Title:
The boy that forgot to die

Author:
evil minded

Date:
November, 1st 2011

Timeframe:
Second year at Hogwarts

Summary:
AU / Harry Potter comes back for his second year at Hogwarts, but something is not the way it should be, and Severus Snape seems the only one able to help the boy that forgot to die … will he manage to really help the Gryffindor before it is too late?

Disclaimer:
I don't really care about Lockhart, Quirrel or Umbridge, nor about most of the other characters in HP … I, however, would like to own one particular Severus Snape – regrettably I do not, Rowling does … but well – I'm borrowing him for a while … just to torture him a bit … I am evil minded after all …

Rating:
M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16

Author's Notes:
Uhm … alright … I have to admit … English is not my language by birth … so … please do not kill me while reading … neither for the – perhaps – sad language, nor for the subject of my writing …
Also, this is a story written for NaNo, a story written within thirty days only and even though I go over the chapters before uploading them – I do apologize if it might not have the same quality at one point or another than those stories of mine you are used to by now … thank you …

Warning:
Story contains bad language and swearing.
Don't ever use such, it's neither good manners nor proper use of language and never mind how 'cool' it might sound, it surely isn't a sign of intelligence. It won't get you anywhere and people will think less of you if you are unable articulating properly.
Story contains references to child neglect.
Child neglect is a really, really serious thing, and there are a lot of children in our world that are neglected, children that lack food, clothing, often love, and perhaps even a roof over their head – and closing our eyes, and pretending it does not exist – is no solution …
Story contains references to child abuse.
Child abuse is one of the most evil things, and there are a lot of children in our world that really would need help but have to live without hope – and again, closing our eyes and pretending it does not exist – is no solution … instead show sympathy, and understanding … and handle people, children as well as adults, which are showing any signs – whichever – of once having been abused … with understanding and with help …
What does not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be … ^.~ … believe me – I am …

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

The boy that forgot to die
Chapter one
Prologue – face in the sand
or back to school

Something was not right.

Something definitely was quite wrong.

He could feel it.

He could sense it.

In the far-off distance, bells chimed, announcing midnight and welcoming another early Sunday morning, but immediately he knew that – that was not what had awakened him. It rather had been a sense of foreboding seeping through his body that had disturbed his sleep, a sense of deathly foreboding that was spreading throughout his entire awareness and with a frown the Potions Master Severus Snape rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of the grind that had crusted up in his few hours of slumber.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

Little Whinging was lying dark and silent in the midnight hour. There was nothing except for the soft whisper of the wind that blew over treetops and there was nothing except for a few moths that were captured by the soft glow of the few streetlamps, soundlessly dancing around the soft orbs through the midnight air. There was no one in the streets at such a late hour – or at such an early hour, considering the point of view from anyone who might or might not have been there at this particular night.

But there was no one.

If there, however, had been someone here, then they would have heard the whispered words of 'no … please … no …' over and over again while the wizarding child clutched crooked fingers to his chest, long ago broken, one by one, while the wizarding child tried to hold onto life, tried to take one breath after another, tried to stay alive – one way or another.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

Still frowning in confusion, he threw the covers back and got off the bed only moments after the bells had stopped chiming, only seconds past midnight, only moments after the new day had come to life.

He left his bedroom and stepped out into the hall – the feeling of unease and restlessness gripping his chest in an embrace tighter and tighter until he had to hold onto the backrest of a nearby armchair to keep his balance and he immediately knew that something had happened, that something terrible had happened, something really terrible – knowing that Death had come to visit someone.

He was no seer, had never been – none of his family had ever been a seer and he didn't believe in this kind of nonsense – but tonight, this he knew with a clarity that was startling, that was frightening. Tonight, Death had been on his way, had been busy, and tonight Death had claimed someone.

Only hours away from the beginning of a new school year, only hours before the Hogwarts Express would leave Kings Cross, only hours before the school train would pull into Hogsmeade station, and only hours before the great hall would be filled with students once more – and he knew that this year something would change completely – that this year something would change for the worst.

He didn't like changes, even if he knew that he easily would be able adapting to them – after all, he was a spy, and he had learned to adapt quickly – but he didn't like changes. Changes only meant more complications and his life was already complicated enough. There was a meddling old fool of a headmaster who made sure of that and there were a few remaining Death Eaters who made sure of that as well – not to mention of about four hundred students that would be driving him insane come the beginning of the next school year

And yet he knew – something would change.

Something terrible had happened.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

His chest hurt, but it always hurt lately, and so that surely didn't matter anymore.

His stomach hurt also, because he was hungry, but as he always was hungry, that surely didn't mean anything either.

And something in his back felt wrong, felt broken, but he'd had so many broken bones over the past few years that this, too, surely didn't matter anymore. He was used to it and he, only for a moment, wondered what it would mean for him, this time.

He tried to move, knowing that he should try to find a more comfortable position so he finally would be able falling asleep, but he almost immediately realized that he couldn't and for another moment he wondered why, wondered if his uncle had managed to really damage him this time – but he rather quickly stopped thinking about that for fear of making everything more real. He quickly pushed everything into the back of his mind – head in the sand. If he couldn't see uncle Vernon, then surely uncle Vernon couldn't see him either, and if he didn't think of what his uncle had done to his body this time, then surely it wasn't done in the first place either.

It was as easy as this, wasn't it?

And so – if he ignored the nearly unbearable pain – and the just as suffocating fear as well – then the pain and the fear surely were not there either, were they?

Instead, he focused onto the lines he had read years ago, lines on a delicate piece of parchment that was worn meanwhile, that was yellowed and crumbled with age, a piece of parchment that was lacerated on the edges and stained from tears. He had read this piece of parchment so many times that he already knew it by heart and now he focused on those lines with a heavy heart, knowing that they were from his mother who had died long years ago, knowing that they were written by his mother who had sacrificed her life for him, knowing that they were meant to comfort him – but at the same time knowing that they never would come true, not for him anyway, no comfort for him, never comfort for him, because his mother had been wrong.

But they made him forget what could be wrong with him. Not for long though, he knew, but for just a little while, he could forget – for just a little while, he could dream.

Because a dream only, it was.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

The great hall wasn't filled with the students yet but there were already enough of them present so that a constant soft murmur was heard as a background noise, while the tables filled with children of all ages.

A few of his Slytherins, including his godson, Draco, were sitting at their house table, quietly debating over something while looking strangely worried and he narrowed his eyes at them. If there was something his snakes worried about, then he would like to know about it so that he could help solving the problem, but they had not come to him to inform him of anything yet – a fact that was strange, actually, as normally Marcus, his prefect would have come to see him about any problems in his house, or Cassandra, his other prefect, would have addressed him of any troubles – or Draco, after all, the boy was his godson. But no one of his snakes had done so by now.

A few Ravenclaws, sixth and seventh years, were discussing animatedly, a few lower grade Hufflepuffs were sitting at their own house table, whispering and looking quite scared somehow, and a few of the second and third year Gryffindors, including two third of the golden trio, were already sitting at their own house table as well, whispering, and he wondered where the third and missing part, Potter, kept himself. It was a rare occasion, after all, that they were seen separated.

Well, by any luck Potter – just perhaps - wouldn't attend Hogwarts this year?

With a sigh he realized that he, not only was being stupid and that Potter definitely would be attending this year, but that he was unfair too. He disliked the boy, yes, but wishing he would be kept from Hogwarts, jeopardizing his education or even wishing something befalling him, it really was a bit excessive. While he personally didn't like the boy, he had to admit that there definitely were worse children here at Hogwarts than Potter.

Weasley for example, being rude and disrespectful, boisterous and lazy – or Anderson, being a bully and getting other children into not only trouble but dangerous situations as well – Higgins for example, who always cheated in his work, practical as well as with his essays, hoping to get through the year without having to lift a finger – or Crabbe and Goyle, being lazy and stupid, and those two were in his own house. Potter neither was rude, nor a bully, he didn't cheat and, loath as he was to admit, he definitely wasn't stupid. He just happened to be the son of his school-days tormentor.

The Lazy part – that was correct.

But then – they all were, weren't they? At least most of them.

The sudden eerie silence that gripped the great hall made Snape looking up and his dark eyes scanned the four house tables quickly before they followed the eyes of the already present students, coming to rest on the heavy double winged doors that led to the entrance hall – and he couldn't help blinking in shock for a moment before he had his facial muscles back under control, because …

There he was, the third and missing part of the golden trio, Potter, entering the great hall, slowly and hesitantly – but what had him so shocked was the boy's appearance and for a moment he was sure that he had mistaken him for one of the ghosts as the boy definitely was ghostlike. Pale, nearly translucent skin, so thin it was noticeable even through the clothes he wore, and he actually wondered how the boy could be on his feet, dark circles the only colour in the pale face and even his green eyes were more a pale shadow of their previous startling emerald.

And it wasn't just as if he seemed ghostlike. No – he actually was ghostlike … what had been the reason as to why he had mistaken him for one of the ghosts in the first place. The Boy Wonder, the Gryffindor Golden Boy, the Boy Who Lived, Potter – was not a living child anymore, he was not a living being anymore, no – he definitely was a ghost. A dead ghost like the Bloody Baron or the Nearly Headless Nick.

And yet – the boy didn't float, no … he definitely was walking. Slowly and as if he would take his steps carefully, but he was walking on the ground, his feet definitely were touching the stony floor of the old castle and when he entered, his hand for a moment brushed the doorframe of the entrance to the great hall, the pale hand not going through the wall like the hand of a Hogwarts ghosts would, but brushing the dark wood, and actually touching it.

He couldn't tell if any of the other students would be able touching the blasted boy or if Potter simply would 'float' through them, something he wasn't sure as – a ghost normally would do just that, but well, Potter didn't float at all to begin with – and not to mention that … the other students seemed to definitely avoid him, seeing that they were sidestepping him. They definitely were scared of Potter, the ghost – or half-ghost, or the whatever.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

He cast a quick look at Filius, seeing that the charms teacher was blinking at the boy in pure shock, too, and he quickly looked over at Sibyll who gasped and then scrambled to her feet with a startled scream before fleeing the great hall and he huffed at her typical dramatic antics. Rolanda, too, was staring in pure shock at the entrance of the great hall, frozen to the spot – as seemed each and every present teacher except of Binns who looked rather unimpressed, seeing that he was a ghost himself.

And except for Albus and Minerva, the headmaster and the deputy headmistress who weren't present yet – the others that were here … they gaped in disbelief at the Boy Wonder – or rather the Boy Ghost.

Well, where he always was one of the first, wanting to have an eye on his Slytherins – and the other students for that matter – just to make sure that they behaved, there Albus and Minerva always took a bit longer, going through the last preparations for the feast, and for the upcoming term, something that had become a routine and that allowed Albus and Minerva a bit of peace, knowing that someone was there who would interfere encase of trouble in the great hall while they were otherwise occupied, still. Not to mention that Minerva had to take over the new first year students from Hagrid by the side entrance of the castle and bring them to the antechamber where they would have to wait for the sorting being prepared for them.

His eyes wandered towards Poppy, and he noticed that the medi-witch, too, looked shocked, her face having lost all colour and she threw a startled look at him, Severus, a nearly scared expression on her face, but otherwise she, too, seemed rooted to the spot, frozen like the rest of the staff, unable to move or take any other steps in what might be necessary in such a situation. Not that he knew what would be necessary in a situation such as this one – or otherwise appropriate – as he simply never had faced such a situation at all, but well, that was neither here nor there.

Well, at least he now knew why his Slytherins seemed so worried without having addressed him of their worries. Potter being a ghost was a worrisome thought to begin with while at the same time – it wasn't a matter of the house of Slytherin and so there was no need to inform their head of house while they were free to speculate and whisper around like anyone else.

Looking back at Potter he noticed that the boy nearly had reached his place at the Gryffindor table, Granger and Weasley both looking uncomfortably at their friend and Weasley actually scurried away a bit when the boy intended to sit beside him while Granger watched Potter with scared large eyes – as did nearly every other student present in the great hall, never mind what house from.

Potter slumped his shoulders, as if in defeat and then sat down a bit away from them, his eyes kept at the table in front of him, his hands held in his lap, and he looked quite miserable. Understandable so, he couldn't help thinking. Did Potter even know what had happened to him? Did he even realize that he was – dead, somehow? Did he know to what extent he was dead or not dead?

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

Sitting at the Gryffindor table, the boy was close enough now so that he could have a closer look, and this time he was sure that the boy indeed was a ghost – sort of at least, as ghosts normally neither could walk on the floor nor could sit on a bench while actually touching it. They floated, hovered, stuck their heads through walls or tables and the seriousness of the situation suddenly hit him with full force – Potter, somehow, was dead.

Potter somehow had managed getting himself killed and he somehow had managed – again – to go against all rules of normality, being able to walk and to sit, even as a ghost. But as a ghost, the boy definitely was dead.

The question was – how had he become a ghost in the first place? What had kept him from going on to the land of the dead? What had kept him here in the world of the living? People said that ghosts couldn't go on while they had unattended business still in the land of the living, things they hadn't done while being alive and able doing them. Was it true, he wondered for the first time, and if – then what was it, Potter had not done?

'And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives'

Was it that? Was it the prophecy that had kept the boy from going on? Could fate be so cruel as to keep the boy from finding his peace just because he had not vanquished the Dark Lord for once and for all? Could …

And what exactly had happened to kill Potter? The boy looked horrible. Not only the thin form indicating that he hadn't had much to eat during the summer holidays – if anything at all, he suddenly thought, but the dark circles beneath his eyes indicating that he hadn't had slept much during his holidays either. He also could see a few bruises on the ghost-like face, and he wondered where they came from, what had happened to the boy and if they would be able to heal them at all or if the Boy Ghost would have to wear them for the rest of his time, if it would be eternity like with all ghosts or just a destined time span before he would – what? Die? Vanish? He didn't know.

And then the clothes Potter, The Ghost, was wearing. They were atrocious at the best, horrendous. Not only too large, the Jeans hanging around the small form in rags and the – just as ragged – t-shirt nearly reaching down to his knees, but they also were worn and stained, with holes in them, and narrowing his eyes he was even able to recognize blood dotting the grey shirt. His eyes wandered downwards beneath the table, just to make out grey and dirty trainers that had gaping holes, too, one even big enough for his toe to stick out of it while the other trainer was halfway losing the sole that hung from the shoe – and all the while the boy's legs were dangling from the bench, not even reaching the floor yet.

Had Potter always been so small?

With a frown he looked up, into Potter's face again, trying to find out if he somehow looked younger than what he remembered, but while his glasses were missing, he didn't look any different from what he recalled of the boy from two months ago, before he had left for the summer holidays – except for the boy being a skeleton nearly – and a ghost apparently, and except for the bruises on the pale and thin face.

But except for that, he neither looked any different, nor did he look any younger. How was it that he now looked smaller? Or had he really always been so small, and he just never had paid any attention to it? Had never noticed? Had anyone ever noticed, he suddenly wondered with another frown.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

He didn't really understand the situation.

Potter looked as if – he looked like some of his Slytherins before he picked them up for the train ride – to make sure they were dressed properly so none of the other houses would laugh at them, to make sure that they were cared for, that one or another injury they had sustained from their families during the holidays were cared for, and that they had something to eat for the train ride. But …

Potter was none of his Slytherins!

Potter lived with his aunt and uncle who surely spoiled the boy rotten, who surely would never neglect or beat the boy like some of the parents from his Slytherins did. But …

How had those bruises come to Potter's face? How was it that he looked as if he hadn't eaten anything in months? How was it that his clothes looked as if coming out of the garbage can? How …

As calmly as possible – even if he felt anything else than calm in the first place – he got off his chair and left the head table. He didn't even know what had to be done right now, but he knew that something, anything had to be done to begin with and no, he was not Potter's head of house, but he still was a teacher here at Hogwarts and he was a head of any house after all, not to mention the resident Potions Master who worked together with Poppy in the infirmary at a regular basis to begin with.

And – not to mention that he simply couldn't help thinking of Lily, of how sad, or perhaps rather of how angry she would be at seeing her son dead, being a ghost – and such a neglected ghost no less, and suddenly he couldn't help thinking that Potter's death surely must have been anything else than pleasant. And again, he wondered why his spirit had not left this earth, why it had stayed behind, what unclosed matters had kept the boy from leaving, wondered how it was that the boy had left the place where he had died in the first place. It wasn't normal for a ghost to leave the place where he had died after all, and he was sure that Potter hadn't died here at Hogwarts. But how had he died? Where had he died? And when had he died? Where was his dead body? What in Merlin's name had happened?

And as strange as it was – the only answer that nagged at the back of his mind was – Petunia Evans, now Dursley.

Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine

To be continued

Next time in "The boy that forgot to die"
He wasn't suicidal after all, was he?

Added author's note
thank you for reading - and yes, I would be glad if you took the time to review this chapter, thank you
also, like on ff, I'll install the house cup – with each review, please state your house, so that your house can get a point. There won't be loss of points, only gains … may the best house with the most reviews win …

House Cup:
At the present time it looks like this:

27 Points - Slytherin
07 Points - Gryffindor
17 Points - Ravenclaw
04 Points - Hufflepuff