Percy Jackson and the Department of Mysteries

163) A Maraca Named Hare-Bear

The hair on the back of my neck and my arms had stood up, frightfully aware of Dumbledore's abrupt fear. Dumbledore wasn't supposed to be afraid. That was my job.

Why was Voldemort leaving such a problem? Why was I so on edge, even beyond Dumbledore's fear? What was happening?

I was just turning to Dumbledore to voice those questions, then a shriek, full of pain, of rage, crashed into me, crashed into everything, and I was running, faster than I had ever run before.

I slid on my knees, grabbing at Harry's shoulders. His face was pale, drenched in sweat, and pinched in unbearable pain. His glasses had fallen off. His body twisted, turned, arced, and for a moment I was sure he'd been his with the Cruciatus Curse, but no one had spoken, and his pain wasn't stopping.

His mouth opened, and I was ready to hear the scream again, but the voice that left Harry's mouth wasn't entirely his own. Low, deep down, Harry's inflection met my ears, but it was largely masked by the high hiss of Voldemort, "Kill me now, Dumbledore..."

"No, no, no, no, no," I gripped tighter onto Harry's shoulders, scanning him over — surely there was some physical thing, something I could fix, something I could do, to get him out of this.

"If death is nothing, Dumbledore, kill the boy..."

"No!" There was nothing, nothing I could do. For all my great powers and fighting prowess, for every bit of emotional, helpful advice I'd given, for all those small acts of heroism, there was nothing I could do except watch.

What's the point of being a hero if you can't save your friends?"

I lurched forward, tears building in my eyes, wrapping my arms around Harry. Death was not nothing, I knew that first hand, but Harry's possession by the killer of his parents sent alarm bells ringing in my head. This was my best friend, this was Harry Potter. After all we'd been through, this was what floored him, what floored me.

I could do nothing but hold him, the rest of the world drowned out.

And, abruptly, Harry slumped in my arms. I didn't dare pull away, sure that has body had just given out, that Voldemort had finally ended him, but then he gave a weak moan, and I jolted off of him, accidentally letting him hit the ground.

"Harry?!" I yelled.

"What —?" His voice was ragged from his screaming, and I scrambled over to his glasses, shoving them on his face. He blinked blearily up at me, then slowly turned his head. I followed his line of sight, frowning as I realized there were a lot of people in the atrium, all shocked and watching.

Dumbledore walked over to us, something so dark and haunted on his face that I couldn't bring myself to ask why he'd not come to try and help Harry, "Are you all right, Harry?"

"Yes," Harry said, though he was shaking so violently I thought he was about to start rattling like a maraca. "Yeah, I'm — where's Voldemort, where — who are all these — what's —"

The house-elf and the goblin made their reappearance, green light from the fireplaces glinting across their shiny surfaces, the two leading Cornelius Fudge forward.

"He was there!" A ponytailed man pointed at the pile of gold rubble on the other end of the hall, where Bellatrix had been shrieking before. "I saw him, Mr. Fudge, I swear, it was You-Know-Who, he grabbed a woman and Disapparated.

"I know, Williamson, I know, I saw him too!" Fudge blabbered, hair flying about every which way and wearing pajamas under his cloak. "Merlin's beard — here — here! — in the Ministry of Magic! — great heaven's above — it doesn't seem possible — my word — how can this be?"