Harry Potter walked around the library at Hogwarts, not really reading the titles. He saw a book that was glowing faintly. He looked around, noticing he was still alone so he walked over and picked if up. There was neither a title on the cover nor any indication that it wasn't blank inside. He sat in the very back and opened the book to the very first page.
To whoever finds this book:
You are holding in your hands a collection of poems. It is not an ordinary poem book, though, as you might already have guessed. This is a collection of thoughts and feeling about a poem, someone famous has to have written it, by students at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It is truly a right of passage that most do not get. Treasure it and read it carefully. Place it back when you have finished, after adding yourself and your thoughts. Do not reveal to anyone that has not found it that you have found it, or that you know what your 'enemies' feel and think. Good luck, my present and future students.
-Salazar Slytherin
Harry turned the page to see that the first entry dated back to the first year Hogwarts was opened. He skipped forward until some pointy scrawl caught his eye.
Killers:
I am singing to you
Soft as a man with a dead child speaks;
Hard as a man in handcuffs,
Held where he cannot move:
Under the sun
Are sixteen million men,
Chosen for shining teeth,
Sharp eyes, hard legs,
And a running of young warm blood in their wrists.
And a red juice runs on the green grass;
And a red juice soaks the dark soil.
And the sixteen million are killing... and killing
And killing.
I never forget them day or night:
They beat on my head for memory of them;
They pound on my heart and I cry back to them,
To their homes and women, dreams and games.
I wake in the night and smell the trenches,
And hear the low stir of sleepers in lines--
Sixteen million sleepers and pickets in the dark:
Some of them long sleepers for always,
Some of them tumbling to sleep to-morrow for always,
Fixed in the drag of the world's heartbreak,
Eating and drinking, toiling... on a long job of
Killing.
Sixteen million men.
-BY Carl Sandburg
Severus Snape 1977: It is my seventh year here at Hogwarts and I fear that I will not see the end of it. I was foolish, this summer, and took the Mark… if you are reading this, then, hopefully, the war is over and you do not live in fear… as I do, or did if that is the case. Lord Voldemort has started rising to power, and I wanted some. I tied my life to this man and watched as he killed all muggle borns wizards and witches he could. I look around at the chaos, at the death and dying, and wonder how I ever wanted to be part of this… why I wanted to be part of this. I fear it is too late to redeem myself, but I hope that I shall, at least, pass on my knowledge so that the future generation does not make the same mistakes I did.
Harry sat in shock as he re-read that poem and truly understood what Severus Snape, his most hated professor, was going through. He flipped until he recognized another name.
Dreams:
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
- BY: Langston Hughes
Pansy Parkinson 1991: it is almost Christmas in 1991, and the war is still going on. It has been quiet for a little over ten years, since Halloween of 1981. Harry Potter, The Boy- Who- Lived as everyone calls him, stopped him, Lord Voldemort. I am not sure how, but everyone is grateful for it. None of my generation wants to fight in this war, want to be his followers. Our parents were stupid, and we are not. I'm not quite sure if we stand a chance, because Harry Potter is not being trained. I don't think anyone really has faith in that boy, but I do. I see the way he fights for what he believes in, and he has immense power in his malnourished body. He is extremely intelligent, but tends to hide that, and let Hermione Granger take the fame. He is trusting… almost too trusting… but he never turns his back on his friends, even if they do it to him. I know that, should he be trained properly, we could defeat that evil bastard. I also noticed, since I am a Slytherin, that he hates the fame of this. He shuns the limelight, yet is thrust into it nearly everyday. Oh, I guess that, as I chose this poem about dreams, I should explain it. I dream of an end to deatheaters and Voldemort alike… and, hopefully, soon. I pray for my time to come before that mad man 'requests' I be marked.
Harry hadn't known that the Slytherins didn't want to be marked, but would take that into consideration. The next name, on the next page, shocked him to the core.
The Tiger:
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
-BY William Blake
Ronald Weasley 1992: well, we are on eleven years of Voldemort of vapor, and I feel the time is getting close to when he will rise again. Harry Potter, my best friend and confidant, is not really ready for this. I feel as if, on some baser level, Albus Dumbledore does not want him to survive. Just last year, he sent three eleven year olds after a stone, which was protected by charms and curses of fully trained wizards and witches. I know he knew, because he asked me if Harry had 'gone after it'. Harry, my brother, is my life. If he dies in this war, then we all loose. I fear that the day will come, when it will be either me or him, and I know it should be him… but I will protect that boy, that god sent angel, with my life. He is like the tiger above, majestic and powerful, though also innocent and unknowing. I love him as I would my brother and vow to stay with him through this whole thing.
Harry had tears in his eyes, but refused to let them fall. He turned the page and began to wonder how Gryffindors could keep a secret like this.
Touched by An Angel:
We, unaccustomed to courage
Exiles from delight
Live coiled in shells of loneliness
Until love leaves its high holy temple
And comes into our sight
To liberate us into life.
Love arrives
And in its train come ecstasies
Old memories of pleasure
Ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
Love strikes away the chains of fear
From our souls.
We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light
We dare be brave
And suddenly we see
That love costs all we are
And will ever be.
Yet it is only love
Which sets us free.
-By Maya Angelou
Ginevra Weasley 1993: To say that the war is over is a lie. It is propaganda and everyone knows it. To say that love isn't worth it, or that Slytherins and Gryffindors could never, should never, get along is a load of crap. I wrote on love. Love yourself, love your friends, and love your family. This school is a family, whether we believe it or not. No one at this school should be scared that their feelings would not be returned due to houses. Gryffindors can be sly, just as Slytherins can be courageous. The only difference is how much of something someone is. Here I am, a second year with more sense than a teacher. House rivalries need to stop, because, if they do not, then there is no hope for us.
'Gods Ginny is smart' Harry thought. He was already forming a plan in his head to stop all the house rivalries and defeat that bastard once and for all. The next name had him gaping.
Excerpt from The Raven:
…"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting -
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
-By Edgar Allan Poe
Draco Malfoy 1994: He's coming back; I feel it with every fiber of my being. Before the summer is out, the Dark Lord, Voldemort, will have risen again, and no one is prepared… no one seems to care. Our only hope rests on the shoulders of a scrawny fourteen-year-old boy, who is currently fighting a dragon for his life. Harry Potter, the savoir of the wizarding world… the one I am supposed to hate with a passion, but can't. That teen has a way of crawling into the deepest, darkest recesses of your soul and making his home there. He has a contagious air about him, one that gives hope. It is no wonder people look to him, for he is a leader. There is a muggle saying, yes I know, that goes something like "some people are born great, others achieve greatness and some have greatness trusted upon them" (William Shakespeare). That boy, though his "greatness" was thrust upon him, trusted upon him, is a beacon of light, and he will see us through these times… even if he doesn't make it. I can see it in his eyes. He is determined to end it, when the time comes, and pay with his life if that is what it takes. I have the utmost respect for Harry Potter and hope he shall live through this war, as he is the only one who deserves the happiness that will go with it…
Harry sat for nearly ten minutes, thinking about what he had read, and a poem. He decided to just write the first one that came to him, so that is what he did.
Spirits Of The Dead:
Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness- for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.
The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.
The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!
-Edgar Allan Poe
Harry Potter 1995: It is I, the one everyone has been writing about since that day, Harrison James Potter, the Boy- Who- Lived… the Chosen One, or Harry Bloody Potter… but I am never just Harry… I am never myself. I always thought of this war as futile, that I could never win. Upon reading through the thoughts and feelings of not only past students, but also of my classmates, I am more determined than ever to see this through and kill that bastard. Not a day goes by that I do not mourn those I, and everyone else, has lost. Not a night passes where I do not dream of the deaths and murders taking place. Not a week goes by where I do not think 'is it this week, can I kill him this week?' Not a month goes by where I do not say to myself, "Harry, talk to the Slytherins, tell them you need them, tell Draco you need him". Yet I have not. I tell myself that Draco hates me, will never be friends with me. I postpone killing HIM because it means going to my death, and never seeing my friends again. At night I scream and cry and pray that I will not live another day, that the pain and death and killing will stop, but I do nothing to make it thus. I put on an act, everyday, to hide the fear and pain of the ones we've lost, will loose. So, you see, I am not the hero everyone makes me out to be… I am just… me. I hide my pain and fear, because I am not aloud to feel. I try to hide my tears, but they see them anyway. I guess what I am trying to say is that even heroes can be afraid. There is this saying, and I don't know who by, that states "Courage is not the absence of fear, merely the decision that something else is more important" and it is true. I can be afraid, I can cry, and I can feel. I am not going to hide anymore, because of my fear. I am ready as I will ever be, and no one else knows. I am at my fullest potential, and I am only fifteen. To all those in the future, if I die tonight, stop fighting amongst the houses, and treat each other right. Tell your friends you love them, never take a day for granted, and never ever forget, that the friends you make before you're sorted are still you friends… until the end.
Harry copied his words, though not the poem, and duplicated it to go to every student and teacher at Hogwarts. He left that night, and no one knew. As the first rays of morning broke through, and dew was turning into mist, a lone owl could be seen carrying a bag to the infirmary. The medi- witch frowned upon the incessant tapping and let it in. She took the bag and the letter, fainting at the contents. She ran to the Great Hall, where breakfast was just starting.
"What is it, Madame Pomfrey?"
"I got a letter, addressed to everyone, this morning. May I read it aloud?"
"Of course… go on."
To all of those who live in fear;
It's done, he's dead. Voldemort shall no longer kill, maim, or destroy. I knew my duty was to kill him, no matter the costs. I ask that you all live the life I never had. Be kids, my classmates, be young. Be happy, be sad, fall in love, fall out of lust… be teenagers. Love yourselves and love your friends. You are family, and will always be. Houses should not fight, because of the badge on a uniform. You are more alike than you know. Things happen, and people change. I want you all to put aside your differences and walk a mile in someone else's shoes… you might be surprised by what you find. Just because someone wants you to be someone else, don't. I spent my life being the hero for everyone… and look what happened. I have great friends, yes, but even they don't know me. The only people who could understand me are the ones I am supposed to hate. I cannot tell my love that I really do love them because 1) we can't have a gay hero and 2) he's a deatheater's son. Try, for me, to get over your differences. In a life where I have asked nothing of you in return for everything I have done, do this for me. Lastly, though I am no longer with you, remember the letter I sent you last night. You may not believe it, but it is true… and I will always, always, watch over you.
With all the love I can possess,
Harrison James Potter
"And… he sent the wand… and his head. They are in the infirmary. Albus, the boy is dead."
"Who's dead?" a voice asked from the doorway. Every single head turned. Most screamed at the sight before them, and the rest sat in stunned silence. The ghost of one, Harrison James Potter, was framed in the doorway. He smiled wanly at them. "I can't move on, as I have 'unfinished business' to attend to before they let me. Firstly, to Ron and Hermione… I love you both. Name your son after me, will you?"
"Of course Harry." They whispered. Harry's ghost nodded.
"Gins, the wonderful sister I never had, go for it… never wait for 'the perfect time', as it will never come."
"Oh, Harry… thank you…" she cried, the tears visible to all. Harry then turned his attention to the head table.
"Albus… you already know."
"That I do, my boy, that I do."
"Professor Snape, you…" Harry paused, the ghost taking a deep breath, "I respect the courage and skillfulness it took to do what you did day after day… to be able to keep yourself in check at all times… wow. I thank you and want you to look in that… book." Harry said, looking at Snape, then Pansy, Ron and Ginny. They all nodded. He turned his attentions to one last person. "Draco… I… I just… oh, gods… I wish that I could have another day… one last day… to show you how I feel. I know, waxing sentimental Gryffindor crap, but I need to say it… I love you, and I truly cannot move on unless you stop mourning me. I feel your pain Draco, and I will wait for you, forever if I must, to join me… but I want, no… I need you to live the life I never had. Please Draco… fall in love for me. Get married and have lost of egotistical children to torment Severus with, as well as Ron and Hermione… just, please Dray… if I never ask another thing of you… promise me that you will live. That you will move past this. Move past me, and find happiness."
"I promise, Harry." He whispered. No one missed the raw anguish in those three words. Harry walked forward and gently caressed the boy's face. Draco cried harder. Harry placed a chaste kiss on the boy's lips.
"I love you Dray, and I am not asking you to move on, I am asking you to move passed it, for moving on means forgetting, which I do not want. I love you Draco, and I will wait. I must go, now. Be yourself Dray, and fall in love for me."
"Promise, love. I love you too, Harry." He said, smiling slightly through his tears. Harry gave him one more, chaste, kiss before the ghost vanished, leaving behind six devastated souls and the rest in slight mourning. But, true to their words, all of them moved past. They never forgot Harry Potter. They lived for him.
XX ONE HUNDRED YEARS LATER XX
"Draco, it's time. Come back to me, love." Draco opened his eyes to see a field of wildflowers, and Harry in the middle. They shared their first true kiss as Draco passed on.
"I Love you, Dray."
"And I love you, my Harry."