Chapter 1 - The Poem
By Maelstrom
1/10/04
...
Swiftly and surely, the beam had shot out, hitting the faceless man with the dark hair, shooting him through the veil, his face had suddenly started taking shape, and although the dreamer could not place a thought on who it was, it grew more and more familiar, like a person he had known, a man he began to care for. The face grew into the face of Harry's godfather, Sirius Black.
The night was still that early morning, the birds had not yet begun to stir, and the wind had not begun to roar. The sun was still hidden beneath the visible scape of Little Whingings eyes. It was then when Harry Potter awoke, covered in a thin layer of sweat and with his blanket half on the floor. Shaking, Harry put on his glasses, partially covering his Lighting Bolt scar on his forehead, the result of surviving a curse from the most feared wizard, Voldemort. Harry Potter was unlike a normal person in many ways, for one thing, he was a wizard, for another, he was up at 3:00 during the holidays, when normal people are ready to sleep, and he was mourning for a lost friend and parent. It had been only 2 months ago, when Sirius Black, his god father, had fallen through the Veil of Death, when Voldemort, the great evil wizard, had arisen again with the help of his fellow supporters, the Death Eaters, and when Harry had unveiled the mystery of the Prophecy made about the one person who would possibly be able to defeat the wizard Voldemort. It was him, Harry Potter was the one who was to defeat Voldemort and save the rest of the wizarding world, or to fail and send the world into an unescapable hell. It was him.
Harry Potter found little solace in the empty apologies of Dumbledore last year, and remembering them only brought back the pain, the emptiness, the fear that Sirius really was dead, that he would not be coming back, that thinking about him was no fucking use, no matter how hard he cried, no matter how load he yelled, no matter how strong he bashed the walls, Sirius was gone, and it was hell to go through. Harry had stopped sending letters with his owl, Hedwig, to his best friend, Ron Weasley, and more importantly to his love interest, Hermione Granger. It was an incredible temptation everytime he saw Hedwig, looking almost as sullen as he did in her cage, to just send a damn letter. But he didn't, he left her in the cage, and when she made noise he would curse, loudly but not loud enough to rouse the attention of the Dursleys, his only living family and the people he had to endure for the entire holidays.
It amazed Harry how anyone could be as insensitive to the losses of Harry as the Dursleys. But then again Dudley, Harry's overbearing cousin, had stopped harassing him. They all had stopped, no more talking to him, no more noticing him, they had stopped taking time to pay attention to him. It was eternal bliss and eternal hell for him. Not talking to his friends, not even opening any of the hundreds of letters he had received from them was hell, total and utter hell. But to reject Hermione's letters was almost as bad as death itself. Last year, in Harry's 5th out of 7 years at Hogwarts, the wizarding school that Harry attended, he was prepared to declare his love to her, but too much had happened, the secrecy of the Order of the Phoenix, the society of wizards against Voldemort, the mysterious attacks and disappearances that had occurred during the span of last year, it was all too damn much.
Harry pulled what was left of the blanket that was on him off, and looked out the window. He could see the sun rising in the East, turning the clouds into a magnificent hew of reddish orange, how the clouds above were wispy, dark, just like Sirius's hair. The thought was painful to bear, Harry shut the window. He then turned to his bed, and saw a package on a small desk near his bed. Must have been an owl, Harry thought. He opened it, the package revealed to be "Hamlet", with "From Hermione" on the inside cover. Great, another fucking love filled book, just what Harry needed. But alas, there was a book mark. Annoyed and agitated Harry angrily opened the book. Where the book mark was placed, a part of the poem was at the top of the page.
"To die: to sleep; No more; and, by a sleep to say we end, The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks, That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation, Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of so long life;"
For some reason, the poem was tranquilly calming and soothing, yet on the other hand it reminded Harry of what he wished to forget the most. Suddenly, the events of what had happened to Sirius again began to unfold once more, the way they all had run in to Harry's aid. The way Sirius was dueling Bellatrix, a Death Eater, the way he laughed depravedly as Bellatrix was getting increasingly angry. Finally she let it out, as the beam of magical energy had surged out from her wand like water erupting out of a breaking dam. Sirius was still laughing as the beam hit him in the chest, and launched him through the veil. This was torture if anything, the passing of the one man Harry had finally come to accept as a father, the one who laughed heartily only moments before his inevitable demise, Sirius Black. Harry sat there, motionless, for a moment that felt like an eternity. And then he began to cry.
...
...
Swiftly and surely, the beam had shot out, hitting the faceless man with the dark hair, shooting him through the veil, his face had suddenly started taking shape, and although the dreamer could not place a thought on who it was, it grew more and more familiar, like a person he had known, a man he began to care for. The face grew into the face of Harry's godfather, Sirius Black.
The night was still that early morning, the birds had not yet begun to stir, and the wind had not begun to roar. The sun was still hidden beneath the visible scape of Little Whingings eyes. It was then when Harry Potter awoke, covered in a thin layer of sweat and with his blanket half on the floor. Shaking, Harry put on his glasses, partially covering his Lighting Bolt scar on his forehead, the result of surviving a curse from the most feared wizard, Voldemort. Harry Potter was unlike a normal person in many ways, for one thing, he was a wizard, for another, he was up at 3:00 during the holidays, when normal people are ready to sleep, and he was mourning for a lost friend and parent. It had been only 2 months ago, when Sirius Black, his god father, had fallen through the Veil of Death, when Voldemort, the great evil wizard, had arisen again with the help of his fellow supporters, the Death Eaters, and when Harry had unveiled the mystery of the Prophecy made about the one person who would possibly be able to defeat the wizard Voldemort. It was him, Harry Potter was the one who was to defeat Voldemort and save the rest of the wizarding world, or to fail and send the world into an unescapable hell. It was him.
Harry Potter found little solace in the empty apologies of Dumbledore last year, and remembering them only brought back the pain, the emptiness, the fear that Sirius really was dead, that he would not be coming back, that thinking about him was no fucking use, no matter how hard he cried, no matter how load he yelled, no matter how strong he bashed the walls, Sirius was gone, and it was hell to go through. Harry had stopped sending letters with his owl, Hedwig, to his best friend, Ron Weasley, and more importantly to his love interest, Hermione Granger. It was an incredible temptation everytime he saw Hedwig, looking almost as sullen as he did in her cage, to just send a damn letter. But he didn't, he left her in the cage, and when she made noise he would curse, loudly but not loud enough to rouse the attention of the Dursleys, his only living family and the people he had to endure for the entire holidays.
It amazed Harry how anyone could be as insensitive to the losses of Harry as the Dursleys. But then again Dudley, Harry's overbearing cousin, had stopped harassing him. They all had stopped, no more talking to him, no more noticing him, they had stopped taking time to pay attention to him. It was eternal bliss and eternal hell for him. Not talking to his friends, not even opening any of the hundreds of letters he had received from them was hell, total and utter hell. But to reject Hermione's letters was almost as bad as death itself. Last year, in Harry's 5th out of 7 years at Hogwarts, the wizarding school that Harry attended, he was prepared to declare his love to her, but too much had happened, the secrecy of the Order of the Phoenix, the society of wizards against Voldemort, the mysterious attacks and disappearances that had occurred during the span of last year, it was all too damn much.
Harry pulled what was left of the blanket that was on him off, and looked out the window. He could see the sun rising in the East, turning the clouds into a magnificent hew of reddish orange, how the clouds above were wispy, dark, just like Sirius's hair. The thought was painful to bear, Harry shut the window. He then turned to his bed, and saw a package on a small desk near his bed. Must have been an owl, Harry thought. He opened it, the package revealed to be "Hamlet", with "From Hermione" on the inside cover. Great, another fucking love filled book, just what Harry needed. But alas, there was a book mark. Annoyed and agitated Harry angrily opened the book. Where the book mark was placed, a part of the poem was at the top of the page.
"To die: to sleep; No more; and, by a sleep to say we end, The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks, That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation, Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of so long life;"
For some reason, the poem was tranquilly calming and soothing, yet on the other hand it reminded Harry of what he wished to forget the most. Suddenly, the events of what had happened to Sirius again began to unfold once more, the way they all had run in to Harry's aid. The way Sirius was dueling Bellatrix, a Death Eater, the way he laughed depravedly as Bellatrix was getting increasingly angry. Finally she let it out, as the beam of magical energy had surged out from her wand like water erupting out of a breaking dam. Sirius was still laughing as the beam hit him in the chest, and launched him through the veil. This was torture if anything, the passing of the one man Harry had finally come to accept as a father, the one who laughed heartily only moments before his inevitable demise, Sirius Black. Harry sat there, motionless, for a moment that felt like an eternity. And then he began to cry.
...