AN: I know. I'm sorry. I've got to stop taking crackfic seriously.
So much pain. Like molten metal poured into his bones, like a river of ice aflame, absolute zero, so cold it burns. Like the blood freezing in his veins, like being stabbed by white-hot needles.
a flash of green light
He didn't think death would hurt this much.
green light
When he can think at all.
green light
He's vaguely aware of time having passed, the awareness turning up as a mysterious blank in his memory, a dark space outlined by brilliant red chrysanthemum blooms of pain fireworking across the insides of his eyelids.
"Harry, take my body back"
A curious feeling of…duality, of being neither here nor there but both at once. And all the time, the pain, invading every particle of his body and driving rational thought all but completely from his mind.
"Take my body back to my parents"
Something tells him he should be worried, but he's too busy trying not to go insane from the pressure mounting inside his skull as the pain builds. And insanity is quickly becoming an appealing option. It hurts too much to think straight; even these last two thoughts have taken too much out of him, and his thoughts spill jumbled and senseless through the hole left in their wake.
wind on his face air below swoop catch crowd roar shriek golden weight lungs sear suspended
Weight
crushing weight on his lungs, like fathoms of water pressing down on him
the lake
biting cold breath so slow no air charm won't last so cold can't feel toes
He can't, he realizes. They don't hurt anymore.
glitter of candlelight on ice an ice-blue world smile smile glitter of sequins hand on his arm lips on his lips dark eyes and white smile
oh god Cho
He's dimly aware of someone screaming, a soul-wrenching uncontrollable shriek that goes on and on until the voice gutters out. He draws in a ragged breath and discovers the scream is coming from his own throat. And the pain pounces on him, tearing his poor vulnerable thoughts to shreds with dark and bloody claws and teeth, slashing through his consciousness.
Without any real option, he lets himself slip back, to float on a tide of fire with only fragmented memories for company and one half-formed hope as a feeble liferaft.
one way or another, it'll all be over soon
It's nighttime in the graveyard.
Tendrils of mist slither stealthily between gravestones, slip lovingly around his arms and legs, freezing the flesh into dull numbness where they touch. The grass beneath him is damp, the earth below it soft and malleable, keeping the shape of his footprints when he steps away. The scene is lit eerily by moonlight, diffused through the mist into a ghostly glimmer, and by the bluish glow of the Triwizard Cup lying discarded on the grass like a corpse now where did that thought come from
So the Cup was a Portkey. How about that.
He tries to ignore the weight of dread coiling in the pit of his stomach, but it hisses and squirms until it captures his attention. He's been here before, hasn't he? And it…well, he can't quite remember, but something happened. Something bad.
Something awful.
But last time, Harry was here, and now, there's no sign of him. There's no sign of anyone. He is entirely alone in the graveyard.
The dread coiled in his stomach flicks him with its tail, just enough to make him jump and whirl round, then coils itself and leaps up his throat to strangle him.
Eyes gleam redly in the blue darkness.
A few words in a high, cold voice, a flash of green light –