And... Chapter Three! Review responses are at the bottom.
Where silver water gushes
from the hills above Glen-Car,
in pools among the rushes
that scarce could bathe a star,
there we seek for slumbering trout:
and, whispering in their ears,
give them unquiet dreams;
leaning softly out
from ferns that drop their tears
over the young streams.
Outside the window of the dormitory, the stars were shining brightly. Four of the five occupants were asleep, and did not see. One did; but his eyes were fuzzy with tears, and the points of light wavered for him. He didn't care.
Harry didn't particularly care about anything right now, least of all the panorama of stars. Save for one particularly bright star, they held no interest for him; but his eyes were fixed on that one, and his lips formed a silent name.
Sirius.
There was no answer. There never would be. Sirius was gone.
Suddenly, the boy could not bear the red-gold room for any longer. It almost seemed to press in on him. For a moment, he thought that this must have been what Azkaban was like for Sirius. No matter. He couldn't stay in here. Fetching his broomstick from his bed, he padded to the window. It opened easily, and the outside air was cold on his face. He clambered onto the sill, mounted his broom, and kicked off.
Aiming the Firebolt over the lake, Harry drifted. There was no specific place in his mind, not even a grave-site. Convicted criminals weren't dignified with graves. Especially when the body was not even available for burial. But the lack of a resting place didn't change the grief felt.
Harry might have known Sirius for only two years, but that had been more than enough time to love the man as an uncle if not a father. So what if Sirius had never been able to legally adopt him? That didn't manner anyway. So what if he'd been scarred by Azkaban? His godson didn't care if he was somewhat more reckless, or if he still loved pranking more than anything else. He just wished that he was back.
A tear dropped, falling into the center of the lake. It left a ripple pattern in its wake, disturbing the stillness of the waters. Another followed. Harry wept, alone, away from the crowd of students.
It had been his fault.
Why hadn't he trusted Snape? Why had he believed Kreacher instead? And why hadn't he thought to use the mirrors? No, he'd been stupid, and he'd rushed off without thinking, and now his godfather was dead. All his fault. And he'd be lucky if all of the DA recovered.
When the tears finally stopped, Harry felt a very small bit better. He dragged his sleeve across his face, glad that his glasses were charmed dry. As high as he was, the view was incredible, and for the first time he actually focused on it. In Quidditch, most of his attention went to finding the Snitch and avoiding Bludgers - not that he'd been playing Quidditch much this past year, thanks to Umbridge. But now he could float, and look, and he did.
The castle was off to one side, huge and monolithic in the frosty air. Beneath him was the lake; off to one side was Hagrid's hut and the Whomping Willow. Past that was dark line of the Forbidden Forest, but it looked... odd... Bespectacled eyes peered closer. The Forest was not a single dark mat. There were light places in it, valleys where the darkness drew back, and what looked like streams and lakes.
Curious, apathetic as to his own safety, Harry directed his broom nearer the Forbidden Forest until he was speeding above the tangled trees. There was a surreal atmosphere to the night. The Forest was silent, but it seemed that it watched him. Ordinarily, Harry would not have dared this; but the residents, tonight, seemed to tolerate him.
There was an erratic wind behind, and when he peered over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of a dark shape rising up beside him. A few moments later, the thestral matched paces with him, soaring serenely beside the broomstick and boy. Only a year earlier, the boy wouldn't have been able to see it, but then had come the Tournament. He'd been able to see them then, though he didn't know what he was seeing until Hagrid's lessons. Now, Harry wasn't sure, but he thought that this one looked familiar, almost like the one that had carried him to the Department of Mysteries and Sirius...
Welling tears forced shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the thestral was gone.
Even if the Tournament with all of its events had never happened, it would still be his fault. He drew in a shuddering breath, looked up at that bright star again, half-expecting, hoping, for some voice. There was none, of course. That star was just a star, and the man named for it had left.
But the star almost seemed to chastise him. If the Tournament had never happened, Harry now thought, then Voldemort would not have come back. The visions he had received would never have happened. All the prisoners of Azkaban would be twitching in madness in their cells. Bellatrix Lestrange would never have escaped, and so would never have dueled Sirius - and Sirius, Sirius would still be alive. Things would be different.
And the Tournament, he felt, was not his fault. Mad-Eye's imprisonment and the imposter portraying him had not been Harry's fault, and neither had the scores he'd received. How should he have known that the Goblet was a portkey?
Even so, the events after the Tournament... The prophecy...
He ripped his gaze away from the stars and directed it towards the Forest. One of the light, moon-speckled areas was nearing. There were still trees there, but they were shorter. Straighter. Not so menacing.
Now he was directly above, and he halted, hovering, staring down through his round glasses like a screech owl. There was no threat that he could see or hear. The Forest was still silent.
Like a last, lingering autumn leaf, he drifted downwards. Slowly, he heard, on the fringes of his mind, music and star-flecked laughter. It was familiar, though he didn't know why or from where.
He'd brought his Firebolt and forgotten his wand, he realized suddenly. But... did it matter? Even though he didn't trust his hunches anymore - Sirius - this was familiar in a way the visions never had been, and the boy could tell that this laughter, this music meant him no harm. No-one who laughed like that could be threatening.
Edging forward, Harry caught sight of a web of streamlets and tiny pools. They didn't really even look big enough to hold the moon's reflection, let alone the myriad of stars. But it wasn't the moon that was reflected in the first pool he came to. It was a star, a single, bright, welcoming star. A silver flash rippled under the surface, and the boy caught sight of a small creature leaning out from the mesh of ferns surrounding the little mere. The faery glimmered like the pool's surface in the moonshine.
A brief spider-web touch brushed against the back of his neck. A hand the size of a moth's wing tangled in his hair. He turned his head; from the corner of his eye a golden dart disappeared. The faeries drifted behind him, before him, circling the boy with old eyes. Singing, they called to him.
Come away, o human child!
To the waters and the wild
with a faery, hand in hand,
for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
There was a promise in their eyes. Harry could go with them, and he would not see, nor hear, nor ever feel Voldemort again. There would be no more visions and no more grief. He would be healed of his grief and any wounds he might suffer. They would give to him a peaceful life free from loss. The Boy-Who-Lived would no longer exist. Harry would be Harry, and nothing more unless he chose to be.
The star shone brighter for an instant, and he closed his eyes, remembering. If Sirius were still here, then he'd not go. But Sirius wasn't here, and he wouldn't be ever again. What would he tell his godson? What choice would he have him make? What choice would his friends, Cedric Diggory, his parents who died so that he could live - what would they have for him?
The faeries were beckoning, now, past the pool, deeper in. Harry stepped forward, treading carefully the edges of small meres. A larger opening was before him now, and he caught his breath. Shining in that mirror were countless stars: countless small stars, and one greater.
Choking, he lifted his head to gaze at the faeries. He wished so badly to go, to leave and never be responsible for death again... But what about the prophecy?
The prophecy named one and only one. If he did not destroy Voldemort, no one else could. What would happen then, to his friends? All the blood would be on his hands. It didn't matter that, if he left, he would never know when it happened. He'd still know that it was inevitable. More tears tracked his face. Harry could not do that.
Weeping, he stepped backwards, fumbling his way back to his broom.
The faeries watched him go.
Yes, Gaurwen, I am insane. I am not, however, hearltess. See! your next chapter awaits you - along with the answer to your question.
Good grief. Sor-ry, Arrina. I just won't ask you to review at all, then.
Angel Lucifer, neither have I. That was I wrote this: upon doing a search of nothing came up. And I desperately wanted something, so I figured I'd have to write it myself. -grins- One of my favorite poems too, by-the-by.
It truly is stunningly befitting, Faerie Fighter. Although I don't believe Harry is fighting the faeries so much as wanting to go, but not being able to. Don't worry: I'll update regardless of the reviews. It'll just take longer. You know what they say about reviews being inspiration? It's true. -cracks grin- Hope you like this chapter.
Hello, Brother. Don't you mean kid psycho, though? Yes, it's short. That part's deliberate.
Review, please! I'll keep on with the addition of two: nine reviews, or ten days, this time. So hit the button!