Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave,

Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;

Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.

I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

Dirge without Music

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

To Sophie

Dirge without Music

Four weeks had passed since Harry left Hogwarts and returned to the Dursleys. As soon as Uncle Vernon drove the car up the drive, Harry gathered his belongings and retreated into his room. During those weeks, only five words passed between Harry and his uncle, on that first night Harry arrived at Number 4, Privet Drive: "Don't forget your ruddy owl!"

Since then, Harry kept to himself. While he was at Hogwarts, he had vacillated between wanting to be alone and wanting company. But at the Dursleys, Harry infinitely preferred being by himself. The Dursleys seemed to prefer it, too. They often scuttled out of his way, eyes round with fright, whenever he stalked past them, grimly silent. If Harry could have seen the expression on his face, he would not have blamed them. There was a stern, hard look on his thin countenance -- a harsh and unrepentant ferocity about his mouth and brow. But the eyes behind his round glasses were dull and empty. Had the Dursleys felt any fondness for Harry, his expression would have pained them. As it was, the Dursleys felt nothing but fear and kept well away from him.

Throughout those four weeks, Harry spoke to no one. Ron and Hermione sent him letters; every day, an owl would swoop into his room and deposit a fat envelope on his knee. He would stare briefly at Hermione's clear, neat handwriting and Ron's blotted scrawls before stacking them, their seals unbroken, into two separate piles. Then he placed the piles into a deep drawer of his desk and never looked at them again. He didn't write back.

Instead, Harry roamed out of doors under the punishing glare of the summer sun, haunting the sun-baked streets near the house. The neighbors, like the Dursleys, repulsed by and a little afraid of his haggard appearance, avoided him. He wandered for hours alone, up and down the empty roads, his worn trainers flopping against the hot pavement, until the balmy blue-green twilight fell upon Little Whinging. Then he tramped home, the Dursleys darting away from him as fast as they could (though given his bulk, this was especially difficult for Dudley) as he made his way upstairs.

But Harry spent most of the days in his bedroom, seated by the window, looking out into the withering garden or watching the clouds drift across the sky. The Dursleys never locked his room; they didn't have to. Harry only left to go to the bathroom. Aunt Petunia pushed trays of food through the cat flap Uncle Vernon had installed years ago, but Harry seldom ate. Food seemed tasteless to him. He drank water instead.

So the weeks passed, mornings and afternoons blurring together into a smooth, continuous stream, time marked only by the shift of the shadows across his bedroom walls and the monotonous ticking of the clock on his nightstand. Harry was grateful for the sliding sameness of those days. Their very blankness was comforting, peaceful; he seemed to float along as impassively as the hours that glided noiselessly by him. But when the sun sank and the shadows fell then dwindled, dread came over him. He hated the close of day . . . for the nights were the worst.

While the house slept around him, Harry would lie in bed and listen to the rumbling snores of the Dursleys, the faint, steady tick of the clock and his own shallow breathing. He would stare at the ceiling, his eyes burning with a fierce and uncompromising fury as if daring his grief to break open. Come on, he muttered through gritted teeth, come on. But his grief never surfaced, only settled more heavily and solidly in his heart. Then morning would dawn, blanching his room in a weak wash of light, and he would rise, grinning in bitter triumph. Another battle won, he thought.

Sometimes, his body exhausted beyond endurance, he would fall into a fitful doze. It was then that Harry would see him. He would stand before Harry, his hands carelessly stuffed into his pockets, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. Sirius would speak to him, his mouth moving, though no words came out. But Harry knew what he was saying. Come on, mate, Sirius said, don't stand there gawping. Let's go. Then Sirius would turn, beckoning with a wave of his hand, and begin walking away.

Wait, Sirius! Harry called, as his godfather strode on before him. Wait for me! Harry would eagerly rise to follow, only to tumble out of bed, falling to the floor, tangled in his bedclothes. And as he woke, jolted to reality by the impact, he found that the ghostly hand was merely the flutter of his curtains in the warm breeze of the night.

On other nights, Harry heard his barking laugh. And sometimes, Harry saw him looking down, a tender, fatherly expression beaming out of his face, as he playfully mussed Harry's hair. And as real as these visions seemed to him, they always ended with Harry awake, heart leaping with hope as his eyes strained in the darkness, searching for him . . . and finding nothing.

Yet he welcomed those dreams. It was so much better to embrace these visions, illusory as they were. Anything was better than that terrifying blankness, the emptiness of his life without Sirius. Better, Harry thought, to cling to those dreams, false as they were, than to accept that terrible finality.

For almost every night, Harry saw his godfather's horror-struck face, the mingled look of fear and surprise in his eyes, as he fell through the arch, the thin, ragged curtains reaching out like phantom arms to pull him into death. And Harry would wake, gasping, cold sweat trickling down his forehead, his heart hammering with the same dread and terror he felt that night. And his loss and grief would break over him again, as raw and as fresh and as immediate as the night his godfather died.

It seemed strange to Harry, sitting at his window day after day, to hear the distant laughter of children playing in the park, to see the neighbors scramble about on their daily business. A feeling of unreality had settled over him, an astonished disbelief to see the houses, the cars, and the people endure below him, so substantial and unchanged. The world beyond Hogwarts felt unreal. It held a still, dreamlike quality, the imprecise distance and timelessness of a nightmare. And it was the very constancy of this world, its awful phlegm and impersonality, which jarred him. Had the world always been like this? Harry wondered. It seemed to him, somehow, the world had transformed in that one, suspended moment behind the veil. But he knew, deep down, that it was not the world that had changed; it was he who had changed.

And Harry wondered if he could change back to the old Harry, retrieve the old certainties and truths, somehow travel back to that time and that place . . . and find Sirius again.

One evening, as Harry watched the night fade slowly from the eastern horizon, he spotted a tiny, blurred shape above the housetops. As he waited, the shape grew larger and more distinct as it moved closer. Soon, the shape resolved into a large gray owl. In another moment, the owl barreled through the window, dropping a large flat parcel at Harry's feet. Harry shrugged and turned away. With an exasperated flutter of its wings, the owl settled on his knee and began to nip his finger.

"Go away," Harry commanded, pushing it away. "Go away." But the owl continued to beat its wings and nip him, until Harry at last bent down and picked up the parcel. Making sure Harry held the parcel the owl took wing and soared into the sky.

Harry turned it over. The parcel dangled loosely from his hands as he scanned it with indifferent eyes. Suddenly he frowned, perplexity puckering his brow. The handwriting was unfamiliar. He studied the parcel, struggling to match a face to the writing. Finally, unable to puzzle it out, Harry tore the parcel open. A letter and another flat parcel fluttered into his lap.

Dear Harry,

I was doing a bit of a cleaning and came across these pictures. I took them at Christmas when we were at Sirius's house. I thought you'd like them.

Take care of yourself, Harry.

Tonks

Pictures, Harry echoed, as he opened the smaller parcel. A sheaf of photos cascaded into his hands. For a moment, Harry stared at them, bewildered. Then he glanced down and drew in a sharp breath. For in his hands were dozens and dozens of pictures . . . of Sirius. Sirius slumped against the mantelpiece, as he listened to Kingsley. Wrestling with an unwieldy length of holly he tried to hang on the wall. Singing gustily, his handsome head thrown back, as Mrs. Weasley led them all in a Christmas carol. Leaning on Remus, a slightly glassy look in his eyes as he gleefully raised a glass of fire whiskey in a toast. Smiling indulgently as Harry waved his arms animatedly, discussing a Quidditch match. Hooking an arm around Harry's shoulders, both of them beaming.

His grief broke then. Hugging the pictures to his chest, he cried and cried, great, wracking sobs that shook his thin frame with fearful violence, threatening to shatter him. He cried until he choked and gagged, and nothing more was inside him.

Exhausted, Harry collapsed to the floor. He curled up, drawing his knees up to his chin. For a long time Harry lay there, the pictures crushed against him in a desperate embrace.

"It's my fault, Sirius," Harry whispered hoarsely. "It's all my fault. I-I thought . . . that I had to save you . . . I was so certain that Voldemort . . . was going to kill you . . ." He clutched the pictures closer to him. "If only . . . if only I had stopped him from coming into my mind . . . But I didn't even try. And now, because of me . . ."

Harry couldn't finish. He swallowed hard, blinking rapidly and clenching his teeth until the sharp pain in his heart subsided into that familiar dull ache.

Dumbledore said Voldemort will do anything he can to destroy me, he thought. It doesn't matter, though. Not anymore. I don't care.

You do care. You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.

No more, Harry thought. I want it to end. No more death. No more pain. Harry closed his eyes, tiredly. I just want to end it all.

Harry, suffering like this proves you are still a man! This pain is part of being human --

"Then I don't want to be human," he repeated dully. "I don't want to live."

Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it.

"That's not true," he whispered, recalling the sobs that wracked his body moments ago and the terrible sadness which continued to haunt him -- a grief he knew would endure, relentless and unbroken. "It has only become worse. Nothing will make it better. It's all my fault. And there's nothing I can do to make it right."

No, not all your fault, said a small voice inside him.

I was the one who was stupid enough to believe the dream Voldemort sent me, Harry insisted. I was the one who listened to Kreacher's lies . . .

But did you really kill him? the voice asked. Are you the only one to blame? Who tricked you into going to the Department of Mysteries? Who used him to lure you there? Who killed your parents?

He will not rest until he kills you.

"Voldemort," he muttered, the realization stealing over him with cold, measureless certainty.

The weapon he has been seeking so assiduously since his return: the knowledge of how to destroy you . . .

Voldemort killed him, Harry thought.

He realized that the one person whom you would go to any lengths to rescue was Sirius . . .

He used Sirius to lure me to the Department of Mysteries . . . He killed Mum and Dad so he could destroy me . . . White-hot anger filled him, a blinding savagery mixed with anguish so strong, Harry nearly blacked out. "He used them and killed them . . ." Harry murmured, "just to get to me."

Panting, he slowly staggered to his feet, the pictures scattering to the floor in a bright arc. The two dozen faces of his godfather gazed up at him, startled and confused.

Either must die at the hand of the other . . .

"Dumbledore said it will end with my death or Voldemort's." Harry touched the scar on his forehead. "Either I kill him or he kills me. It's our fate."

Neither can live . . . while the other survives . . .

"If the prophecy is true, the killing won't end. He'll keep on killing until one of us is dead." He gritted his teeth, his eyes burning. "He killed Mum . . . Dad, and . . . "Harry bit his lip, struggling for control. "If Voldemort continues to gain power, he may just . . ." Harry trailed off, unable and unwilling to speculate farther.

A sudden thought shot through him, like a jolt of electricity: You can make him pay.

I've got to stop him, he thought. I've got to kill him before . . . Harry glanced down at the photo clutched in his fist. Sirius grinned up at him, his glass raised. Before someone else I care for dies.

"No," he vowed in a low voice, "I'm not going to let him. I'm not going to stand by and watch him kill anyone. I can't." He bowed his head. "I won't lose anyone else, not any more. I've already lost --" He broke off as a lump rose in his throat. Harry took a deep breath, forcing the lump back down.

"Either way, one of us will die," he reasoned fiercely. "It's our fate. So I'll kill him. There's no other way," Harry muttered, his hands balling into fists. A feverish rage blazed in his eyes. "I have to make him pay for what he's done." The anger surged up more strongly, overwhelming him in a burning tide. The room spun more wildly about than the churning of a Floo fire. Harry swayed and buckled, his already weakened senses failing. He lurched forward, groping for the bedpost for support.

When the world grew steady, Harry released the post. As he straightened up, he heard a faint swish at his feet. Looking down, he saw the pictures scattered about the floor. He knelt down, taking up the picture of Sirius, grinning broadly, his arm crooked round Harry's shoulders.

"I promise you, Sirius . . . Mum . . . Dad, I'll kill him for what's he's done to you . . . to me . . . to everyone." Harry gazed at the picture for a moment before tucking it away into his pocket. "Even if I die trying, I'll kill him . . . I promise you."