Everywhere around me I feel the power of others, as they raise their wands into the sky and light up the darkness that is in the air and in our hearts. I feel the rays of light, coming from all of their wands, shining down on me, trying to warm me.
But they can't.
Their lights can't warm, nor heal, the darkness within me as I sit on the grass of the Transfigurations courtyard. My girlfriend next to me, holding onto me and letting me sob in pain, as I see him lying there.
At the base of the Astronomy tower lies the dead body of the greatest wizard I have ever known. My knowledge of this place comes from him, and so does a great deal of my love for this very castle.
But as I gaze upon his dead body, memories flash by my mind, unwillingly sucking me down memory lane and making me remember that what I want to, but can never forget.
I remember the first time he raised his golden cup with pumpkin juice to me, when I was just a minor first year. How he patted me on the head after congratulating me for saving the Philosopher's Stone.
I remember how I came into his office for the first time in my second year and met Fawkes, his beautiful pet Phoenix. I remember how he explained me the connections between me and Tom Marvolo Riddle, who I also know as Lord Voldemort, the man that killed my parents when I was only a baby.
I remember him telling me about the Dementors, at the start of my Third year. And how he helped me, cryptically, save Sirius at the end of the year.
I remember how he talked about Cedric Diggory and the cause of his death. And how he later cheered me up and told me about the means of the upcoming, and now very much, raging war and about the use of Priori Incantatem.
I remember him fighting Voldemort when Sirius was killed in my Fifth year. And how he explained me the prophesy and why he believes I can do what is says.
But then suddenly I remember something else. Three sentences, said to me not more than two hours ago, flash through my mind and while feeling dazed by the memory, I vaguely hear the words, sounding like a soft whisper in the wind.
In order to gain passage payment must be maid. Payment intended to weaken any intruder.
Your blood is much more precious than mine.
Trying to get the thoughts out of my mind, I start to tremble and shake and tears leak from my eyes even faster as the words gnaw at my guilt like a snake, wrapping itself around my heart and constricting it.
But then suddenly I realize the other purpose for these sentences as one tear drops on my open chest. Turning my head to the body in a snap, I see the old stone knife lying, and looking, innocently in the pocket of the great man I valued so greatly.
To this I grab my girlfriend's shoulders and say: "Ginny, leave." Now the girl looks confused, but when I repeat the sentence,
With more power,
She does as I ask and leaves.
Then I grab onto the knife and turn it in my head, looking at and observing its structure and sharpness, while part upon part of the plan comes together like a puzzle
in my mind.
Then I look back at the man, whose white hair and beard are a bright contrast to the dark green grass and whose eyes are closed. Then I see that the burned, rotten right hand is still bleeding softly from the wound it got just one hour and a half ago. Believing that to do the trick, I whisper:
"You considered my blood most precious, Sir. Let's see just how right you were in that."
And with that I put the knife at my left arm, on the same place it was cut in my Fourth year, when Peter Pettigrew,
An old ex-friend of my own father,
Used it to revive the Dark Lord Voldemort, and make a deep cut, the pain searing through me and making me wince for a second, together with the scream coming from my friends, Hermione, Ron and Ginny.
But while I hear them, I feel a warm liquid running over my arm and realize I am indeed bleeding. Remembering how much my mother loved me and how she died for me when I was only a baby, I lay my bleeding cut on that of the professor and whisper:
"Blood for love, love for Blood.
Protection of old bonds, be sealed by new connections.
May my love, believe and faith in the strongest,
wisest, gentlest and kindest man I have ever met return him.
Bring him back to where he belongs.
May precious things be blessed and bonds be created.
I give my blood for this.
I give my blood for thee."
And while I keep whispering that, I feel someone grabbing me. To this I react violently to shake the hands off that are on my shoulders and whisper, with heavier breathing, the same words as before. Feeling nothing, but the void in my heart growing, I start to cry and hold my head low.
I feel the hands letting go, but their touch does nothing more than numb my senses even further, as loss and regret, for failing the man I love like a grandfather, splits my heart into pieces and tears my soul apart.
Even the gasps, apparently out of some kind of shock, go straight by me, even though they reach my ears, but then an old soft breaking voice asks: "Harry?"
And I as I look up, I see the sparkling blue eyes of my headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, looking at me as if I am some kind of miracle. Then the man asks: "How did you do it?"
Now I smile and say:
"You said it yourself, Sir, my blood is very precious."