.

I blocked out his words, completely absorbed in the pain that was consuming me. It was a blinding, roaring fire in my forehead that spread through my entire body in waves, crashing against the walls of my mind. I could hear the echoes of my heart pounding against my ribcage, a frantic tattoo that synced with a fear I could feel in my bones. Voldemort’s laughter, twisted and cruel, floated around me. It felt wrong, so profoundly wrong, but in this moment, I could hardly focus on anything but the burning agony.

With a cruel snap of his fingers, he forcefully lifted my chin, revealing my battered face for his twisted amusement. I could barely register that blood streamed down my forehead and cheeks, blurring the edges of my vision. I fought against his unyielding grip, squirming like a cornered animal. But my struggles were futile. No matter how tightly I clamped my eyes shut against the darkness of reality, it overflowed into my consciousness.

As if that wasn’t enough, Voldemort cruelly snatched my glasses from my face and crushed them beneath his feet, the sound sharp and final. I felt helpless and utterly blind. The world around me became warped and unrecognisable, shadows merging together, and each figure distant and grotesque.

His face hovered above mine, encased in glimmering shades of malice. “You understand the significance of Dumbledore’s death, don’t you?” he whispered, his breath hot against my cheek. I could barely comprehend the words through the pain and confusion that enveloped me. Dumbledore… the thought of him sent a shudder through my body. The great man who guided me, who believed in me, had been taken—taken by the very evil that now toyed with my life.

Before I could respond, a curse struck me like a lightning bolt to my heart. An agonising heat erupted in my stomach, molten iron spreading like wildfire. My body twisted involuntarily, and I bent over, spitting blood onto the cold, damp ground. The metallic taste was sharp and bitter, a tangible sign of my suffering.

Voldemort observed coldly, his wand still fixed on my writhing form. I stared into his eyes, searching for any flicker of humanity, but found only a bottomless well of darkness. “I can show you agony beyond your wildest imaginings, boy,” he hissed, his voice low and mocking.

Even though I hadn’t heard him speak a spell, the effects of his silent, dark magic were unmistakable. The ground below me felt like molten rock, and my breaths came in gasps, each one sending daggers through my chest. I wanted to scream, to fight back, but I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into a void of hopelessness.

My limbs felt like lead, and my senses were dulled, yet every word, every sound, cut through the veil of my pain as clearly as any blade. “Stop!” Hermione's voice, all too familiar, cut through the darkness that threatened to swallow me. “What are you doing to him? Stop it!”

Even though her cry echoed in the air, I struggled to form coherent thoughts. I strained my eyes, desperately attempting to make sense of the blurry shapes around me. All I could discern were silhouettes, but I knew their faces—my friends, my family—captives like me in this nightmare. I longed for the comfort of their presence, yet I felt utterly powerless to reach them, to reassure them that even if I couldn’t see them, I was still here.

“Can you see, Harry?” Voldemort taunted, each word dripping with mocking malice. “Your friend wanted to be of assistance.”

Hermione’s voice quivered, a fragile thread of determination amid her sobs. “You’re murdering him!”

“Murdering him?” Voldemort laughed, a cold, hollow sound that chilled me to the bone. “I would never go as far as killing him—for now.” I couldn’t see him, but I could feel his dark gaze in my direction, savouring my torment and relishing the power he possessed.

With that twisted power, he sent another wave of pain coursing through me, and I felt my body jerk uncontrollably. I coughed up more blood, the crimson liquid splattering on the ground and pooling beneath me. With every ragged breath, I felt the weight of despair settle heavily on my chest.

“Please, stop!” Ginny’s voice broke through. There was desperation in her tone, and I wished I could gather the strength to comfort her, to reassure her that I would fight and that I would endure. But the words died on my lips; weakness binded me like chains.

Voldemort savoured my suffering, latching onto it joyfully. “Do you really think Harry Potter can’t handle the pain?” he sneered. “Listen to that, Harry. They actually believe you’re weak.”

From somewhere in the depths of my confusion and agony, I wanted to scream out that I was not weak and that I refused to succumb to despair. Despite the laughter of the Death Eaters ringing in my ears, despite the overwhelming urge to give in, I channelled every ounce of willpower I had left into the hope of standing up against this cruelty.

I focused on the venomous gaze of Voldemort, whose cold breath brushed against my skin. My heart raced in my chest, drowning out the cries of my friends.

“Don’t worry, I have all the time in the world to break him. This is just the beginning,” he threatened again.

Voldemort forcefully grabbed my hair, pulling me upright. His pale, twisted face hovered inches from mine. Although I wanted to retaliate, to spit in his face and reclaim the fragments of my dignity, I forced myself to see nothing—neither the people around me nor my friends, bound and broken in the shadows. Their survival was worth more than my momentary pride.

Blood trickled down my neck, warm against my skin, as his fingers tightened their cruel grip. My breath quickened, panic flaring inside me. I tried to pull away, but he held me firmly in place, a predator savouring his prey.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a crimson light hurtling towards Voldemort. My heart stopped as I recognised the spell: it could be a distraction, but it looked determined and fierce. With a casual flick of his wand, Voldemort deflected the curse, his surprised expression cutting through the haze of fear that clung to me like a second skin.

He turned, his sinister gaze burning with curiosity as he tried to discern who had dared to challenge him. In that moment, my body crumpled to the ground, the weight of everything pressing down upon me, making it impossible to breathe. As I gasped for air, I felt the cool earth beneath me and turned my head feebly to find my friends. I sought solace in their presence, comforted by the knowledge they were still fighting for me.

Voldemort stepped back, his wand a dark extension of his hand. "You dare to curse me," he hissed, his voice slithering into the air like smoke.

Even from the ground, I felt the world spin, but I focused on Neville, whose voice trembled but held a flicker of defiance. "Yes, I do. But I’m still learning."

"Perhaps you require a demonstration," Voldemort replied coolly.

"Voldemort," I managed to croak, "no!"

It was then that I truly understood the danger we were in. Voldemort glided toward Neville, a predator about to pounce. Panic surged through me, and I attempted to rise, but my body refused to heed my command, sinking back into the dirt.

Gritting his teeth, Neville called to the members of Dumbledore's Army, "Guys, let me go." His determination was clear, yet I was painfully aware that he was standing alone against a monster.

"Impressive," Voldemort mocked. "You have devoted followers who listen to your commands. Are they your slaves?"

"They're friends who support me," Neville responded, his tone calm. "Unlike you, who have no true allies."

The weight of those words lingered in the air like a clap of thunder, challenging Voldemort’s very essence. A twisted chuckle escaped his lips. "I have Death Eaters who obey my every command. Shall I demonstrate their loyalty?"

The thought sent icy fingers creeping up my spine. "No!" I exclaimed, the sound raw and desperate, as if my voice could pierce through the impending doom. I stumbled forward, instinctively reaching for Neville, but just as I moved, a cold grip closed around me, anchoring me in place.

"You’re not going anywhere," Lucius Malfoy said smoothly, his face a mask of malice. With a flick of his wand, I was shoved back down to the ground, the earth cool against my cheek.

A sense of dread washed over me like a tide. I could hardly move, but I needed to warn Neville. "Stand down..." I managed to whisper, not sure if anyone could hear me. The sound seemed swallowed by the tension in the air.

Just as I was about to break free, I heard a slicing sound that made my breath catch.

"You should learn to show some respect," Voldemort said coldly.

My heart hammered, a wild rhythm of fear and fury coursing through my veins. I clenched my fists, staring at the abomination embodying everything I despised, my resolve hardening.

But then came a sound that pierced through my fury—the sickening cry of Neville, followed by gasps that echoed like shouts in the courtyard.

“Neville!” I gasped, my voice strained and weary, each syllable drenched in disbelief. "What on earth have you done?"

Voldemort let out a chilling chuckle that reverberated through the darkness. “Nothing too serious. Just a minor scratch.”

The laughter of the Death Eaters seeped into the air, filling my chest with dread. Through my blurry sight, I saw Neville trembling uncontrollably, barely managing to stay upright. A trickle of red ran down his neck.

Did Voldemort unleash a Stinging hex? The injury could have been much worse—Voldemort's curse could have struck Neville’s neck or cut deep into his arm. Neville could have lost an eye, or worse, he could’ve died.

“What is it that you want?” I demanded, my voice surprisingly strong, laced with a courage I didn’t fully feel. I was glaring at him, though I could barely hold his gaze. “You don’t need to harm them," I insisted, pounding my chest with a fist. “Harm me instead.”

Once again, Voldemort crouched down in front of me like a predator as he considered my words. “Harry, I cannot just torture you,” he hissed, his voice as cold as his intentions. “I have to consider the others who want to be involved. You understand that this is not solely my doing, right?”

His words hung in the air, and for a moment, doubt crept into my mind. Was I merely a pawn in a larger game? But thinking about my friends, each one bound to this nightmare, steeled my resolve. “I’m the one you’re after," I shot back, adrenaline surging through me. “So direct your torments towards me, not them!”

Voldemort’s lips curled into a cruel smile, a shard of triumph glinting in his eyes. “You’re quite brave, but I was only teaching your friend a lesson. He needs to learn the consequences of crossing me. You know I don’t tolerate insolence.”

The words stung more than any physical blow. Neville was sacrificing himself for me. I felt guilt welling up inside. My heart raced, but I forced myself to hold Voldemort’s gaze.

But then he changed tactics. Suddenly, I felt his grip on my face, silken yet unyielding, and panic shot through me. I tried to jerk away, but he was like a vice, ensuring that I truly understood the depth of my plight. The moment his cold fingers made contact, I was thrust into a visceral agony—a sharp, throbbing pain that seemed to radiate from the core of my being. I struggled to breathe as the darkness closed in, boats of fire erupting in every inch of my body.

“No! Stop!” I cried out, pushing every ounce of strength into my voice. I begged him with desperation that echoed off the castle walls, “Please, just stop.”

But my pleas fell on deaf ears. The screams of my friends merged with the hollow chuckle of Voldemort, an orchestra of despair. I couldn't tell where their cries ended and my agonising thoughts began. The pain was all-consuming.

I begged once more, tears streaming down my face, but Voldemort remained unfazed by my pleas. His red eyes glowed with sinister delight as he toyed with my pain. The agony intensified, a searing sensation that consumed me, twisting within like uncoiling venom.

“Please,” I gasped, my voice barely more than a whisper.

"Begging will not save you, child," Voldemort hissed, his breath cold as icicles. He leaned closer, and I could smell the metallic tang of blood in the air, so vivid it made my stomach turn. “You need to understand the power of fear. Embrace it. Watch how it transforms you.”

At his command, the pain surged again, radiating from my scar to my very core. I felt it splinter my resolve, extinguishing hope as it coursed through me with hatred’s fire. Each stab, each jolt, made me want to slip away, disconnect from the reality that chained me to this monster.

The world spun around me, and I felt myself teetering on the edge of consciousness. The muted echoes of my surroundings faded further into nothingness. I could hear my own heartbeat, loud and frantic, drowning out Voldemort’s taunts. I could only muster a feeble attempt to beg him to stop, before I totally lost consciousness.