The End
Sirius Black dies.
He falls through the veil, his head thrown back with laughter still etched onto his face. Sirius dies like the star he was; in a supernova that outshone everything else.
A wretched sound claws its way out of her throat. It took Haritha Potter a moment too long to register that she was the one that emitted such a desperate sound.
As her godfather fades from view the fifteen year old looks at the murderer.
Bellatrix Lestrange was cackling, her face lit up in a manner strikingly similar to her cousin just moments before. Blood has an odd way of marking those who share it. You cannot run from it, a lesson the Noble House of Black has been learning over and over again through the course of decades.
Something snaps in Hari right then and there. She flings herself out of the arms that cling to her — Remus’ Hari thinks faintly— intent on justice.
Hari follows the mad witch into the foyer of the ministry. Blood roaring in her ears she thinks of the one spell that can inflict a fraction of her anguish onto Bellatrix.
Hari narrows her wild emerald eyes and casts.
“Crucio!”
The spell hits its mark. Yet it bounces off Bellatrix with no reaction.
The witch laughs taunting her, “Baby Potter trying to cast the big girl spells? You need to truly mean it girl!”
The nasty way Bellatrix spits out girl is enough for Hari to smell the dust of the cupboard and hear the ringing of a cast-iron pan being thrown her way. Her already explosive rage boils over. Suddenly hearing Bellatrix scream wasn’t enough. An unforgivable curse wasn’t enough to appease her pain.
A quick Expelliarmus to the unsuspecting witch left her wand-less. Surprise marred the ugly jeer Bellatrix wore.
It was an odd sight to behold. A fifteen year old girl with a predatory gleam in her eyes circling a deranged woman in the dim foyer of a failing institution.
Hari’s movements were jerky and uncontrolled; she wants to see blood spilt. She pounced.
Bellatrix shrieks as Hari yanks her hair and scratches her face. She is forced to the floor as the girl deals blow after blow to Bellatrix. Hari grabs ahold of Bellatrix’s wild hair and smashes her head into the white marble floors. Again. And again. Until a crunch is heard and the floors became smeared with the bright red of fresh blood.
The sound of approaching footsteps briefly distracted Hari. Using the momentary reprieve Bellatrix pushed the girl off of her person and clutched her now broken jaw. But before the older witch could fight Hari, Voldemort appears.
Bellatrix throws herself at his feet. Like a bitch to its master Hari thinks. She is reminded of Marge’s rabid dogs, it’s funny how she is somehow still the seven year old girl running from blood-thirsty, unforgiving, creatures.
Dumbledore, who always seemed to show up when Hari feels like she has already lost, appears in a flash of light. Draped in his ridiculously coloured robes the man says something Hari doesn’t care to hear. The two men circle one another and exchange terse words, mocking and postering. It is almost theatrical and it feels like the world is just a stage. Like people haven’t died. Like Sirius hasn’t died. The opening act begins and they fight.
Hari is more spirit than human as she watches Dumbledore and Voldemort duel. It was a grand ordeal, showing off their magical prowess. She is sure that Dumbledore doesn’t feel the chill of fear creep up his spine when dueling Voldemort, not like she does. With a rush of bitterness Hari wonders why Dumbledore didn’t just take care of Voldemort. Why is it up to her, a fifteen year old girl, to defeat a Dark Lord in his 70s?
It was in Dumbledore’s office she got an answer. Hari had thought she burned through all her anger with Bellatrix bleeding beneath her but apparently not. She stands with strength she does not feel. All of Dumbledore’s silly, whimsical, useless instruments explode around her as she expels her misery out, magic making it tangible. Hari stands perfectly still as shards of glass ricochet off the walls. If Hari could tear through ‘fate’ as easily as she could rip through bone and metal she would be free. But fate, unlike her fury, cannot be made physical.
“What if I said I don’t care. I want out. I want it to be over.” Hari’s words were frantic. Her hands were shaking as dried blood flakes off. She crumbles to the floor. Hari looks up, on her knees, it almost feels like she is praying but she doesn’t believe in God. Not when she’s spent eleven years too long in this very position, making pleas He did not deign to hear.
Dumbledore looks down at her through his half-moon glasses, sorrow stains his face. His eyes are not twinkling now.
“Fate my dear has an odd way of coming for us. I am sorry, my dear girl, that she has chosen you for a task this demanding.”
Dumbledore helps her up and walks her out of his office speaking of rest. Within her growing bitterness towards him, a tendril of gratitude for his care bloomed. Outside Ron and Hermione started from their waiting, relief paints their face and relaxes their limbs. Their solid bodies wrap around her in a hug, a shield, grounding her. Hari feels sick knowing she nearly led them to their deaths tonight. She wants to apologize but her mouth cannot move. Her body does not feel like her own.
Hermione takes charge, as she so often does. With her guiding hands and Ron’s worried eyes Hari finds herself in the prefect's bathroom, left with a bath running and a clean pair of clothes sitting on the counter. Her clothes were peeled off by her numb hands and she slipped into the bath. She sinks into the water like she sinks into her grief. Dead bodies float but she is woefully alive.
The water rises to her chin.
In the back of Hari’s mind she thinks gratitude should be felt for the lack of Myrtle’s presence but she has no gratitude to give. She has nothing but guilt and grief that is quickly turning into emptiness within her. Hari lets her head fall back and lets her limbs loose their stiffness. Her body feels like a tomb. Her godfather joins the other ghosts that she carries in the marrow of her bones, the cells of her blood and the arch of her spine. Dad, Mum, Cedric, Sirius.
The water rises to her lips.
Sirius will never have a casket or burial. He died not having the right to his own innocence and he left behind nothing, not even a body. Nothing, but a haunted house, Hari’s broken dreams and Remus’ broken heart. In a year, very few will care that there ever was a Sirius Black, even fewer will recall his bark of a laugh or his endless loyalty or his life-long commitment to rebellion.
The water washes over her. She falls. She drowns.