Hey – Thanks for the nice reviews on my last chapter, and your patience in dealing with my updating issues. I do not own Symbelmine, Harry Potter, Sev (sadly, very sadly, baby) or anything else recognizable. See how many references you can find to FanFic Authors I respect, JRR Tolkien, and basically anything else. House points will be awarded. However, in true Slytherin fashion, preference will be given to those of my own house.

Symbelmine

The mist seemed impenetrable. There was a significant amount of pain radiating from his arms, and as Harry trudged blindly along, stumbling occasionally over some inconsistancy in the terrain, which he couldn't see, he cautiously held his arms out. The potential of falling on his own face was just barely overriding the fear of increasing the pain in his arms. He wondered why he kept going; indeed, if it was even the right thing to do. Was he about to walk into one of Voldemorte's traps? Was the Dark Lord and bane of all Muggle borns watching his pathetic attempts and mocking him? Did he know? Harry paused for a moment, contemplating this hideous thought, which had only recently entered his mind. What if he knew? What if he knew that Harry had backed out of the fight? Oh Lords. They were all doomed. His friends, professors, their families, their children to come. All that he held dear about the world of magic, and potentially the "real" world… If Riddle knew that Harry had tried to, had wanted to…. Hope for the future would be lost, if the prophecy was indeed true.

The prophecy. Sirius. The Veil. The Veil! If only he had gone through after Sirius. No one would have believed that Harry Potter would intentionally go through the veil of whispered doom. The Veil of Death. Perhaps it was all an illusion? What if Sirius was indeed with him, half of a time plane away, in some semi-dimension so close that he could smell the sickness upon Harry's breath? What if he allowed this inviting darkness to overtake him, only to find that Sirius, his parents, Cedric, all those he loved who had passed on were not there to greet his arrival? What if he were to die alone, and then be trapped in isolation for all eternity? What if he really was never to see any of them again? What if the mortal realm was truly as good as it gets? His body collapsing into the (seemingly) mossy earth, Harry's mind travelled to Christmas Eve services at the church the Dursley's claimed to be a part of. So many people. So many praying to a God who potentially didn't exist, in an organization, which denied the existence and reality of all that he knew. So many expecting a miracle, the divinity of death, their saviour and those who went before them greeting them in gladness and love at the pearly gates or upon fluffy white clouds of condensation.

So many lies. The foundation of their culture was built upon them. What a stunner it would be for those Christians, to realise that they would be alone forever. A shudder ran through him, and he gasped for breath at the concept of being in this uncertain place for the remainder of his conscious (or was it post-conscious?) existence. He shuddered again, and a sudden grasping pain in his chest felt as if it were crushing him. Hell, he though briefly. A literal hell of pain and anguish, both physical and mental. What worse that an eternal uncertainty for the mortal mind? A convulsive spasm overtook his body and the crushing pain in his chest released, then returned more forcefully.

Alone. Alone. He was to die alone, and then his spirit would remain alone. "That's what you get for killing yourself 'arry." He heard Hagrid mumbling somewhere from behind him. "It's dead disrespec'ful, you being lucky to have been born with the wonderful and kind Albus Dumbledore lookin' af'er you an all. It was hard, no doubt, with He-who-must-not-be-named on your case and all, but still… lucky, I'd reckon. Bloody spoiled, ruinin' that and all."

"Really Harry, I'm sure that there's a better way to deal with all this. Why don't we go to Headmaster Dumbledore? Should I use my pass to thre restricted section and see what I can find to help you with this? Don't' be rash Harry? I'm sure that there's a lot of trouble you can get into with this1 Be careful!"

"Hermione's right, you know Harry." Where the hell did Ron come from? And he was right – Hermione normally was right – even as she went along with all our plans, preaching all the way. She was always right. And yet we never listened. Sorry, 'Mione. Sorry we called you by a nickname you hated too. I leave you Hedwig. She and Crookshanks really get on. Sorry Ron. You were a better mate than anyone gave you credit for, a Gryffindor star in your own right. Sorry I overshadowed you. I hope you play the role we need you to as a strategist in the upcoming war. We will need you. They will need you.

"Harry! Harry! Hecate's Ghost! He's having a HEART ATTACK! No spells or potions my ass, He's going to die here in my guest quarters. NINNY! "

Severus his only just staunched the flow of blood from him nasal passages, and had been attempting to go into a fretful half-sleep, when a change in the boys breathing pattern had occurred. He was out of the chair, before he even knew why, and at the boy's side a step later. The Childs body was wracked with tension, his mouth gaping like a Grindylow on dry land. A quick check of the carotid revealed a terrible thing. His heart was trying to stop. The boy-who-lived had given up trying. Letting him go never passed Severus' mind. He simply didn't think that way. Problems to be solved, the beauty of potions making. He hollered at the house elf again.

"NINNY! Floo Pomfrey at Hogwarts' Infirmary now. Potters having a heart attack. I need to know the charm to reverse this!"

The diligent house elf tearfully acquiesced, reverent as always of her master, and he affection for her troubled new charge threatening to interfere with her focus on the task at hand.

Standing before her master's great fireplace, she took a handful of the glimmering white powder and threw it over-handed into the small flame glowing there. Swallowing her terror, as the flame grew huge, she took a great breath and plunged her head into the center of the green flames. " Madame Pomfrey! Severus Snape is needing you!"

"Oh, Harry." Stunningly, Dumbledore had the least to say. Interesting, as much of this could be blamed on him, Harry felt empathetic to the remainder of his puppet army. The best was yet to come. He promised them nothing, and apparently Albus always kept his promises. At this point tom seemed a better bet. More reward to. At least his troops had some recreational fun along the way. Harry found that he was growing tired of the Headmaster's hypocritical gaze. In this place, he had a choice, and so Harry pulled away and drifted elsewhere. It was tremendously funny that Harry realised that he preferred his Potion Masters honest spite to Dumbledore's kindly lies. How one grows and learns along the way. Dumbledore was no grandfather; he was a cunning strategist, an army general of the most ruthless kind. All would sacrifice for his cause.

The darkness began to recede, and Harry realised that he was not lying upon a bed of moss, but rather of thousands upon thousands of tiny white flowers. He has surrounded by them, supported by them, and oddly, comforted by them. Their slight, star-shaped faces peered up at him from all around, seemingly cushioning him from the pained in his body. He felt it become muted, he felt as if he were floating in a sea of flowers. There was a soft fresh smell about him, and an occasional green petal peeped up between the flower heads. Harry knew this was wrong, somehow; he had never seen anything like this, and it felt as if it didn't belong in this dark terrifying place. However, he hoped to pass from conscious existence here, surrounded by beauty and for the moment, feeling safe from the terror of abandonment and loneliness. The feeling that things were out of place, that something seemed wrong in the telling of his story wouldn't leave him. He continued floating, and then realized: Symbelmine. The star-shaped flowers which grew upon the tombs of kings. Kings of Horse-masters. Somehow Harry highly doubted a Thestral counted in these matters. He was no king. He was many things, but he was not a King, or any royalty for that matter, contrary to popular belief. Just a boy without parents who would die before his time. The pressure upon his body increased. The flowers around him appeared to bow their heads in sorrow. No royalty he.

He turned to look upwards, subtly aware that another grasp of pressure was overtaking him, gleefully overtaking him. He looked upon the stars above him, glanced sideways at the small stars surrounding him, breathed deeply and allowed himself to fall completely into him. A small speck in the cosmos, nothing else mattered now; whether or not he had actually existed, whether there were many or just himself alone; whether it was all just a chaotic dream, or a chapter in an overly-long book; all was well. The stars supported him, caressed him, and seemingly became part of him. He was a star. He had never been real. Carbon. Oxygen. Mostly carbon. A malleable mass. Nothing but a whole lot of hot air. From below the pain came and ironic chortle, manifesting itself as a coughing fit. Hot air indeed. His enemies would have a hay day. At this point he felt that there was no air at all. Didn't your body explode in the absence of oxygen? He would soon find out. All never endings were on fire, and the end was surely near.

As he opened his eyes one last time to gaze upon the teeming cosmos, to melt along with his brothers and sisters in the heavens, a final desperate hope to be consumed by the overwhelming beauty. A childlike hope that it would be greater than the degree of his suffering somehow, that it would override the physicality of his dying body. Eyes ashine with hope, he was dismayed and startled to look upon the overly-concerned face of Severus Snape.