Huh. Another weird one. This might be confusing…? Please give me feedback, anything, because without you lot I don't know if I'm doing it right!
Thank you to all my brilliant readers. You're great!
The thestrals of Hogwarts have lived for years and years. They see all, and they remember.
Their memories are deep wells, churning with the knowledge of a thousand years. They pass on information, and they never forget a thing, making their minds so complex and beautiful and advanced. Maybe if the ignorant wizards realised this, they would use the thestrals for more than just manual labour.
But that is the fault of mankind, and the thestrals do not mind - they know that humans find things difficult, like admitting mistakes and realising things.
Realising things like the workings of death.
The First Wizarding War is a time of observance for them. They are Seen and they are whispered about and they watch the reactions when the Sight is cleared. It happens to most of the humans eventually. So many of them learn to See, and the thestrals like it. It can get lonely with only each other to talk to.
They remember the faces of all the children. Shock, confusion, anger, pain.
There are certain reactions they recall better than others. One particular group that they like to watch.
The first time they see them, it's already their second trip into the castle. They laugh and joke as if they have no secrets, but the thestrals know they do. They can see it.
There are the usual clouds, that baffling sheen that coats the eyes of the Blind - those who do not have the Sight, the ability to see the thestrals - but in the eyes of the scarred one is a secret, in the eyes of the handsome one is hurt, and in the eyes of the dumpy one is fear. The bespectacled one seems as happy as can be.
They walk along, and the thestrals can't help but think of the innocence they hold within them. None of them know what is to come.
Next time, the secret is gone. The scarred boy is still Blind, but he is no longer darkened by whatever he was hiding, and a lightness has bloomed inside him. He is full of trust. He is different to the others, they know. Despite his neat appearance, he is wild and beastly. But he is free from secrecy, and he is happier.
The handsome one still carries a mountain of pain around with him. His eyes are stormy and full of passionate anger. But not at his friends. No, he loves him friends. He is angry at something else, something that isn't with him now.
The bespectacled one is either very smart or very dumb. Either he feels that the world needs joy, or he is ignorant of what the world is falling into. The thestrals know it all. They can predict what is upon them, and they pity those who have to live within it.
The dumpy boy is worse. He seems not only fearful, but doubtful, as if he doesn't know how long the happiness will last among them. How right he is, the thestrals think. He knows. He can feel the storm coming.
The handsome one is the marker. The thestrals say his gaining of the Sight is the beginning of it all.
The group of four that are always seen together are talking and laughing and walking along, and the thestrals notice it before he did. He is quieter, and his eyes are darker even than before, and he is glancing about warily, as if waiting for someone to condemn him.
He is no longer Blind.
They knew how old he was, but measured in a different way, so they measure by school time. It is just after his fourth summer holiday since joining Hogwarts.
He looks up, the new depths of his eyes glinting in the dying light. He frowns at first, in confusion, at the thestral that stands above him. His friends continue a couple steps before stopping and looking back.
"Sirius?" The bespectacled one asks.
"What are they?" He says.
"What do you mean?"
"The horses. Can't you see them?"
A pause. A worried glance behind him at the others. "Horses?"
"Yeah. A bit like horses. Like dead horses with wings."
The thestrals don't take offense. They know the simple workings of the human mind, and they've certainly heard a lot worse over the long years that they have lived through.
"Sirius, you've finally gone mad. There are no dead horses with wings anywhere around here."
The handsome one looks back at the thestral and shrugs. His friends look at him in a funny way, and he joins them again, still withdrawn, his eyes still dark.
He glances back at the thestral, and in his eyes is the deep sharpness, the simple understanding that only comes with death.
The scarred one Sees them next.
It is the time after the handsome one saw them.
He walks quietly with long strides - he has outgrown the others by now, and is just as the handsome one had been - brooding and scared, his amber eyes dark and watchful. But again, they see clarity, they see the opening of his vision, and they know that he has gained the Sight since the last they saw of him.
He looks at them without breaking stride, only stopping directly by the nearest thestral.
Thestrals don't have names. They know each other, and because they are linked, they are not Christopher and Jenny and Mike. They are simply the thestrals, because they are one. A hive mind, as some humans might describe it.
The nearest thestral to the scarred one has no name, because it has no need of a name. It is one of them, and that is all that matters.
"What are they?" He asks, just as his friend had last time.
"What are you talking about?" The pudgy one mutters.
"You can see them?" The handsome one whispers.
"Yeah."
"Why didn't you say?"
The thestrals don't know why the handsome one is angry. Anger is unnecessary, and they've learnt from the wizards that it only leads to conflict. But humans will be humans, they think to themselves.
"What?"
"I thought I was mad! Why didn't you say so last year?"
"They weren't there last year!"
"Yes, they were!"
The bespectacled one looks confused. That is another emotion the thestrals hardly knew of, for each of them have all the knowledge of a hundred thestral-lifetimes.
"Are you talking about the dead horses with wings?"
"Yes, I told you! Remus, tell him they're dead horses with wings."
The scarred one is staring. "What are they? They seem to be pulling the carriages. But why can I only see them now?"
"Who cares?" Asks the dumpy one. "I'm hungry."
He trots off, and the bespectacled one follows, shrugging.
The remaining two boys look at each other, both with clear eyes, having been relieved of the Blindness by the Sight of Death.
They both understood. Their friends didn't, but they did, and they were better off for it.
Why couldn't humans understand that?
The other two Saw at the same time. The four stand together in a line and just look, each pair of eyes clear and beautiful and free of the Blindness.
The eyes of the handsome one are a piercing grey. They are well used to the Sight of the thestrals by now. He no longer feels the hurt he once did - whoever caused him such pain had faded from his life, leaving only a faint scar, a phantom of darkness. Death has healed him, the Sight awakening his thoughts, healing his mind.
The scarred one has strange eyes. They are amber and clear like honey, sparkling faintly. There is no longer the burden of a secret, because he has friends to share it with. He has become wiser since he gained the Sight, he has reached a perfect understanding of whatever his secret had been. Death has allowed him to realise the workings of the world.
The bespectacled one's hazel eyes are shaded by the lenses of his round glasses. They are harder now, no longer fluffy and joyful. They are still happy, but he is grown up now, he has become strong and confident and determined. Death has given him purpose, and he is striding towards his future.
The pudgy one's eyes are watery blue. What is it about him? There is something very wrong in his mind, like he is carrying his own secret, like he has darkened rather than improved. Even Death makes mistakes, and this boy's mind is one. It is a swirling mass of anger, a storm of hatred, a well of dark things. The thestrals know that he chose the wrong path, and that Death has turned him that way. Death has given him fear, and fear has beaten his soul into submission.
Death has changed them all.
"What are they?" The pudgy one says.
"Dead horses with wings." The bespectacled one whispers in awe.
"Thestrals." The scarred one says, and the thestrals like that. They like to be recognised.
"We can all see them now." The handsome one says triumphantly. "Told you."
"They can only be seen by witnesses of death."
The thestrals can hear the lack of capitalisation and that irritates them. Humans may be ignorant, but they honestly cannot even recognise the world for what it truly is. Why do they use capitals for their own names - tiny beings that scuttle around thinking they are royalty - and not for the almighty power of Life and Death?
The group are silent and sad and that annoys the thestrals too. Why is Death a thing to fear in their world? Why is it associated with sadness? Death is to be revered and celebrated and looked forward to. Death means Life and Life means Death. In the thestral world, Death is loved and cherished. It means freedom and escape from the tiny mortal world, a world of pain and suffering and imprisonment in a physical body.
The Sight of Death is a milestone in life. It clears the senses, focuses the mind. It is what steers humans in the right direction. Or the wrong one, in the case of the pudgy boy.
Death means the escape of what is to come. Because nobody wants to live through what comes next, they can sense it. Death is nothing, nothing compared to the extent of horrors that Life can bring.
So… weird? Confusing? Depressing? Good? Tell me stuff!
And just a reminder that I am welcoming ideas for future stories too!