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Chapter 7 – Mourning, and the Afterlife

"...and, with the blessing from our hearts, may he get in his final rest the peace he never got in his life."

With those final words, uttered in a voice strained by tears, Albus Dumbledore left the dais where was the coffin supposedly holding the charred remains of the Boy-who-Lived. There had been so few remains that no magical signature remained, thus preventing even magical identification. There had been a few awkward moments during three days, during which Albus Dumbledore had to negotiate to obtain the body. First with the policemen in charge of the forensics, then with Marge Dursleys, who had arrived as soon as her wayward dog allowed her, and who didn't want to leave the body at first, before agreeing because of a well-placed spell. Finally, they had been able to hold the burial.

The sun was getting into late afternoon, acquiring some fiery colours. There was no wind, and very few birds were piping around. Harry's name had already been added to his parents' grave standing near the dais, in gold letters. The small assembly containing only his closest friends and professors rose little by little. They hadn't thought that Harry would have wanted the press and everything, as he never did seek his fame while living. Besides, on such a short notice, only the people that were close to him had been called. Needless to say, they were all devastated, some even more than others. Ron was keeping a blank face, sometime laughing at nothing, but crying most of the time, while denying it. Hermione was badgering everybody, tactlessly telling them stories about them and Harry, and always finishing by "but he's dead now." Worst of all was Ginny. During the most part of the day following the event, she had been moody, because of a bad nightmare. Upon hearing the news, she had collapsed, physically and mentally. She couldn't be awakened for a few hours, and was in denial since, always saying "He's not dead, Harry's not dead. I can feel it, he's not dead."

They all went to the coffin, one after the other, to deliver a final word of farewell. During this, a grave Severus Snape approached the Headmaster.

"Care for a walk?"

The old man silently nodded, and they walked slowly away. Dumbledore was helping himself with a cane, something that, despite his age, nobody had ever seen him doing before that infamous morning.

"Albus, I want to apologize."

This met only a nod from the old man. Severus understood that his aged superior wasn't up to speaking right now, and continued.

"I saw Harry in Diagon Alley yesterday."

The teary eyes, which had lost their famous twinkle hours ago, looked up from the cemetery's grass to the dark eyes of the Potion Master. Sensing the inquiry, Snape explained.

"He had taken money from his account, and wanted to take the train to his relatives. They didn't fetch him. And I pushed him there, Albus. I'm sorry."

Albus Dumbledore croaked something in the like of "Not your fault, mine" but was too wrapped up to elaborate. Snape wasn't finished, though. He turned towards Dumbledore, handing him an envelope.

"He also gave me this, for you. I didn't look at it, and didn't even remember it before... it happened."

Still sad, but curious, the Headmaster took the envelope and looked at it expectantly. He was ready to open it, when a sudden scream of fury came from the place they left. He stowed the letter in his pocket and they came back as quickly as possible to the assembly. What they saw was a rather strange vision. Ginny Weasley was red. Not red from blushing. Not red from hitting something. No, she was red from rage, and she was holding an opened letter in her left hand and an owl in her right. And she was shaking the owl and ranting at it, as if that was the owl that killed Harry.

Feeling the need to 'protect the messenger', Snape and Molly Weasley, Ginny's mother, rushed to her side to take the owl away and to try to understand what started the tirade. After both being shouted at by a visibly distraught girl, her mother got the disgruntled owl back, and the professor got the letter. Ginny was oblivious, still, and continued to rant for a minute, before collapsing, sobbing, on the coffin. While her mother, having released the owl, tentatively tried to soothe her, Snape unfolded the letter and read it. Some seconds afterwards, he appeared that he was also going to explode, but he awkwardly picked up a potion from his pockets, and drank it. The effect was immediate and he could calmly read the letter aloud for everybody to understand it and Ginny's reaction.

Mister Potter,

We have been informed that a protection spell cast by yourself has been triggered in your home at number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, tonight, at midnight.

As you very well know, having already received a first notification of underage spellcasting, you are now thusly expelled from Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry (decree on restriction of magic of first cycle students, article 1875, parts D, U, M, and B).

Besides, we hereby inform you that, muggles having seen your display of magical happenstance, you are under a request for judicial procedure (Article 13 of the Secrecy Code issued by the International Confederacy of Wizardry). Present yourself to the Ministry tomorrow at 4pm sharp for further questioning.

Mafalda Hopkirk
Service of Underage Magic, under special supervision by the Minister's office
Ministry of Magic

As soon as he finished, Ginny, who was up and seething again, launched her tirade again. "The gall! And here they come, undoubtedly fooled by that magnificent coffin," she lowered her voice, but the small crowd was still able to hear her perfectly in the still afternoon "and the wonderful person inside... the most... gentle... and loving... boy, that... graced the face... of earth." and she collapsed again, sobbing, the pain too intense to be bearable. But after those few words, everyone that still doubted had the confirmation. Her indistinct moaning of denial of his death was lost in the double shock of the Ministry's lack of tact and Ginny's public acknowledgement of her feelings.

Ginny Weasley was in love with Harry Potter.

And that didn't ease Albus Dumbledore's feelings the slightest.

Somewhere else, a few days before...

Dark.

Dark.

Immensely dark.

And no feeling.

Except a feeling of travelling through space, once.

Now it's finished.

A shout.

"I DON'T WANT TO DIE!"

His soul screaming.

"I'M NOT MEANT TO DIE!"

Wake up, me!

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Okay, don't wake up. Too painful right now.

A faraway echo of crying.

Crying? I don't cry. Blokes don't cry.

Who said that?

I don't know. A friend, perhaps?

I have friends?

Silence.

I don't know.

I don't know anyone related to me.

I don't know... me.

Who am I?

More silence.

I don't like silence. What am I?

I was a human, that I remember.

But I was also a beast.

No. That was a dream.

But a friggin' good one!

I was human, nonetheless. That at least is secure.

And there was a girl. I like her. So I'm a guy.

Well, I already knew that, smart-ass.

Look who's sarcastic with who!

Okaaaay, so I'm having a little chit-chat with myself now.

'Fraid so.

Try to wake up, shall I? I don't like this place.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!"

Okay. Unbearable pain again. Let's stay here for a while.

Do I have a deck of cards to play with myself?

Ah ah. Very funny.

No kidding. I'm always funny.

Silence.

Am I?

I don't remember.

What do I remember?

The pain. Everywhere. Especially on my face.

A sword... I like swords! Err... no, that's not my line.

The girl. Hmmm... red hair?

Red hair is fine with me. I like red hair.

Okay. Let's play a game now. What other things are red?

Traffic lights.

Coke cans.

Wow. I remember things. Cool... let's continue.

Strawberries.

Birds.

Birds? Red? What kind of bird is red?

I don't remember. But it's a cool bird.

Hmmm...

What?

I remember an old man with the bird, but I don't see his face.

You know, you'd be an interesting case for a psychiatrist.

Nut-case.

Egg-head.

Let's stop arguing. If we are stranded here for all eternity, we should be friends.

Yeah, let's be friend with myself. Otherwise I'd really be a psycho case.

You know, all the stuff about the tunnel and light.

Yes? Of course I know. We know.

It's so... I don't know. I wish there was a light.

Silence.

And still darkness.

And no feelings.

Normally I like silence.

I do?

But now I don't.

Let's play the game again, then. What do we know?

Silence.

A castle. A big one.

A snake. Two snakes. Plenty of snakes!

Shouldn't I be afraid of snakes?

I don't know. I'm not.

Silence.

Wait.

What?

I hear things.

Me too.

That's for sure. We hear the same things. Now stop and try to listen.

Silence.

See? You frightened it.

Don't say "you" or we're going schizophrenic.

Shall I say that I frightened it?

No! Now shut up.

That's my line!

Just shut up. They are battling.

Who?

I don't know.

Friends?

I don't know.

Silence.

Foes?

I hope not.

Silence.

I hope they stop going back and forth, they are affecting the reception.

Ah, here they are again.

But I hear nothing.

But they are here.

Ah? Where?

On top of me.

Really?

Yes. Care to wake up?

Let's try.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH..."

Shove it, it's still painful.

Friend or foe, I hope they calm that pain.

A stirring.

What?

I feel...

...strange.

Like in a shower.

A hot shower.

A hot shower of some vitalizing water.

Aaaaaaahhhh... that feels good!

Let's worship the person helping me.

Again.

Again!

I think it stopped.

I feel weird.

But now, I have feelings. Still numb, but feelings nonetheless.

Thankfully, it's numb. Have you seen that arm?

Oh, my! Definitely out of service.

Think not. Look. It's repairing itself.

Why?

What am I? An encyclopaedia?

Okay, okay, just asking.

Look at our legs.

Ouch! That wound must have been painful.

Hey! It's not even repairing correctly!

Are you crying over God's little gifts?

Am certainly not. Looks like my body is complete.

My body, too.

Well, we share a body, you nitwit.

Now that it's repaired, can we wake? I need to stretch my legs.

Wait a second. There is a problem.

Huh?

Our eyes. They got burnt. And one is sliced.

I want to see! I want to see!

Am I sure that that's what I want, rather than completely repairing my legs?

Yes! Yes!

...because it seems the energy shower is finished, and we have energy only for one.

You sound like a repair garage technician.

What's that?

Errrmm... someone repairing cars?

Okay. Now. Sight?

Yes! Sight!

The darkness acquires color.

Sooo coooool...

Shut up, you sound like you're high.

Better than this down-trodden place. Let's wake up, now. I'm fed up with here.

Let's.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! God! That hurts!"

The outside world...

On a pile of rubble, there were three bodies. Three dead bodies. Suddenly, the bottommost rose with a deep intake of breath, before collapsing, exhausted and panting. It was five in the morning.

Now, two hours after, the sun had been showing for some time, and, among the three bodies, one had been a vampire. That generally poses a survival problem. Slowly, painfully, ever so painfully that he was paralysed by his wound, his flesh had transformed into ashes, most of it being dispersed by the wind, leaving a rather empty black garment. The sword, that had been holding his heart still, had dislodged from the black clothes at some point, and had fallen through cracks in the pile of rubble.

The panting body rose again, this time accustomed to living. He felt himself all over, trying to find broken bones and the like, but everything appeared in order. He was clad in burnt rags but, on top of him, he found a set of black clothes with some ashes in it. 'Who's stupid enough to put ashes in clothes on purpose?' he reflected, while shaking them clean. 'Was it me?' He gathered the clothes, then turned around, taking in his surroundings. The first thought is 'shoddy' and the second is 'too bright'. Strange, the sun never had this effect on him before. He thought hard, while leaving the rubble pile, limping towards some shadow. No recollection. Of anything. At all. Just some fleeting thoughts, about a girl with fiery hair. 'So clichéd. I remember nothing but the maiden.' he thought. And bizarrely, he didn't feel bad about calling her The Maiden, as in The Knight, The Beast, and The Maiden. Speaking of which, he also remembered a richly decorated sword, without defined shape, though. All this called for something in him, something he probably forgotten. His only other memory was about a book. Frowning, he seemed to remember perfectly everything from the book, but without understanding any of it. It was as if he had memorized by heart a book in a language he was not proficient with. And, while he was storing this information away, not to use it anytime soon, it disturbed him greatly.

'Well, I should dress myself' he thought suddenly, interrupting his reverie. He removed the rags that covered him, and put the black clothes. 'They fit so well they must be mine', he reflected. Putting them on, though, he felt that his face was not healed, and had suffered injuries. Searching for a mirror around him, he also remarked that he was only seeing with one eye. His surroundings didn't have depth, and he was a little wobbly from the vertigo that held him for a few minutes. During his recovery, he put his hands in his pockets, and recovered some identification papers and very little money. The identification had a picture of a guy with black hair and brownish eyes, and a name: Gabriel Swift. Finding a rear-view mirror in a wretched car nearby, he was first shocked of the level of injury his face got. He had obviously been badly burnt, because of the crisp skin. He also was raked through the face and left eye and that scar looked like it came from a feline paw. And all this was still painful to the touch. His right eye was dark, with a red tint in them, like dark crimson. It gave him an uneasy feeling, but, checking with the picture again, he came to decide that that would be him. He tentatively tried to speak, but his voice was all raspy from the injuries his throat had endured. Swallowing, and trying again, he successfully talked to himself – again. "Hello, me."

Apart from his new identification papers, he didn't have anything of interest, though. Anything? He sensed something on his right hand, and looked down. A signet ring with "G/S" on it. That sealed it, he was convinced now. His name was Gabriel Swift.

What little was left of Harry Potter left the shoddy area towards the city, and a new life.

Ministry of Magic, conference room, 4pm the same day of the following week...

"Please, ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards, please, calm down."

The ruckus didn't quiet down. The spokesperson looked like he was lost. He tried a last time.

"Please calm down. The Minister of Magic will be here shortly to answer your questions, but you have to calm yourself."

The mention of Cornelius Fudge's eventual presence caused the room to rise in an uproar. As if on cue, thinking that people were acclaiming him, the Minister entered the room through a stage door and got on the podium. "Ladies and gentlemen," started the spokesperson, but he couldn't continue, the noise being deafening.

Still, Cornelius Fudge was oblivious and didn't remark that people were not eager to see him, but rather furious. Some were even banging their chair on the floor to add to the commotion.

It all started by an article, taking up the whole front page of the morning's Daily Prophet, explaining the life and death of Harry Potter. In an example of their mastery of the verb, Fred and Georges, aided by a revenge-hungry Ginny, had written their explanation of their friend's life. It was mostly true, just shadowing Dumbledore's role. The old man was stricken by grief, and even if they had some harsh questions to ask, it wouldn't do any good to destroy him publicly like that. The Minister of Magic, that was another story. If the bumbling fool could be taken down a peg or two, or twenty, anything was game. From underlying the financial support Fudge got from families known as Death Eaters, to his management of Voldemort appearance as a possessing spirit, and his special and personal supervision of the tactless Service of Underage Magic. They had signed under a false name, of course, because nobody would take them seriously at that time. But they were here, in the first rank of the conference room when the Minister arrived on stage, and were decided to change the way things worked. In that regard, one of their actions had been to call for that press meeting with the Minister, inviting only those reporters that weren't corrupt yet, judging by the honesty of their articles. And that hadn't given exactly the same attendance than usual Ministry press meetings. They were more, and they were out of control.

The Minister was finally taking the room in, and the angry faces of reporters in front of him began to unnerve him. Still, to keep his dignity intact, he couldn't very well flee after such an entrance. After all, the elections were the following year, and he had to strengthen his political status even more.

Rising on their feet, an executioner's grim expression on their face, the Weasley twins then stood on their chairs on each side of the front row, and held their hands in the air to placate the angry journalists. This was working a little, and the Minister sent them a thankful, but dismissive, look and started to speak.

"Thank you for being here tod..."

But he was promptly cut by the twins who, acting like they rehearsed a piece, spoke together.

"People, the Minister is here, so, we'd like to cut that short. For your information, we are the authors of today's offending article." This elicited some murmurs among the assembled crowd. "Please base your questions on it. We'll direct the interrogation and fill in the blanks. Who wants to start?"

Fudge's jaw was hanging, while almost all the reporters present raised their hands. He tried to catch the control of the situation again. "Now, listen here, young men..."

The dark look the twins and, come to think of it, most of the room also, sent his way was a bad sign. He gulped audibly, while the twins selected a well-dressed blonde young woman from the third row to start. Unbeknownst to all, the woman, a mere columnist for weather forecast at the Daily Prophet, had arrived first in the room. The twins had had some time to prepare her for the slaughter, and they also had told her the question to ask first.

"Laura Girard, Daily Prophet." That sounded very professional, and other reporters, especially from the Daily Prophet itself, looked at her questioningly. Then they remembered the small and mousy columnist, and acknowledged her belonging to their newspaper to the other reporters. During this interchange, though, Laura continued to speak. "I want to know how it comes our Minister is hand-in-hand with those listed dark practitioners."

"Which ones?" Fudge blurted out without paying attention. "Errm... that's not how it was intended to sound... I never knowingly associated with dark practitioners. Never! My job is to keep the wizarding world safe, why would I associate with such bad people?" Fudge smiled, thinking that his witty retort reinstated his control of the room.

"Why, indeed?" the high-pitched, scalding exclamation came from the red-headed young witch on the first row.

"If you think fooling us with your choice of words, Minister, you are sadly mistaken..." started Fred.

"...and insulting our intelligence. 'knowingly' indeed. I doubt that Death Eaters come to you with their masks on."

"So you can safely answer like that."

"Unless you are a Death Eater yourself, Minister." the back-and-forth questioning was unnerving for the slightly panting Minister. It was like watching a match of the muggle sport called tennis, the only problem being that he was the ball. The onslaught was furious, as were his executioners. "Are you?"

"What?" he tried to regain his composure once more.

"Prove it. Prove that you are not a Death Eater." Fred started again, the talk once again going back and forth between the twins.

"So that you get the chance that some innocent didn't have when sent in Azkaban."

"Contrarily to some proven Death Eaters that you personally freed from the clutches of justice! And you got the gall to deny your links with them! Their pledge for being under the Imperious curse was thoughtful, but, tell us Minister. How many persons can you hold under that curse?"

"Errm..." the Minister was buffeted. "One?"

The twins smiled. They had asked and researched to get that information, and had rehearsed a good part of the exchange, counting on the Minister's bubbly self-image to burst. And they were so intent with their piercing attacks that the initially portly man on stage was visibly deflated. Looking at each other, they continued.

"How do you know?" asked Fred loudly.

"And then, how many Dark Lords would have been necessary to hold all your so-called friends under the Imperious at the same time? Ten? Twenty?"

That destroyed the last shreds of control Cornelius Fudge thought he was having. Were he able to think clearly, he would have noticed that, due to their fiery hair and temper, the twins and the girl were most likely to belong to the Weasley clan. But as the target of a verbal lynching, trying to save his hide was his top priority. Being out of his right mind, he committed blunder upon blunder when the free-for-all ensued.

Azkaban, wizarding high-security prison, cell number 7419...

The convict number Kappa-Psi-390 was angry. That is, in the rare moments of lucidity the Dementors allowed him. Even if the Ministry hadn't been keen on recognizing the Dark Lord reappearance, the shifts had been doubled, and that had left him even less time to be himself.

His old cellmate had been a wrinkled man that had had the misfortune of inadvertently killing his Death Eater wife by banishing her over the balcony, the fall effectively killing her. His wife's friends had been corrupting the Minister, and the man had been too devastated to even defend himself. Still, he had time to tell his story before definitely going mad from the Dementors' effect. His progressive lack of strength had prevented him from eating, thus worsening his condition little by little, and now he was dead.

His new cellmate, a young and real Death Eater, had been stupid enough to gloat over his victims' body when his 'friends' left the place, to be replaced by arriving Aurors. He had perhaps mistaken the departure and arrival apparation pops. Anyways, as he had been caught red-handed, the trial happened so swiftly that his judges couldn't be corrupted in time. The first two things he said upon his arrival in the cell, though, had infuriated its other occupant. The first being that his Death Eater superior was influent enough to get himself out of there in no time. And the other was a recounting of the day's Daily Prophet front page. In itself, that was not meaningful enough to infuriate anyone, it was only regular bragging and news casting. It was the name of his superior and the name of a dead boy that provoked the reaction. Peter Pettigrew and Harry Potter.

Sirius Black was angry, and already on the verge of madness. In his long stay in the prison, it had helped to be an animagus. In his animagus form, he didn't feel most of the dementing effect of Azkaban guards. The Dementors sensed human's emotions, but animals' were blurry to them. And they don't have real eyes anyways. It did also help that he didn't register as an animagus all these years ago, when, still a student, he and his friends helped Remus Lupin through his monthly transformations. Otherwise, his cell would have been enhanced with an anti-transformation hex. As it was, he had a plan, but had been waiting for a drive and an opportunity. He had already had opportunities when they switched dead prisoners for live ones, four times during his stay. But his drive had been lowered by his weakened state. Now that he was glowing with fury, he desperately wanted out. He had missed his godson's life, and the cause of all his torments was alive. Any human would be enraged at this, but when taking a wizard, you could have a free fireworks display.

The first thing he did, while enraged at the other man's words, was to beat him to an inch of his life. The beating took a small part of his anger away, but he didn't want to kill him. Even in his rage, he realized he didn't want to be Kissed by a Dementor for a real murder. Any murder in Azkaban had always been swiftly quieted while the murderer was experiencing the Dementors' fatal attack, the Kiss. It has been said that the victims of this attack stay soulless and their bodies decay on the spot. Sirius wanted to exact revenge on his life and Harry's, and he was hoping that the Dementors would be called in by the ruckus. Sensing their approach, he quickly turned into the form of a big black dog, even if underfed, and waited for them close to the wall next to the barred door. As soon as the two guards entered, confident in their fear-inducing abilities, he stumbled outside his cell.

Freedom!

The feeling was exhilarating.

But he didn't have time to revel, as he was still in the prison yet. Even if the Dementors, thinking he was an animal, saw only a blurry form in him, they might catch him. And there were also human guards on the outskirts. Hiding in an alcove to let another patrol pass, he reflected on his escape plan.

To be continued in next chapter: The Fair and the Fool...

That's it, you say, you knew that!
I couldn't kill the wee brat.
Shall I keep you on your toes
With the rest? Review, fellows!