This is my first Harry Potter fanfic. I would like to encourage those who are interested to send me messages about possible storylines, events and pairing in this world I wish to build. Justify your wants though :)

I hope you guys enjoy it.

Harry Potter's eyes fluttered open. It was a strange experience, going from the darkness of closed eyelids to an uncompromising whiteness. His eyes moved from near to far and left to right to look upon white as far as the eye could see. This vast whiteness was uniform. There was no variation of distinguishing points. No lighter or darker patches, and surprisingly, no glare. If any were there to experience this with him, Harry would have described this as disconcerting. Thank god none were here with him, for that would have meant the direst of fates had also befallen them.

Harry had already accepted this fate and took some time to ponder how he had gotten here, and how it would affect the rest of his existence. This second death really was not like his first. That tragic memory had been dredged up during the beginning of his third year while onboard the Hogwarts Express. That was the first time he had felt the cold seep into his bones, the most uncomfortable feeling he had been exposed to. Coincidentally, this was also the first time he had heard the most reassuring sound in the world; his mother's voice.

'What a juxtaposition,' Harry mused, 'the aura of a Dementor, and the voice of my mother.' He realised it was almost as odd as his current predicament. The most peaceful he had ever felt, and also the most dead… or second most dead. Harry couldn't decide, he had been hit with the killing curse after all. Along this train of thought, Harry inevitably encountered the memory that was associated with both the Dementors presence and his mother's voice. The sickly green of his parent's murder, and subsequently, his first death. How had he forgotten that at all? It was something he had thought on frequently ever since the memory had resurfaced those two years ago. It was, after all, the most pain he had ever experienced in his relatively short life, even more so than the Dark Lords torture curse he had experienced merely a few months previously.

How different this death was to his previous one.

Avada Kedarva had left the infant in a vastness of the associated green and unimaginable amount of pain, while his current death left him in this whiteness with only contentment to keep the boy company.

Or so Harry Potter thought.

The longer he existed in this plane, the more he became aware of the flaws in his surroundings, or were they patterns? The more Harry Potter squinted and moved, the more detailed and intricate these patterns appeared to become. Another thought struck him. His environment was changing around him the longer he existed there, or did it change when he walked? Was he walking? It felt too smooth and graceful for walking, the movement actually reminding him of the gliding on a broomstick. Was he flying?

As Harry moved from one new thought to the other, the vastness around him continued to shift through his focus. Maybe his eyes were adjusting to show surrounding that had already existed. Harry Potter could not tell. 'Am I moving?' he found himself pondering again.

In this world of white, Harry's thoughts were lucid, and he was not able to stay focused on one this for very long, and his thoughts drifted further. As the young wizard thought and pondered, pondered and thought, his surroundings continued to expand adjust in shape and size. These patterns or flaws in his surrounding, almost without his knowing, began to form themselves into comprehensible shapes, lines and forms.

The longer the lines squirmed and thrashed, the more lucid thoughts became. These thoughts eventually became sluggish and hazy, and then, they seemed like the thoughts of another person, a stranger. The boy, for he no longer could recall his name, watched as the once uniform whiteness had slowly shifted into a recognisable environment before his very eyes... or existence. 'Do I exist?'

The shifting patterns seemed to squirm and thrive until they did not. They had almost snapped into clear detail, with the being now finding themselves in a room that now seemed like it did not belong. This room seemed small, or was it large? Whatever it was, it was definitely old… maybe. The being turned to look around, or maybe it didn't move and just observed its surroundings. Whatever it did, it took note of the perfectly symmetrical room. Four uniform brickwork walls with a heavy ceiling and large stone tiles. As the being took in their black and white monotone surroundings, they became aware of a disturbance against one of the walls. The right-hand wall? There was a cloth draped over stacked items along the right-hand wall.

As its attention shifted towards the covered items, the room seemed to implode, and yet, nothing had changed. The covered items still lined the right-hand wall, the plain, yet imposing wooden door stood behind, embedded into heavy stonework, the great, elegant metal frame etched with an ancient language stood near the front of the room, revealing yet more whiteness, and the black mass congealed across the entirety of the left-hand wall, oozing and pulsating… wait.

Wait!