Warning: SPOILERS for the Half-Blood Prince. Character death.
Rating: English version age 15, rating T.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related characters that appear in J.K.Rowling's books are the property of J.K.Rowling and affiliates, of which I am neither. Any other original characters that appear in this fic are my moral, if unintellectual, property. I am not making money or fame from this fanfiction. If I was I'd be able to afford a damn spellchecker.
Summary: Hearing voices in your head is bad, even for wizards. When Harry starts hearing whispers he thinks he's cracking up, but it isn't untill he begins to hear what they're saying that he books himself into St. Mungo's
Harry Potter and the Calling of the Dead
Prologue
No one came to the top fields anymore. They'd originally been part of the old school's playing fields, attached to the Muggle comprehensive that nearly all the local children went to. Now they were shunned. Even the most desparate of dog-walkers wouldn't bring little Rexy-poos here.
It had been the same for nearly twenty years now, give or take; the place had gotten itself a reputation. None of the locals knew how it had happened. Twenty-four years ago there had been a series of murders in the area. People had dissapeared without a trace, turning up weeks later dead for no apparant reason. Other people reported strange lights and noises over the fields, although strangely no-one ever quite managed to investigate. Legend had it that they happened on the scrubby grass of the old top fields, that some madman had dragged the unfortunate victims up there, but legend was wrong. Few people knew this, and of all those who knew the truth only one had ever bothered to come back to the scene.
The one who had returned climbed the fields slowly, heading for a spot only he could recognise. Black cloth and hair rippled in the breeze as he made his way through a small clump of trees to a quiet, secluded spot. It was quiet, it was sunny. Bees buzzed around flowers, birds sang. The tall thin man in the black cloak took it off quietly, without fuss, to reveal hard-wearing robes that probably were once as black as the cloak. They had faded to a dull grey now, and were soon spattered with brown mud as he began to dig at the earth in the clearing with a small trowel.
After an hour of obviously back-breaking labour he had a very shallow rectangle, about six feet long and two foot wide, and he wasn't impressed. He was also, from the tip of his over-sized nose to the hem of his frayed robes, covered in mud. Angrily he flung the trowel aside and, drawing his wand from his pocket, made a complex curving gesture. A six foot by two foot by six foot cuboid of earth neatly removed itself from the shallow pit he'd dug, creating a neat trench into which he carefully placed his black cloak. A white object was held up to the light and revealed to be a plain blank mask before being consigned to the trench. Standing on the edge of the trench, staring down into it as if seeing far more than it's peculiar contents, the man drew his wand for the last time and stared at it thoughtfully before snapping it neatly in two. He flinched as he did so, but still tossed the pieces into the trench and looked at them lying there, so innocent seeming and harmless, before he climbed in after them.
The bright noonday sunlight shone off long greasy black hair as he carefully placed a small white envelope up behind his head out of the way. Leaning back in the grave, Severus Snape, the last to carry the noble blood of Princes, drew a small silver knife from the pocket of his robes and shut his eyes.
If he said any last words they were quiet ones, to be drowned out by the singing birds and buzzing bees.
Wizards do not have Last Rites; judging be their behaviour few believe in the existence of the soul. Nevertheless, all strive to have the Last Word.
That's the prologue, there'll be more soon.
Apologies to Sarah, who already knows sort of what's going to happen. I'm afraid I changed the order of things, but they're all in there somewhere and some more besides.
