Another Emily Dickinson oneshot.
Disclaimer: Neither the Harry Potter series nor the poem are mine.
Not here, not here, not here! Harry flipped madly through the pages of the book. Yes. Harry Potter was in the library. No the world isn't going to end. But harry worries that his life might.
Two days! Two days until the second task, and he still didn't know what to do.
It was the third night. The third night that Harry snuck into the library after curfew to read. To search. He had dark, puffy circles under his eyes, and his skin was paler than ever. He even blew off meals to search.
Of course his friends didn't know of his night-time searches. They would only hold him back and make sure he stayed in bed. They, of course, helped searching to the solution to the second task. Harry was stumped. Even Hermione was stumped.
The problem is that he didn't know what he was looking for. He didn't know if he was looking for a spell, a charm, a potion? A way to learn how to swim? A way to turn into a fish? A way to breathe under water? Nothing turned up.
Harry fully believed he was going to die. Probably drown. Maybe get pulled down and held by grindylows until he couldn't breathe. Or maybe a shark would eat him. Or maybe a giant squid. Or a mermaid would stab him. Harry shook his head to clear his thoughts. No! He would go down, get whatever he needed, and come back alive! Now, if only he could actually believe himself.
Harry opened the next book with a slow sluggish motion. The title was called Rising in Water. Maybe this one would actually hold the answer to his problem. The old, dusty leatherbound tome weighed down on Harry's hands as he held it up in his lap, his heart racing. He pried open the cover and his eyes fell on the first page. The title page. The words Rising in Water by Morlina Morge were written across the page in spidery handwriting. Harry's interest peaked. A hand-written book. How odd. Harry's fingers turned the page quickly. And his eyes fell upon a poem, written in the same spidery script.
Drowning is not so pitiful
As the attempt to rise.
Three times, 't is said, a sinking man
Comes to face the skies,
And then declines forever
To that abhorred abode
Where hope and he part company.-
For he is grasped of God.
The maker's cordial visage,
However good to see,
Is shunned, we must admit,
Like and adverity.
-Emily Dickinson
Harry's face turned ashen white. His hands trembled and the book fell through his numb fingers landing on the floor with a loud thump. A shroud of dust enveloped him. There is the sound of feet running. Probably Harry- poor boy. The dust cleared, and all that is left, is the book. The book lay open on the floor to a random page. And if you look closely enough, you can see the same poem again. Turn the page- and there it is again. And again. And again.
You see, dear reader, this was set up. By that same person that put his name in the Goblet. The one that wanted to kill him. Yes, kill him. But first the man wanted to wanted to break him. And see the one that destroyed his Master, crumble into a crying, numb heap.
Now, dear eader, I bid you farewell. Until next time. Oh yeah, please review!