Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or the below poem. The author is stated at the end of the chapter, so if you don't want to ruin the surprise in the next chapter, skip the below author's note.
This chapter is dedicated to WhatWldMrsWeasleyDo and violeteyedkitten. Both of you are such an inspiration. xD
Harry picked up the piece of parchment, a curious, but wary, expression twisting his tear-striped face. He knew that it could have been a spell that was entrapped in the parchment, waiting to do him harm, but he opened it anyway. Deep down he was secretly wishing that he didn't have to be alarmed at a lonely piece of parchment sitting on the ground. But he wasn't naïve. He knew that he would never have that peace of mind.
His nimble fingers unfolded the letter, careful to press down the fold-creases until the entire page was almost flat again. The yellowed paper was nearly empty, except for a block of paragraph written in the middle with pitch black ink.
"There is a two-fold Silence- sea and shore-
Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,
Some human memories and tearful lore,
Render him terrorless: his name's 'No More.'"
"What the bloody hell…" Harry remarked after reading the poem for a third time. Deciding to talk to Hermione and Ron about it, he refolded the note and slid it into his pocket.
He continued his trek over to the sink, feet dragging against the crusty tiles as he went. He twisted the knob next to the spicket and splashed water on himself, washing his face of melancholy before he left for the Gryffindor tower.
"Hiya, mate," Ron greeted with an easy smile from his place in front of the fireplace.
"Harry, where have you been?" Hermione asked, voice going shrill with concern at the end. Ron smiled sympathetically at his friend and rolled his eyes behind Hermione's back. Hermione just continued to stare at Harry, hands on her hips, waiting for an answer.
"Sorry, Hermione," Harry said, quickly thinking up an alibi, "I was in the library, doing some research for Potions. I wanted to surprise Snape; I thought maybe he'd lay off me if I knew more about what I was doing?" He ended the sentence with a question, on account of the incredulous look Hermione was giving him.
Suddenly, her expression changed to sheer happiness. "Well, good thinking, Harry! You see Ron, if you took the initiative like Harry did you wouldn't be failing half of your classes," Hermione turned to Ron, scowling. She smiled cheerfully at Harry. "I'm so glad that I didn't have to drag you both tomorrow. I was going to pull an intervention for an hour before your Quidditch practice, but now…well, Ronald I suppose still needs it, but you can help tutor him with me." She beamed.
"Oh, uh," Harry began, stumbling for the right words, "Actually, Hermione, I was wondering if you'd help me figure this out. I found it in the boys bathroom…" He pulled out the letter and handed it to her.
As she read, Hermione said slowly, "You know, Harry, this could have had something dangerous inside of it. You really shouldn't pick up foreign things, especially considering your role in this war."
"I know, it was stupid of me," Harry admitted.
"Merlin, Hermione," Ron groaned, "How do you possibly think like that all the time? I think it would give me a head ache."
"Having a brain isn't a reason to get a head ache, Ronald," Hermione replied, handing the poem to him. Ron took it and also read it. Hermione waited for him to finish before giving her opinion.
"Well," she began. "I think the chance that this was just a commonplace thing is slim to none, personally. But it doesn't seem as if they're referring that they're going to do any harm to you in the stanza…I have to do some research."
"Great," Harry remarked, "You and Ron can go together." Ron deadpanned, although he quickly recovered and scowled at his raven haired friend. "You know, you two birds with one stone and all," Harry added.
"Why don't you come with us, mate?" Ron emphasized. Hermione was busy gathering her things to take back up to her dormitory, before they departed, and didn't spare the two a second glance. When she was out of ear range, he hissed, "Haaaaarrry! What were you-?" He quickly cut himself off when Hermione came back down the stairs.
"Alright, Ronald, off we go," she announced. "Harry? Are you coming along?"
"Er," Harry lied, "I have to finish up an essay, actually. So can I come next time?"
Hermione nodded. "Homework first, research later. Sounds good. See you later," she said, focus taking up most of her facial expression. She headed for the portrait's portal, Ron trailing behind her.
"Yeah, bye," Ron grumbled without a look back.
"Honestly, Ronald, I don't see why you can't…" was all that Harry heard before the portrait snapped shut behind the pair.
Harry visibly sighed in relief. He loved his best friends, with all of his heart, but sometimes he just couldn't handle being around them. Or other people, for that matter. He just felt so claustrophobic when anyone was around him; he felt as if he couldn't breath.
He stared at his palms. The scars from last year were still there. And although they had healed well with minimal scarring, he could see every stroke of the Blood Quill as if he had written them again. He felt a well-known prickling tugging at the corners of his eyes.
He curled into a ball on the sofa and cried more.
The library was still. Madam Pince had locked herself in her office, after the last students had left, and wouldn't be out until much later that night. She smiled into her cup of tea. Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley had been the last ones out. Hermione was on a new research project, and had undoubtedly dragged the Weasley boy here. She had scoured through books upon books whilst he had only glared at his homework, every so often making a stray mark on his parchment.
Such focus and dedication was rare in the young people these days, she thought. Hermione was a dying breed. And she couldn't help but think that Hermione reminded her very much of herself.
As Madam Pince sunk into her reminiscent thoughts, she didn't notice a young man slip through the shadows of the darkened library.
He strode purposefully to the fiction section of the library. Cool moonlight spilled out from the crack of the window's curtain, illuminating a strip of his face. Handsome, high cheek bones gave way to a chiseled nose and full lips—lips which were currently whispering the name, "Plath…Plath…", alternating between breath and word.
When he reached the poetry shelves, he ran his slim fingers across the spines of the books until he reached the name he was looking for. Between the works of Randolph and Poe, he wriggled the skinny volume out of the shelves's clutches and the shimmering letters boasted "Sylvia Plath".
He flipped through the yellowing pages slowly, rubbing the individual pages between his thumb and forefinger, caressing the text, while searching the pages for what he was looking for.
After the twenty-first flip, he smiled softly and ran his finger across the black inked words. "Perfect," he whispered, barely audibly, and scribbled down the poem on a spare sheet of paper. He tucked both the quill and the sheet of paper into his messenger bag and replaced the book, leaving as quickly as he had entered.
The below poem is an excerpt from "Silence" by Edgar Allen Poe.