Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any related content. All characters and elements belong to J.K. Rowling. This is a fan creation for entertainment only. No copyright infringement intended.
His pulse beat like a war drum in his ears; the world felt too big, too bright, too noisy. The complete disorientation and confusion overwhelming his being made it hard to retain any logical thought. He tried to calm himself, using the techniques he had learned and practiced in his life. 'Breathe, inhale, exhale, count to ten. One... two... three...'
He released the held air in a sharp gasp, forcing his body to inhale deeply and slowly. The sensation of drowning was still there, not wavering for a second. The pressure he felt against his chest was like nothing he had previously experienced, like a damned slab of concrete that was impossible to remove. He closed his eyes and used any remaining strength to remember any breathing technique that would help him: he inhaled for four seconds, held his breath for seven, and then expelled it for eight. He repeated this cycle over and over until, finally, the panic began to dissipate.
And then, with the panic fading, the confusion remained. The last things he remembered... They were images of adult life, images of the faces of the people he loved, their laughter, their warmth, making sure they were safe, that they had everything they needed before... Before he decided he could no longer bear the pain. And then...nothing. It should have been nothing. And yet, here he was.
He sat up, and a creak of the wood beneath him echoed in the quiet. The room he found himself in was simple, almost austere, with faded white walls adorned with the occasional sticker or drawing and a small window letting in the dawn's first rays. A simple desk in a corner and a bunk bed creaked with every movement. Above him, the slight snoring of a child. A name flashed briefly through his mind, like a whisper: 'Henry.'
His confusion grew even more. The room, Henry, the panic attack... none made sense. Deciding that he needed to freshen up, he got up and left the room, his feet seeming to know the way better than his mind. He followed the familiar path until he reached a bathroom.
The reflection that the bathroom mirror returned to him left him puzzled. A child? How could that be possible? He had dark hair, brown eyes, and pale skin that looked like it had never seen the sun. His features were soft, almost delicate. He wore a t-shirt and pajama pants that were too big for him, and his feet were bare on the cold linoleum floor. Was this what the beyond had in store for him? To relive the life of a child, to grow up with all the suffering that entails? Or maybe this was some kind of purgatory, divine punishment for his actions?
He stood there for a long time, looking at the child who somehow was him. His confusion was palpable, but in his mind, he found no answers to the questions that plagued him. At last, he decided he couldn't handle this new reality yet. He went back to what appeared to be his room, got back into bed, and hoped that when he woke up again, everything would make some sense.
The morning came too soon, and the elderly woman who woke him did so with the sweetness of an earthquake.
"Come on, Eamon! You can't sleep all day!" a loving voice said. A name, 'Eamon'. That sounded right. That felt like his name. But how was it possible? He woke up, still disoriented, to find a wrinkled, smiling face. She had a maternal air, and her aura was warm and kind. 'Director Collins', he thought, and knew it was right.
Before he could respond, Director Collins placed a small apple tart on his lap. "Happy birthday, Eamon. You've overslept again, so your birthday tart will be breakfast," she said, laughing a bit at the end in humor that only she seemed to understand.
He ate breakfast in silence, the taste of the tart barely registering. As he watched Director Collins move around the room and heard the sounds of laughter and hurried footsteps down the halls, he realized he was in an orphanage. The white walls, the simple decor, the children running everywhere—he remembered being in a place like this but not living in one.
Throughout the day, he tried to keep his mind calm, not to drown in the spiral of his thoughts. He took mental notes of everything he saw and experienced—the children, the adults, the daily routine. Life in the orphanage was quite simple, but every moment and interaction was a constant reminder of his reality.
Though many of the children seemed sad and lonely, they also showed moments of happiness and laughter. They played together, fought, cried, and then played again. The adults, mostly middle-aged ladies, seemed to do everything they could to maintain a warm and safe environment. But behind their smiles, Eamon could see the fatigue in their eyes.
The orphanage building was an old structure but well-maintained. Its architecture resembled that of Georgian houses, with red bricks slowly fading with the passage of time. It spanned two floors, each with its own dining room and living room, creating a space that, despite being full of children, never felt crowded.
The rooms were distributed fairly, each with a bunk bed and a window providing a small view of the outside world. Personal blankets and toys were scattered around the room, indicating the constant presence of life and youth. However, despite the apparent normality, there was a sense of loneliness looming over the place, a silent whisper of the reality of the occupants that could not be ignored. A constant reminder that this was a place of loss and longing, of children yearning for a home and a family to belong to.
The dining room was large, with long wooden tables and matching benches that could accommodate all the children during meals. The dining room walls were covered with drawings and paintings made by the children, an explosion of colors and emotions that brought vibrant energy to the space.
Eamon could feel a strange aura permeating the air as he walked down its hallways. It was not the feeling of loneliness inherent in being in an orphanage. It was a nuance, almost imperceptible, but it was there. Giving him a slight feeling of caution.
As he watched the daily activities, Eamon noticed a constant: the children seemed to operate in pairs. This phenomenon becomes more evident when he first interacts with Henry, the boy from the upper bunk. Henry, an energetic boy with blonde hair and blue eyes, approached Eamon after breakfast with a friendly energy that seemed to imply a pre-existing relationship. Without needing to ask, Eamon understood that Henry was his roommate.
As the afternoon went on, Eamon observed the pattern more clearly. The children attended classes in pairs, ate together, and played together. This practical arrangement fostered camaraderie and helped share responsibilities. Eamon felt that this system seemed to be the norm, an inherent aspect of life in the orphanage.
Eamon was curious to see how the children in the orphanage adapted to this system and accepted it as an intrinsic part of their daily lives. With each pair he observed, Eamon realized that, despite being in an unusual environment for him, there was an underlying logic he could understand. In a place where the notion of family could be an elusive concept, your roommate assumed that role to some extent. Their constant presence reminded them that, despite their situation, they were not alone.
By the time night came, Eamon was exhausted. The emotions, the memories, it was all too much. He locked himself in the bathroom in an attempt to get away from the day's emotions. The bathroom's old faucets squeaked in protest as Eamon turned them, releasing a jet of water that hit the faded tile. The steam started to fill the space, wrapping him in a warm and ethereal embrace that allowed him to feel a bit more anchored. He removed his clothes and stepped into the shower, the strong stream of hot water hitting his skin and jolting his body with tangibly physical reality.
The drops of water hit his face and ran down his body; they almost seemed to be trying to cleanse him not only of physical dirt but also of the anguish and confusion that assailed him. Eamon felt strangely vulnerable, as if he was naked not only in body but also in soul. He was alone, entirely alone, in a place he did not know and in a body he did not recognize as his own.
And then, his mind started spinning again. He had no other explanation. He had been reborn, and this had to be some kind of punishment—a punishment from some god or perhaps from life itself.
"I'm not supposed to be here; it was all supposed to end," the words spilled from Eamon's lips in a barely audible whisper. "They'll be fine; they won't lack anything," his tears threatened to spill, but he held them back, biting his lower lip.
"They'll be fine; they won't lack anything," he repeated to himself, promising to the empty air as if his words could cross the barrier between lives and reach those he left behind. "She'll be fine," he continued, his voice trembling, filled with despair and longing. "She has to be," he repeated over and over again, like a mantra, as if saying it enough could make it a reality.
In the privacy of the bathroom, the panic returned, and with it, the feeling of suffocation. He tried to breathe, fighting against the oppression in his chest.
The memories of his previous life seemed like fragments of a movie he had seen long ago, distant and disconnected from his current reality. But the emotions tied to those memories were too real, too present. Eamon remembered the conflicting feelings he felt at the end of his previous life: the feeling of having no way out, the pain of leaving them behind, and the relief he felt knowing he could finally rest.
But now, he was here. He was alive. He didn't know how or why, but he was alive.
Tears began to mix with the shower water, the salty taste filling his mouth. His chest felt tight; his breathing became fast and shallow. He was on the verge of collapse; he could feel it approaching, threatening.
He tried to remember the breathing techniques he had learned. He counted to ten over and over again, but it didn't seem to work. Once again, he was trapped in his own mind, in his own anguish.
That's when he noticed it. The soap in the shower tray floated in the air, slowly turning on itself as if it were in the middle of a dance. Eamon was dumbfounded, his eyes wide open. Was he hallucinating? Was this some side effect of his reincarnation?
But then, other things started to float, too. His towel, the toothbrush, and even the water falling from the shower seemed to suspend in the air, creating a curtain of floating water droplets.
The scene was strange, almost surreal. But somehow, it was also wonderful. The bathroom lights reflected on the suspended water droplets, creating a spectacle of twinkling lights.
The surprise of what he was seeing took his breath away, stopping his impending panic attack. Slowly, things began to fall to the floor, one by one, until everything returned to normal.
Eamon stood there, alone in the bathroom, his reflection in the mirror seeming like a stranger. 'What the hell?' he thought as a shiver ran down his back.