Title: To Sleep Perchance
Author: Lady Ryuki
Pairing: None
Rating: PG-13 for disturbing (in a violent way) images
Summary: The Wizarding World side of World War II. December 1944/January 1945. There is a full out war against Grindelwald. How this effected Hogwarts, the students, and the Head Boy. For the record, all my dates (years vs. age of people mentioned) match. There was no fudging to get this to work. Oh, and yey for bad Hamlet allusions. If you haven't read Hamlet, at least read the "To be or not To be" speech to get the Sleep/Dream stuff at the end.
To Sleep Perchance
I woke the first morning of Christmas break without having dreamt that night. It was dark in the room and all that could distinguish it from the shadows of sleep was the temperature. It was warm in my sleep.
I rose and dressed quickly, in layers, as many as I could find. The fires were extinguished hours before dawn. Smoke in broad daylight was a death wish and magic was just as traceable.
The house was silent, asleep, dead. The windows were boarded up. Dust that had settled during the months of vacancy had not yet been disturbed. No one wanted to disturb it. We were strangers in our own house.
The fourth stair creaked on the way down.
Mum was in the kitchen, staring at the empty fireplace, clutching a mug of milk. She could not stand cold tea. I could not stand cold. I found a blanket on the chair and wrapped it around my feet.
That morning Sean asked Mum why we had returned to the house when Gran lived in a perfectly fine, unbombed neighborhood that was not being monitored by Grindelwald's minions. Mum told him to be quiet and eat his chicken, he wouldn't understand. Sean said he hated chicken.
Christmas Eve was considerably warmer in the physical scheme of things. Once the sun set, Mum permitted a very small fire and we all reveled in the savory taste of toasted bread and, to the pleasure of all, relatively warm tea.
Sean complained again about the house and asked where all his things were.
"They're at Gran's," Mum said, clutching her tea as if it threatened to disappear to Gran's as well.
"I wish we were at Gran's," Sean muttered, jabbing at the fire with a plank he'd pried off his bedroom window.
"This is where your father promised to meet us." Mum said forcefully.
"He's not coming," Sean retorted angrily. "The battle has been non-stop for nearly a week. He can't disappartate until it's over. He's loyal to his oaths, unlike those German bastards."
"The battle could be over any second," Mum asserted, and had a violent sniffling allergy attack, undoubtedly due to the thick layer of dust.
Dad had taught us, before he left for his military duty, that wards were placed around the battlefield to prevent the chaos that would occur with the continual disapparation and apparition of both sides. He said the wards reduced a fair amount of the foul trickery that would otherwise occur, returned an element of honor to the battle. I told dad that fighting was fighting and there was no honor. Mum said she didn't care about honor, but she was glad it would be harder for Dad to die.
Christmas day was spent cold and waiting, like the others. Due to food rationing, there wasn't much of a Yuletide feast accessible. We ate cold scrambled eggs, cold bacon, and cold tea. Mum said she'd owl our gifts once we were safe at school and she was safe at Gran's. Sean scowled, damned Grindelwald, and began his Potions homework. I contemplated setting my Transfigurations text on fire for the momentary warmth. Professor Dumbledore had not been seen it two months. Too many teachers had been called to duty for someone to be able to replace him. I decided the smoke was too much of a risk. I nestled closer to Mum and waited for it to be dark enough to allow the kettle to boil.
I hear a whistle.
Take off the kettle, Mum, or someone will find us.
There's pounding on the door. Five more minutes, Sean, I'm so war—
Fire.
They say Hogwarts is unplottable. I've never heard them say that about Hogsmead. Maybe the plane didn't need a map. Maybe the pilot already knew where he was going.
It has been a growing trend in this war to use muggle weaponry. There's no short supply, as the muggles are fighting too. No one knows how to trace muggle weapons. No one's ready when they're used.
No one expected capsules from the sky to explode.
Seventy, they're saying, with twice that waiting to join them in St. Mungo's. Mostly students. Young Students. The Hogwarts Express was returning them from their holidays.
Merlin, I'm thankful I passed my apparition test. I'm thankful I can manage side-along. I'm thankful for those who survived. I pray the medi-wizards can extract all the shrapnel from them.
I'd known her.
She had been in my Muggle Studies class. She had worn glasses and kept her hair in pigtails. Her glasses were gone. So was her left leg.
The blood had frozen to her skin. Half of her hair ripped away as I lifted the body. It stuck to the concrete under her with the remaining red-black ice. I performed the warming spell until the joints thawed enough for me to lie the body flat on the sheet. I searched the body for a wand. The ministry wanted as much solid identification as possible. They wanted someone from the school to tag the bodies, someone who might recognize a feature if a wand was missing. There weren't any professors to spare. There were sixth and seventh year prefects.
I found an arm and was forced to levitate a great deal of rubble before I found the majority of the corpse it was attached to. The face was completely caved in. I'd have to find the wand.
The Ravenclaw and Gryffindor prefects led by the Head Girl attempted to restructure the portions of the train warped by the fire that raged after the bombs had dropped. The portions the medi-wizards had announced "void of life" upon arrival. It was black and cold. The whole station smelled of grilled meat.
We worked mindlessly, doing our best not to dwell on the tasks assigned, pretending this charred flesh had not spent the past three years sitting beside us at breakfast. We'd had to leave our emotions back at the castle.
If these corpses had been reanimated, we would have been indistinguishable from the inferi.
People are not supposed to die this way in the wizarding world. Avada Kedavra. Swift. Painless. An unmarked body. People are supposed to have a humane death.
He was on the edge of the bomb crater, alone, crouching over a lump of black robes. There were many lumps about. Many lumps and many shreds and many scraps that fluttered through the wind. It was bitterly cold and as I approached, I saw his uniform was stiff with ice and frozen blood. I could not tell how much of it was his and how much had collected as he had worked. His left arm was tightly bandaged and he held it stiffly against his chest as if it were frozen as well.
"You shouldn't be out here, if you were in the explosion as well," I called to warn him of my approach.
He turned to watch me for a moment with dead eyes then returned his gaze to the body before him. It seemed small and incapable of housing human life. I recognized the remnants of a Slytherin tie among the massive black.
"I was at school for the holidays," he corrected expressionlessly.
The biting breeze blew his dark hair into his face. I noticed his head boy badge was missing, but did not comment.
"Any wand?" I asked, unable to invent something more tactful to say.
A shake of the head removed the stray hair from his eyes. Again, there was nothing but the blunt to say. We needed to move on to other bodies. I needed to get away.
"But you recognize him?"
A fold of the robes was pulled back by a bandaged arm. Yes, I recognized him too. The glassy eyes and white face were nearly untouched. Only a small splatter of blood blemished one cheek.
"Tom."
The dark head snapped up, a mixture of surprise and faint disgust tracing the face. No one had used first names since the war began. It was something private kept for close friends. I felt the current events merited the exception.
"Tom, he needs to be put with the others," I said extracting my wand to levitate one who had once been my classmate. He got to the body before me, lifting it with a type of possessive anger. I followed him through the wreckage to the starch white sheet.
He placed the corpse aside from the others we had found, as if it would be contaminated if left with the masses. He spelled the Slytherin's name to hover just above its forehead as we had been instructed to do, but he made no move to leave. I watched him and hoped our Head Boy would gather his wits soon. The others were not fairing well with the strain on their emotional barricades. The two Ravenclaw sixth years had already collapsed onto the frozen ground. One was shaking with either cold or grief. The other was perfectly still but was not responding to any human prompting. The Head Girl was administering a calming draft.
"I will never die."
I had not realized at first that it was he who had spoken. The voice that emanated from his lips was not one I recognized. It was a hiss and as cold as the wind that whipped down the crater. He had risen and was facing the twisted remains of the train and I could not see his face. The body before him was still staring unseeingly upward. I wondered if he had tried to close the eyes or if they were too frozen to move.
"No matter what I have to sacrifice, I will find a way to survive it."
This time I saw his lips move slightly, but still was not comfortable with his tone of voice.
"The war?" I asked, pretending to be uncertain of what he meant.
"Death."
I contemplated this pronouncement for a moment, imagining performing these same funeral rites for the entire world as I slowly outlived even England itself. "I believe," I said finally, "That I would get very tired of eternity. When my time comes, I will be willing enough to step into the world of dreams beyond."
He turned to me so quickly, his eyes filled with such intensity, that I thought I might have spoken his name again without realizing it. I took a step back, afraid he was going to draw his wand at me.
"I had a dream last night," he declared, a wild, crazed look now in his eyes. "I dreamt I cut the shape of a skull into my forearm with the tip of my potions knife. Then I cut a snake twisting around it. The blood pooled in my palm and dripped off my wrist, but I did not scream."
"I don't dream when I sleep," I confessed after a stunned silence, unable to think of anything else to say.
He replaced his wand into the sleeve of his bandaged arm and stared at me unblinkingly with eyes that had a tinge of dry redness to them.
"I don't sleep," he said simply, and walked back to the wreckage.
fin