Harry Potter and the Plains of the Dead
Year Six at Hogwarts
There was an eerie black veil strung thoughtlessly from an arched doorway. It looked worn, spots of gray were replacing the faded spots of black. It was torn down the middle, as though something had attacked it, though despite the tear it nonetheless blocked the what was not to be known. It hung effortlessly, swaying in the twinge of blue light that surrounded it. Harry knew that he had to finally open it. Sirius would be waiting for him, he knew. As soon as he swung the black veil out of his way, Sirius would jump out with his bark-like laugh. He'd give Harry a hardy pat on the back, and maybe even apologize for keeping him waiting. He would give Harry a half-hearted hug and lead him back out the long passageway. Harry knew what he had to do but he was scared. His trembling hand reached towards the torn veil. Every bit of his body was twisted with nervousness as he groped for the veil and finally swung it open. The arched doorway was filled with a terrible blackness, but he could see well enough. Sirius' disembodied head lay on the stone floor. His black hair was twisted and matted around his bodiless neck. The neck was caked with dried blood and rotting skin so thin it was beginning to reveal parts of his skull. His eyes were blank and rolling into the back of his head...
Harry woke up with a cold sweat, clutching his scar. Unlike usual, his scar did not hurt, it felt no pain at all. But Harry felt a different kind of pain. It wrenched in his heart as if someone was stabbing him with a sharp knife right through all his vital organs. He opened his eyes and pushed away his overgrown black hair. He could barely see without his glasses. It was difficult to even tell the distinction between the bed and the floor. But Harry felt no use for groping around his bed side table for his glasses. He had no need to see, he didn't want to see anything right now. He glanced at the blurry letters forming on his clock. 11:57. He did not want to turn sixteen. He was pacing about the floor now, a quick pace, he's feet banging sharply against the wooden floorboards of his room as he spun back and forth. In three minutes, no, two now, he would be sixteen. Sixteen! He did not want that. He never even wanted to be fifteen, or fourteen. He wished he could race back to his third Hogwarts year and stay there forever. He wished that seconds didn't happen so fast, why couldn't they take more time? No, of course not, each second brightly came, announcing its arrival, and then would disappear, drowning away as if it never happened. Harry wished he had the power to stop time, to grab the seconds and stop them from twisting away, but they just kept moving. The pain in Harry's heart worsened. He clenched his chest and could feel true tears welling in the bottom of his eyes. He couldn't keep from crying. He relaxed his clenched face and let light tears flow freely, streaming down his cheek. In only seconds he found himself sobbing into his hands. His body strewn across the floorboards in his room, his heart thumping steadily within his chest. Harry almost felt contempt for those who had kept him alive throughout the year. Had his life ended when Fawkes, the pheonix was singing sweetly to him, or when Voldemort could have killed him, a quick, painless death, he would not be suffering so now. Why did death seem so much more delightful that life at this point? Harry would rather have a bird singing softly in his ears as he drifted away from the world, than be stuck on the hard floor of his room, with pain in his heart, suffering the losses he had. The light from Harry's digital clock flickered, 11:59. Harry ran up and seized the clock with all his strength, ready to smash it against the wall, but smashing a clock would not stop time. It wouldn't stop him from a time that once again announced that he had lived through the year. How had he lived the year, he wondered. Sixteen years of tortured life. When would it end. He remembered being ten, counting down until he would turn eleven, when Hagrid came bursting through the door, sweeping away to something unexpected. Something that for the next six years would change Harry's life. Harry had not realized how much his life had changed until now, six years later, when he was counting down again. Wondering if he would be as lucky to countdown for his seventeenth birthday. "Ten.nine." but Harry had not noticed that the red numbers on his clock already read 12:00, which meant, to no joy of Harry's, that he had most likely spent the mark of his sixteenth year still alive, thinking about death.
Harry's thoughts the night before about a peaceful death rather than a life of suffering were not the first. But these thoughts were his own, provoked by his own memories. The Dursley's had not tried once to treat Harry unfairly over the summer, he assumed they were frightened at the prospect of a wizard gang swooping down upon number 4, Privet Drive in the middle of the night. But because the Dursley's didn't know how to not treat him unfairly, they mostly just made no note of his presence whatsoever. They gave him three meals a day, slightly larger portions than before Harry realized, and left him to find things to do himself in the times in between. Harry would spend his free time in his room lying on his bed mulling the events of his fifth year in Hogwarts over and over in his head. These events included the Order of the Pheonix, O.W.L's, and even Proffesor Umbridge at times, but never what had happened past the day he dreamt of Sirius in the Department of Mysteries. His memories would stop abruptly at this point, a small flash of what happened there would echo in his brain, and then he would spend the rest of the day depressed, in a sort of sleeping state, thinking about death. He had contact with the wizarding world, he was forced to in fact. He wrote to Number 12, Grimmauld Place every three days, as he had been instructed, to ward off the Order from appearing on the Dursley's doorstep the next morning. He never left any detail in his letters, there was nothing to tell, he would scribble on a parchment that he was alright and the Dursley's were treating him fine. He could never put his emotions on paper. The dark sadness that ripped apart his stomach, the feeling of his happiness fading into oblivion, a shallow emptiness in his heart that tingled like an unknown emotion through his scar and out of his fingertips. Plunging through is stomach and fighting its way into his feet. Ron and Hermoine sent his birthday presents the next day, parcels with short, cheerful letters attached. They promised to rescue him as soon as possible. Bring him back to the Burrow where he could enjoy the rest of his summer. Enjoy was no longer a vocabulary word of Harry's. He felt there was no longer reason in the world for laughter. It was an injustice to those dead that you were laughing while they felt pain. Harry had considered many times finding his wand in his six year old trunk and whispering the illegal death curse with the tip of the wand pointed to his chest. In fact, there were only two major components that held him back from leading himself to a painless death. One was the sheer mystery that was beheld behind death. You could choose to be a ghost, and walk around without a purpose, a lifeless existence, or you could be brave and walk unto death. But what was death? Would you live in a heaven, watching over the living who walk beneath you? Or was it blackness, nothingness? This scared Harry, just the prospect of nothingess. Not your spirit slowly lifting to join those who had died before you, but an empty, black, space, forever. The second thing that held Harry back was the prophecy that Dumbledore had repeated to him days before he had left for the summer. "None can survive without the other."in the end, Harry was to be a villain or victim, and if he chose his own life, he would put the magical world at risk of Voldemort's wrath. Harry couldn't think anymore of his world and friends at risk. He leaned backwards onto his bed and risked closing eyes. For a moment, he thought the world of darkness between his eyes and the closed lids above was a safe place to be. No harsh dreams of Sirius' disembodied head, no questions of death twisting and yearning to be answered, no visions of Voldemort's scaly head, his eyes glowing madly, hungry for power..nothing. For a minute, Harry was safe. For a minute, the darkness was desired, and Harry might find the sleep he had lost every day since Sirius had died. But sure enough, it came. Creeping into his mind slowly from every direction, as though a sudden move could scare it away. An eerie veil, its only movement a soft swaying in the gentle breeze. Creeping slowly into the empty void of darkness that was his mind. The veil was longing to be swept aside, to reveal the mystery inside in which it was hiding. Harry resisted this time, knowing what was to be found, so the veil remained there. Almost screaming at Harry to carelessly throw it aside, as if there was much more mystery than Harry had seen already.
There was an eerie black veil strung thoughtlessly from an arched doorway. It looked worn, spots of gray were replacing the faded spots of black. It was torn down the middle, as though something had attacked it, though despite the tear it nonetheless blocked the what was not to be known. It hung effortlessly, swaying in the twinge of blue light that surrounded it. Harry knew that he had to finally open it. Sirius would be waiting for him, he knew. As soon as he swung the black veil out of his way, Sirius would jump out with his bark-like laugh. He'd give Harry a hardy pat on the back, and maybe even apologize for keeping him waiting. He would give Harry a half-hearted hug and lead him back out the long passageway. Harry knew what he had to do but he was scared. His trembling hand reached towards the torn veil. Every bit of his body was twisted with nervousness as he groped for the veil and finally swung it open. The arched doorway was filled with a terrible blackness, but he could see well enough. Sirius' disembodied head lay on the stone floor. His black hair was twisted and matted around his bodiless neck. The neck was caked with dried blood and rotting skin so thin it was beginning to reveal parts of his skull. His eyes were blank and rolling into the back of his head...
Harry woke up with a cold sweat, clutching his scar. Unlike usual, his scar did not hurt, it felt no pain at all. But Harry felt a different kind of pain. It wrenched in his heart as if someone was stabbing him with a sharp knife right through all his vital organs. He opened his eyes and pushed away his overgrown black hair. He could barely see without his glasses. It was difficult to even tell the distinction between the bed and the floor. But Harry felt no use for groping around his bed side table for his glasses. He had no need to see, he didn't want to see anything right now. He glanced at the blurry letters forming on his clock. 11:57. He did not want to turn sixteen. He was pacing about the floor now, a quick pace, he's feet banging sharply against the wooden floorboards of his room as he spun back and forth. In three minutes, no, two now, he would be sixteen. Sixteen! He did not want that. He never even wanted to be fifteen, or fourteen. He wished he could race back to his third Hogwarts year and stay there forever. He wished that seconds didn't happen so fast, why couldn't they take more time? No, of course not, each second brightly came, announcing its arrival, and then would disappear, drowning away as if it never happened. Harry wished he had the power to stop time, to grab the seconds and stop them from twisting away, but they just kept moving. The pain in Harry's heart worsened. He clenched his chest and could feel true tears welling in the bottom of his eyes. He couldn't keep from crying. He relaxed his clenched face and let light tears flow freely, streaming down his cheek. In only seconds he found himself sobbing into his hands. His body strewn across the floorboards in his room, his heart thumping steadily within his chest. Harry almost felt contempt for those who had kept him alive throughout the year. Had his life ended when Fawkes, the pheonix was singing sweetly to him, or when Voldemort could have killed him, a quick, painless death, he would not be suffering so now. Why did death seem so much more delightful that life at this point? Harry would rather have a bird singing softly in his ears as he drifted away from the world, than be stuck on the hard floor of his room, with pain in his heart, suffering the losses he had. The light from Harry's digital clock flickered, 11:59. Harry ran up and seized the clock with all his strength, ready to smash it against the wall, but smashing a clock would not stop time. It wouldn't stop him from a time that once again announced that he had lived through the year. How had he lived the year, he wondered. Sixteen years of tortured life. When would it end. He remembered being ten, counting down until he would turn eleven, when Hagrid came bursting through the door, sweeping away to something unexpected. Something that for the next six years would change Harry's life. Harry had not realized how much his life had changed until now, six years later, when he was counting down again. Wondering if he would be as lucky to countdown for his seventeenth birthday. "Ten.nine." but Harry had not noticed that the red numbers on his clock already read 12:00, which meant, to no joy of Harry's, that he had most likely spent the mark of his sixteenth year still alive, thinking about death.
Harry's thoughts the night before about a peaceful death rather than a life of suffering were not the first. But these thoughts were his own, provoked by his own memories. The Dursley's had not tried once to treat Harry unfairly over the summer, he assumed they were frightened at the prospect of a wizard gang swooping down upon number 4, Privet Drive in the middle of the night. But because the Dursley's didn't know how to not treat him unfairly, they mostly just made no note of his presence whatsoever. They gave him three meals a day, slightly larger portions than before Harry realized, and left him to find things to do himself in the times in between. Harry would spend his free time in his room lying on his bed mulling the events of his fifth year in Hogwarts over and over in his head. These events included the Order of the Pheonix, O.W.L's, and even Proffesor Umbridge at times, but never what had happened past the day he dreamt of Sirius in the Department of Mysteries. His memories would stop abruptly at this point, a small flash of what happened there would echo in his brain, and then he would spend the rest of the day depressed, in a sort of sleeping state, thinking about death. He had contact with the wizarding world, he was forced to in fact. He wrote to Number 12, Grimmauld Place every three days, as he had been instructed, to ward off the Order from appearing on the Dursley's doorstep the next morning. He never left any detail in his letters, there was nothing to tell, he would scribble on a parchment that he was alright and the Dursley's were treating him fine. He could never put his emotions on paper. The dark sadness that ripped apart his stomach, the feeling of his happiness fading into oblivion, a shallow emptiness in his heart that tingled like an unknown emotion through his scar and out of his fingertips. Plunging through is stomach and fighting its way into his feet. Ron and Hermoine sent his birthday presents the next day, parcels with short, cheerful letters attached. They promised to rescue him as soon as possible. Bring him back to the Burrow where he could enjoy the rest of his summer. Enjoy was no longer a vocabulary word of Harry's. He felt there was no longer reason in the world for laughter. It was an injustice to those dead that you were laughing while they felt pain. Harry had considered many times finding his wand in his six year old trunk and whispering the illegal death curse with the tip of the wand pointed to his chest. In fact, there were only two major components that held him back from leading himself to a painless death. One was the sheer mystery that was beheld behind death. You could choose to be a ghost, and walk around without a purpose, a lifeless existence, or you could be brave and walk unto death. But what was death? Would you live in a heaven, watching over the living who walk beneath you? Or was it blackness, nothingness? This scared Harry, just the prospect of nothingess. Not your spirit slowly lifting to join those who had died before you, but an empty, black, space, forever. The second thing that held Harry back was the prophecy that Dumbledore had repeated to him days before he had left for the summer. "None can survive without the other."in the end, Harry was to be a villain or victim, and if he chose his own life, he would put the magical world at risk of Voldemort's wrath. Harry couldn't think anymore of his world and friends at risk. He leaned backwards onto his bed and risked closing eyes. For a moment, he thought the world of darkness between his eyes and the closed lids above was a safe place to be. No harsh dreams of Sirius' disembodied head, no questions of death twisting and yearning to be answered, no visions of Voldemort's scaly head, his eyes glowing madly, hungry for power..nothing. For a minute, Harry was safe. For a minute, the darkness was desired, and Harry might find the sleep he had lost every day since Sirius had died. But sure enough, it came. Creeping into his mind slowly from every direction, as though a sudden move could scare it away. An eerie veil, its only movement a soft swaying in the gentle breeze. Creeping slowly into the empty void of darkness that was his mind. The veil was longing to be swept aside, to reveal the mystery inside in which it was hiding. Harry resisted this time, knowing what was to be found, so the veil remained there. Almost screaming at Harry to carelessly throw it aside, as if there was much more mystery than Harry had seen already.