A New Perspective
Summary: The diary of Tom Riddle claimed far more than a young girl's innocence. It stole a people's future.
Many adjectives have been tied to Hogwart's Castle. It has been described as magical, obviously. Dangerous. Safe. Protected. Mysterious. Amazing. Old. Sacred even. Hogwart's has meant many things to many different people. For most it is a place of learning and development, the home of memories that stay with you. For others, the ancient stone walls are an unpleasant place of social mixing and forced association with inferior mudbloods. For a building that has stood for a thousand years, Hogwarts does a great deal of changing.
However, there is one word that has never been affiliated with Hogwarts. Quiet. That is, until today.
The castle grounds were a mass of black. Students and teachers alike set aside their house colors and instead shrouded themselves in complete darkness. The atmosphere was grim, and no one uttered a word as they stared at the casket before them. Many shook with silent sobs, cradling their faces with cupped hands. Some tried to comfort their friends with soft pats or firm hugs. Others stood tall and straight, eyes open but unfocused, and in the case of Albus Dumbledore, lacking their omnipresent twinkle.
Finally, Dumbledore cleared his throat, yet his eyes remained aimless. He took a step forward and began to speak. All that was heard was a whisper. Students looked up in surprise, for their headmaster had never lost his voice before. Though is words creaked with age, they had always filled any room with ease. Albus Dumbledore was clearly surprised himself, taking a step back before pointing his wand at his throat and beginning anew.
His eyes turned towards the dazzling sun in the sky, finally focusing. "It seems our favorite star chooses to tease us on this most difficult day. In my opinion rain would have been far more conducive to the task at hand. This is no weather for a funeral." Albus began to rock to and fro, his swaying quickly turned violent as his body shuddered. His eyes sparkled once more, this time filled with something other than mirth. The tear fell before he continued.
"I must confess to you all, I had never imagined that I would need to deliver this eulogy. I hoped to be long dead before this day came, but alas that is not the case. We are here today to recognize the departure of a beloved classmate. A hero to our world. A child of great goodness and strength. He was all of these things, but above all he was a boy. A boy who did not deserve to die.
"I know what you all expect from me." His gaze turned towards the faculty assembled in the front of the group. "You all want guidance. You need me to tell you what will happen next. However, this is something that I cannot do. Today is not about you and me. We must not be concerned with our own futures. Today is a day for he that has left. I am just the Headmaster, and as his friends I have no doubt that you knew him better than I. So I invite you all to speak.
"Who wants to remember Harry Potter?"
"Why can't they just get rid of this damn bed!" The redhead's enraged kick impacted firmly onto one of the bed's sturdy posts. Ensuing vibrations wracked the wood, and a gentle humming filled the otherwise silent room. The traditional Gryfindor hangings began to gently sway, alerting the boy to his next target. He grabbed the stiff fabric in his two fists and threw himself backwards. He crashed onto the ground, tearing the hangings from their hooks. He lay there, writhing with sobs, his friend's bedding draped over him like a sheet. It was only then that the redhead began to cry.
Harry Potter pushed himself up on the bed. The ruckus had awoken him. He turned to the mess of grief sprawled on the floor in front of him. Recognition shot through his mind, he knew this boy. It was his best friend, Ronald Weasley.
Harry got out of bed and glided over to his friend. His hand moved to grip Ron's shoulder, a comforting gesture. His arm went into Ron and emerged from the other side. Ron shivered.
Harry sped down the staircase from his dormitory. He ran through the common room filled with mourners. The normally welcoming fireplace had been extinguished and the usual crimson a gold décor turned to black. He momentarily paused before the portrait hole before realization dawned and he ran straight through it.
Harry remembered now. It was the basilisk in the chamber of secrets. The snake had been a monstrous foe, but Harry had finally managed to slay it and destroy the wicked diary. What happened then? He tapped his foot in frustration trying to gather his thoughts. It was then that he caught sight of his arm. The whole appendage was black, dry and cracked skin peeling off every which way. There was a large puncture wound glared back at him, a few inches above his elbow. "Well that answers that then," he muttered.
Seized by a memory, Harry snapped to attention. He hurriedly about faced and ran through the portrait of the Fat Lady. "Ginny!" He screamed. He screamed again and again, but received no reply. No one looked up from the patch of carpet they had been staring at. Thrown into absolute panic, Harry ran full speed up the stairs to the female dorm rooms, taking the steps two at a time. He burst through the first year's door and threw his eyes about the room wildly. Noticing the familiar Weasley red, Harry laughed in relief. He slumped down against the wall and closed his eyes.
When he opened his eyes he couldn't see a thing. The world was completely black. As Harry stood, he learned the cause of his momentary blindness. He had somehow fallen through the wall and the floor, ending up with his head inside Katie Bell's lap who was seated in the common room. Carefully extracting himself from his predicament, Harry's face flushed with embarrassment. For the first time, Harry thanked God that he was dead. His murder at the hands of his quidditch teammate would have been far more miserable.
Harry cast one last glance in the direction of the girl's dormitories. This whole ethereal thing would take quite a bit of getting used to.
"Goddamn it. Fucking bloody hell." Harry sat in the great hall, his undivided attention on a jug of cold and delicious pumpkin juice. For the one hundredth time, Harry reached out towards the goblet and met no resistance as it passed straight through. Harry had always thought that ghosts didn't get hungry or thirsty. How wrong he had been.
Gasping in surprise, Harry was engulfed by a decidedly odd sensation as Fred or George Weasley plunked himself directly on top of him. He looked on in dread as the boy reached out for Harry's goblet. "Halt Thief!" The ghost screamed, swatting the intruders arm ineffectively. Dread gave way to self satisfaction as Harry formulated a clever plan. He maneuvered himself so his mouth was in line with the pumpkin juice filcher's, hoping that the sweet nectar would flow easily down his gullet. Harry's plan failed.
His hope of nourishment foiled, Harry thought about how much his life, well not really, sucked. First of all it was really depressing. He was dead after all. What made it even more depressing was that everyone was crying. He couldn't escape it. Everywhere he turned he was met with blubbering. He had been flattered for fifteen minutes or so. Harry never thought that so many people would be so moved by his death. Even Slytherins were balling their eyes out. Unbelievable.
The fact that no one could see or hear Harry was more infuriating than depressing. He had screaming and yelled for hours, waving his arms frantically in front of those passing by. Nothing worked. Ron couldn't hear him. Hermione couldn't hear him. Draco Malfoy couldn't hear him. Even Dumbledore, his last hope for salvation, couldn't hear him. Standing in Dumbledore's office had been particularly disturbing; his headmaster had just sat on his desk sobbing. His hands firmly clutched a small portrait of a young girl. Harry found it oddly ironic that it took his own death to see Dumbledore as a mortal man.
Harry wished classes hadn't been cancelled in his honor. He just wanted to sit in Professor Bins' mindless history class, far better to be bored than concerned with his own spiritual dilemma. Bins… Harry smacked his forehead, berating himself for his stupidity. "Of course, I'm a ghost! I should talk to the other ghosts."
"You're too young."
Harry spun around, coming face to face with the infamous Bloody Barron. While Harry would normally express utmost respect towards such a demonic figure, his current mood had set him on edge. "Yeah, that's I've been hearing all fucking day. He was so young, too young. Well I died. It happened; I guess I was old enough. Hey wait, so I can talk to ghosts Thank God! I was going crazy all alone."
The Baron shook his head, a slight grin playing across his mouth. "No. You're too young. That's why they can't see or hear you. It hasn't been long enough since your death. That is what you were concerned about wasn't it?" The specter cocked his head in question.
"Hmm, yeah it was. I guess that makes sense."
"Your magic has not entirely left your mortal form. It is a slow process."
"Just how slow?" Harry was concerned that he would never get to speak to his friends again. He wanted to at least say goodbye.
"You should be able to speak by your first death day. Your corporal form will take longer, perhaps two or three years later." Harry nodded his head, it seemed a long time to a twelve year old boy, but something told him that four years was nothing to a ghost who was cursed to eternally wander. "Come now, the others should see you. It is not often that someone joins our ranks."
Harry followed the apparition out the door and into the corridor, painfully uncertain of what this afterlife would bring.
Author's Note: Thank you all for reading! I hope everyone enjoyed the chapter. To my loyal readers who may be concerned about the status of my other works, fear not! My other stories have not been abandoned. I will get to them soon. Please Review!