Procul ex oculis, procul ex mente
“Far away from the eyes, far away from the mind.”
“Harry…”
The voice is as melancholic as he remembers. A cold hand caresses his cheek as he stares at them with blurry vision, unable to see the person made of blobs of colour and strange lights. His breath hitches, feeling a surge of energy burst inside him as a mirage of events explode in front of him. Events that he's never experienced. He couldn't understand, he couldn't fathom this. It was like his brain was being split in half as these scenes played before his eyes until he was left gasping for air, desperate to breathe.
He's choking on his spit, bile rising up his throat as he hurries to scramble back on to the bed. The sensation is horrific, as if he had just gotten out from freezing cold waters, barely escaping as he drowns. It is difficult to calm himself, quickly abandoning the bed as he stares at his reflection in that ugly and dirty mirror Petunia had given. He still looked the same but still…
“Harry…”
That voice again, he shudders, stumbling until his arse lands on the floor. Warm tears were already accumulating in his eyes, trickling down his cheeks as he furiously wiped them away. But alas, they did not stop and continued to run down his face as he slapped a hand over his mouth, trying not to sob after that assault in his mind.
The room becomes colder, evidently, frost creeping up on the walls. He was sure that it was only his room being affected. Yet he did not shudder nor did he feel it was uncomfortable.
It was cold—similar to how cold it became when Dementors appeared. He merely closes his eyes, taking in deep breaths as he lies on the floor. The cold becomes worse, gently cradling his head and he knows—he knows it's there. The owner of that voice that whispers his name through his mind as if it was something to be revered.
“Harry,” again, it whispers and reluctantly he opens his eyes.
Faceless, formless, something. He finds it difficult to describe the figure before him. Its features were blurred, making them unrecognisable, even to Harry. Yet—yet he knew who this was. Who had given him torturous memories of a future he could barely understand.
And he cries again, silent as he reached forehead and pulls their foreheads together. Harry cries harder than he ever has, whimpering as that cold becomes a strange, eldritch-like comfort. Those cold hands cup his cheeks, wiping away every tear that comes from him.
“Harry,” the entity whispers yet again. It was soft, kind, sweet, affectionate, and gentle. Things he was inevitably unfamiliar with.
He almost wails like a child if not for the entity shushing him ever so softly. He feels like a babe being cradled by his mother. But his mother was long gone and he didn't even know what colour were the eyes he was looking at.
“Sweet child,” the voice whispers so softly. “Don't fret now, little one. I will ensure that your future does not stray down that path.” It hushes him ever so softly, cradling him and letting him rest his head on the crook of their shoulder.
His heart pounds.
“Cry. Loudly, if you must. No mortal shall hear you.”
He breaks.
His voice cracks as he sobs uncontrollable, wailing and wheezing as he clutches on to the fabric of the entity's clothes. There was no sense of understanding for him, unable to control himself as visions of that horrible future he was made to see.
The betrayal, the deaths, the sorrow, the pain.
Gods, he couldn't handle it all in one go.
Dumbledore—sweet Morgana, Dumbledore. What had the man done? Anything except for keeping Harry safe and happy.
That man had essentially destroyed his entire life. What was it for? What had everything been for? The greater good? What the fuck was that?!
The mere memory of his death was horrific. A moment in which he lost himself, drowning yet again if not for those cold hands that dragged him back to reality every single time. His chest hurt as he cried, his body left a trembling mess as everything seemed to fade away at that moment. As he sucks in a deep breath, choking on his spit as he desperately tries to compose himself—inevitably failing in doing so. There is a burning sensation in his throat that makes him wrap a hand around his neck, his body writhing.
Bile rises up his throat and he can't stop it from going off. A puddle of vomit lies beside him as the entity continues to hold him close, whispering soft and affectionate words that soothes his very soul. It burns, that sting in his throat, and yet everything around him feels muffled like he is underwater. He closes his eyes once more, choking on spit and vomit as he leans closer to the entity, muttering incoherent nothings.
“Oh my child,” it whispers and kisses his forehead, his scar—the mark of a horcrux latching itself onto his very soul. “Let me take you away. Let me cut your strings and give you your destiny.”
The mere thought is tempting, so terribly tempting.
He feels like Eve being lured to eat forbidden fruit by the snake. He feels like Pandora who's curiosity led her to opening that box of evil. He feels like every single person in history and mythology being coerced to do something forbidden—left with nothing but curiosity and desire as his hands reach forward, feeling nothing and everything as he cups the entity's cheek. It's cold, as he expects, shuddering it softens his cries for it was more comforting then the warmth of visceral and cruel flames. He reaches forward, hand clenching around silken robes as he cries far worse than he did just moments ago.
“I want to be free…” he wails, “I want to be free… I don't want to suffer anymore. Please… please…” he begs and begs, and hopes that whatever god out there would listen to his cries. Yet there is nothing and everything and there was the in-between of those two things. His heart pounds in his ear and sobs. “Please…”
He breaks and breaks, and he can feel his very soul ripping at the seams. He feels his own sorrow, his anger, his pain burn through his soul. The entity holds him tighter, knowing that whatever his soul was going through made him cry more, heart aching at the numbing pain that burst inside him.
“Hush… wait a day longer, sweet child.” The entity promises and Harry, for everything that has happened, trusts it. The world was cruel yet this cold entity held him so gently, he almost forgot how horrible the world could be. “You will get your gift from me on your birthday. I swear it to you… I will grant you freedom, little master.”
With another kiss to his forehead, Harry falls into deep sleep.
They say Death is the brother of Sleep.
Thanatos and Hypnos, sons of Nyx.
They say Sleep is what Death is meant to feel like.
Tomorrow would be his birthday.
He blinks quietly, staring at the clock as he realises that he's lived long enough to be fifteen. But it seems that was futile.
The visions from last night had revealed that he wouldn't live past twenty, not even outliving his own parents.
Harry is sure he had not dreamt everything last night. He was sure that the entity that had come to cradle him like he was a babe was not simply a figment of his imagination. There is a presence in his room that was like a muted version of the one he felt from the unknown entity. Mindlessly, he would reach into the air and think he'd be able to touch something—and perhaps, he could. There's something there. Something pure and corrupted, making his breath hitch.
Something; he doesn't fathom what the substance that floated around his hand is. It's black, grey, and white. Muted colours, making his eyes go wide as his body trembles from the mere excitement of what he was seeing. Was this something left from the entity? Was it the essence of that entity? He falters, a crashing realisation ringing in his ears as his heart pounded against his ribcage, as if it was trying to escape.
Magic. It was Magic.
This strange substance that was a mix of liquid and gas was magic. He felt it yet it was just like air that passed through his fingers.
His breath hitches, as if he's choking on the air itself.
It's beautiful, he thinks as his eyes water at this comforting sensation that comes from the strange magic that lingers upon his fingers—his very flesh
There's a loud bang from outside his door.
For all his trouble, the danger he's faced, he still doesn't quite get used to the way his instincts immediately have him curling up into a ball. His hands pressed against his ears, closing his eyes as he heard his uncle curse his very name for whatever inconvenience he's gone through. It's a common thing in this house—to place the blame on Harry for simple and large things. Inconveniences were blamed on him—on Magic.
He took in deep breaths, preparing himself for anything. But there is nothing.
His uncle does not come barrelling in, belt in hand and ready to whip him. His aunt does not usher Dudley away to hide such abuse from her precious baby's eyes, trying not to taint him. His aunt does not cover her ears and ignores the blatant and barbaric way her husband “disciplines” their no good nephew. There is nothing but silence as Harry hugs himself in a corner, gulping as his throat feels awfully dry.
He hasn't had food for quite some time now and yet he doesn't feel hungry. Not that much, to be honest.
He simply closes his eyes, rocking his body as he tries to recall what that flurry of memories were. He had been dragged through time by that entity and yet some parts of his memories felt missing. It was a side effect, obviously. Time travel was tricky after all.
Hermione had told him of how fragile time was. How there were those powerful enough to bend it, to slice through—but as fragile as it was, Time never broke. But it did split into pieces. Bending time, turning back time wasn't simply resetting the world around you. Place yourself in a different time, in the past, and that creates a new future. One simply detached themselves from their present, travelling to the past, cleaving the path before them into two. A new future was created but that did not erase the present a person left behind.
The simple thought gutted him, his head in his hands as he sucked in deep breaths. He had not asked for this; moreover, he did not intend to abandon the present he had been in.
Sucking in deep breaths, he tried to remember; summoning any memory he could find. He finds himself at a loss as the most vivid of those memories is an obscure death with red and green light, a discovery he did not want to know, and madness that dug itself deep into his bones. He clutches at his chest, heaving a sigh as he glances at the door, questioning.
Has the entity charmed it? Placed a ward so his relatives would be coaxed away from harming him?
That did not settle well in him. He had grown used to the reasonable apprehension of pain. That constant paranoia to brace himself as he prepared to be struck by his uncle, or to be yelled at by his aunt. Dudley was the least of his issues in this household but the boy was a terror that liked to play dog and rat in the worst ways possible.
Harry places a hand over his mouth, closing his eyes for a moment. As he reaches into the air once again, he sighs in pure and utter relief as he feels the magic weave over his fingers. A hum escapes him, staring at this monochrome mass that suddenly shifts colours. Red, green, blue, yellow; the colours of Hogwarts that he loved so deeply. It's comforting, even in this lonely room. Even in his isolation.
He misses Hedwig, but he's ever so thankful he had let her out before he arrived. Seeing her all cages up was a horrid sight to experience.
“Just a couple more hours,” he assures himself. Just a few more hours before midnight struck.
The entity—he knows its name but he does not dare speak it—had promised him a gift. A gift.
He hopes it was freedom.
They say Hypnos worked closest with their mother. Nyx’s companion, the poets say. Her son joined her as she drew the night sky while he put mortals to sleep.
Thanatos was a god of death. The god of peaceful deaths, that is. The Keres were cruel goddesses of much more violent death. He helped guide souls into the afterlife, bringing them to Charon to pass on for judgement.
But what was Death if not an undiscriminating entity of the end?
He could not sleep.
Emerald eyes stared at the clock in apprehension, on the horrible verge of vomiting his guts out yet again.
11:57
He shudders, slowly creeping out his bed as he tries to open his door. It's locked from the outside, as usual.
Harry is starving. His aunt had refused to feed him for a day and a half and felt faint already. He should return to bed, but he can't. Not now. Not when an ancient entity had promised, had vowed to give him a gift for his fifteenth birthday.
11:58
Only a minute has passed and his heart is already pounding. A little whimper escapes him, unable to resist the way he presses himself against the window. Staring at the garden in apprehension—as if he'll see a shadowy figure wearing a cloak on the lawn. There is none.
But it is cold.
Wretched and familiar cold as frost slowly creeps up his window. He does not withdraw his hand from the growing frost, his eyes practically bulging our of their sockets as the cold grows even worse. He hopes his relatives do not wake up.
He hopes they remain asleep.
He doesn't think that this coldness is something that he must fear. To Harry, this was a sign.
Quickly, he glances at the clock and his heart pounds.
11:59
Somehow, minutes felt like hours as the frost continued to grow.
It reaches his hand and to his surprise, it does not hurt. The frost is similar to the unknown magic he had felt. It's comforting, it's unnerving, it welcomes him without scrutiny that he can't help but press his forehead against the glass.
For a second, he breathes.
And as he turned to the clock once more, his breath hitched as it struck midnight.
12:00
July 31st, 1995.
Death was beautiful and wretched.
The Greeks say Thanatos bore dark wings upon his back. They say one would mistake him for Eros for how alluring he is.
The Peverells see them as a cloaked figure made of flesh, blood, and bone. Faceless and yet they appear to be everything. An entity that haunted and blessed them with their presence.
There was no such thing as a Master of Death—For Death could not be mastered.
Death was beautiful and oh so tragic.
“Harry.”
Once again, Harry finds himself being cradled like a child. He drowns himself in this sensation of cold, succumbing to the whisper in his mind that tells him: be a child. Be nothing but a babe in the arms of a mother.
That is what he becomes as his eyes drop, lying peacefully in the arms of the entity. Again—he dares not utter a name. He will feel fear and yet he will accept it with open arms. To feel fear is to be alive, to be standing in the living world with a beating heart as he breathes in the oxygen. Fear is a constant in their lives.
“Oh little one…” It cooes at him, cupping his cheek and kissing his forehead.
“I have but one request.”
Mindlessly, Harry nods as his eyes glaze over. The memories of that distant future are more vivid now—more alive. It's a loathsome fact that makes guilt and anger coil around his heart, clinging on to the entity and nuzzling into their neck.
“Who am I?”
He freezes, like a deer in headlights.
(There were once three brothers…)
His first instinct is to push the entity away, to run, to scream. But the entity holds him tight, close to its chest. There is no beating heart when Harry presses an ear to its chest. His own chest heaves, trying so desperately not to speak. But his mouth rips open, not a sound coming out of it.
The desperation in his eyes is pathetic when looks up at the entity, silently pleading with it.
(Death grew angry and amused with the three brothers that evaded him. Magic that piqued their interest. Though cheated by the three brothers, Death extended their hand to the brothers, congratulating them. They spoke: “I shall give you each a gift. Ask me and I shall offer you.”)
Harry sucked in a deep breath, closing his eyes once again. There was still no heart to listen to. But there was his own beating heart. He remembers the way it thrummed so loudly when he fought Voldemort, when he had been forced into a duel. He recalls—from those faded memories of a future he hates—another duel between him and the dark lord.
(So the oldest brother, who was a combative man, asked for a wand more powerful than any in existence: a wand that must always win duels for its owner, a wand worthy of a wizard who had conquered Death! So Death crossed to an elder tree on the banks of the river, fashioned a wand from a branch that hung there, and gave it to the oldest brother.)
The adrenaline had coursed so horribly that day. But he remembers, he doubts and yet he does, to the moments before his sacrifice. The Gaunt ring had been cold and detached. It conjured the wraiths, the spirits of those in the afterlife. His mother, his father, Sirius, Remus. Those ghosts had showed themselves to him, whispering words of such love and affection that he craved.
And yet—And yet it was those wraiths who spoke of how easy it was to die. Harry is under no illusion that everything must live on eternally. Yet those wraiths, spirits of those who had claimed to love him; the images of the dead who had sacrificed themselves for him—had led him to death. Were those images truly them? Or was the resurrection stone just as cursed as the elder wand?
(Then the second brother, who was an arrogant man, decided that he wanted to humiliate Death still further, and asked for the power to recall others from Death. So Death picked up a stone from the riverbank and gave it to the second brother, and told him that the stone would have the power to bring back the dead.)
Hermione had told him the story when they had run for their lives. Xenophilius Lovegood had been a jittery man—yet he could not hate the man. Not when he was willing to sacrifice the world for his daughter.
Harry goes further back.
His cloak is tucked in his trunk, cared for—always.
Of all his belongings, of all the things that he owned, that cloak was something he'd die for. Take his clothes, his food, his broom, but not his wand and cloak. Not the cloak that was the only thing left of his true heritage. Anything but that.
(And then Death asked the third and youngest brother what he would like. The youngest brother was the humblest and also the wisest of the brothers, and he did not trust Death. So he asked for something that would enable him to go forth from that place without being followed by Death. And Death, most unwillingly, handed over his own Cloak of Invisibility.)
Harry sucks in a deep breath, pulling away as his eyes narrow on the entity.
He was almost reminded of a dementor. Yet Dementors did not feel ethereal and divine. Their presence summoned sorrow and despair—the being before him dragged the truth in front of him and made him see.
His mind lingers to his cloak, gulping as he recalls, once again, the story of the three brothers. The third brother had been wise, cynical but preserving. He had lived longest amongst the brothers. A wise man who did not trust Death but never rejected Death.
And Harry? He trusted and did not trust Death.
He could turn nowhere but forward.
“Hello Death… I'm Harry Potter.”
And Death, though faceless, smiles.
“Oh little master… would you like me to give you a new name?”
When Death extended his hand to Ignotus the day he was to be taken, Ignotus said: Hello old friend. We met again, at last.
That day, Ignotus Peverell left with a wonderful smile on his wrinkly old face.
Death took him that day. Death, loving and hateful of the brothers, decided that Ignotus was their favourite of the three brothers that outsmarted him.
Thus, it was not only Ignotus who left that day with a smile.
His heart felt like coal, wrapping his hand around the door knob. It opened without a sound. Harry trudges out the garden, wobbling from side to side as his vision practically faded every few seconds. The only reason why he could even walk at this point was the guiding hand of Death.
Death whispers sweet words to him, coaxing him out of the house. To his utter terror, he is met with a swarm of Dementors that circle around Privet Drive.
“Do you feel hope, little one?” Death asks, running their fingers through Harry's hair.
Hope; such a word felt meaningless. Wordlessly, mindlessly, he raises his wand and waves his arm in a familiar motion.
“Expecto Patronum!” He yelled sucking in deep breaths as a mere wisp of silvery light exudes from his wand. Panic settled in quickly, repeating the spell over and over again. Nothing worked; his stag was not summoned and he was left helpless before the Dementors.
Every single happy memory he had felt tainted. The future he saw shattered his hope, broke him and darkened his soul. What was there to be happy about? He asks himself and finds no answer. If his future was destined for ruin then what was there to look forward too? Give him a reason to be happy. Give him an untainted memory of pure and utter happiness and he will summon his patronus. But there is not one. Even the sensation of flying feels bitter for him.
A boney hand wraps around his wrist, feeling the presence of Death press against his back.
“Do not fear, little one. You are no master of mine, but you are mine.” Death explains, “They will never hurt you. Never.”
Hesitation racks through his mind as he narrows his gaze on the Dementors. They don't come near him, yet the continue to linger. He hopes—maliciously—that his relatives have nightmares because of them. He hopes that their happiness is drained from their very souls.
He hopes and hopes—and it's a terrible kind of hope that runs through his soul.
“A new spell… a new one. The Patronus may not work for now but…” Death hums, guiding Harry's hand. It started of looking like a diamond, being to the right, down, left, then up. Rather than connecting it, Death guided his hand straid down where the middle of the diamond should be. “Remember this… Remember everything you've gone through. Seek your very soul, claw at the depths of it if you must.”
There's a buzz in his hand, hesitating as he grips his wand tightly. He glances back at Death's faceless figure, taking in deep breaths as he nods. Death hums once more, sounding quite proud and he's practically elated.
“You will know the word, little one… You've etched it into your soul without knowing.” Death chuckles, disappearing.
Harry's panic returns and he desperately tries to seek out his own soul. His magic expanding around him, writhing. He felt it. The way it was filled with nothing but chaos as he reached forward into his soul.
It's a darkening thing. The light it has dims and Harry reaches forward, plunging himself into his soul. He practically drowns in it, searching for that word, for that spell that Death says has been carved into him. It was like sipping his hands in freezing waters. He's reminded of the day Dumbledore had taken him to the cave, the same cave where he found the fake horcrux.
In the depths of his soul, he trembles horribly as he feels a searing heat burn him.
The horcrux.
A part of Voldemort’s soul that latched on to him; a parasite.
For a moment, he's tempted to just tear apart his soul just to rip it out. But patience was a virtue he must learn. He passed that horcrux and kept searching. In doing so, he repeated that strange wand movement over and over again.
In those cold depths of his soul, he grasps something and pulls.
“Advoco Sicarium.”
And there erupts his stag.
Prongs, Sirius had fondly named it after Harry's father. The silvery blue stag dances around him and hope erupts in his chest. For once, Harry smiles as he opens his arms, inviting the stag towards him.
But it changes the closer it gets.
Harry's eyes are blown wide, almost horrified as his stag practically breaks its bones, it's antlers growing larger and sharper. The silvery and red hue that created the stag faded to red and black just as it stood on its hind legs. The stag that was once so gentle, becomes monstrous as it towers over him, eyes as red as the cruciatus.
He stumbled back, landing on his arse as the monster he created hovers over him.
It was the antithesis of the Patronus. This wasn't simply a protector. It didn't repel Dementors, rather, they were drawn to it. Circling closer, right above the house.
The stag—could he even call it a stag anymore? He doesn't know. But his breath lodges itself in his throat, just as his hand moves up. The beast leans forward, nuzzling its monstrous snout against his palm.
For a second, Harry's eyes meet with the beasts.
Suddenly his eyes were red and the monster’s was green.
DEMENTOR’S AGAINST THE BOY WHO LIVED?!
By Rita Skeeter, August 3 1995
This just in, our very own Boy Who Lived, Harry James Potter has reportedly gone missing. It was reported that on the night before Mr. Potter’s birthday, a swarm of Dementors had left the grounds of Azkaban and haunted the street where our Hero’s muggle family lived. Reports say that the house the Dementors swarmed was none other than the house of Harry Potter, ending with Mr. Potter's Aunt, Uncle, and cousin being left lifeless in their own home from the Dementor's Kiss.
There has not been any hint of where the Boy Who Lived has gone, seemingly vanishing from the world. Both Ministry and Headmaster Dumbledore have been frantically looking for him but to no avail.
After the events of the Triwizard Tournament where Hogwarts champion, Cedric Diggory, met his untimely passing, Harry Potter claimed that the Dark Lord had returned. Many believed that he lied to curry more fame but is that truly the case? There is no evidence of the Dark Lord's return yet Harry Potter has suddenly gone missing after his home and muggle relatives were targeted by Dementors.
Was Harry Potter truly lying when the Dark Lord returned or was he telling the truth and we as a community failed to believe him? Where has he gone? Did the Dark Lord abduct our Hero?
The ministry was in shambles as they frantically ordered every auror on duty to search for the boy who lived. A manhunt had begun, led by none other than Rufus Scrimgeour. When news of the Dementors attack had arrived at the ministry, it was already too late. Harry Potter's relatives were found dead in their homes by the Dementor's Kiss, causing them to hurriedly alter the memories of those who found the Dursleys. Obliviators were running around left and right, altering the minds of muggles to believe that a burglary had taken place, leading to the death of the Dursleys.
Fudge was receiving fire for this, from the public and the Wizengamot. Lords and Ladies of noble houses were demanding that the Potter heir was to be found immediately. Unfortunately, even after two days of searching—casting spells and performing rituals—Harry Potter was nowhere to be found. It seemed like everything was going down hill at that point, leading them all to believe that perhaps Harry Potter had not lied.
Or perhaps he had been made to believe the return of the Dark Lord. There was still the possibility of Death Eater's kidnapping the boy to scare him into believing that You-Know-Who had come back to life.
Grimmauld Place was an absolute mess, a dumpster fire as Sirius casted curse after curse in the drawing room. Remus, absolutely helpless, tried to calm him down but inevitably failed when the grimm growled at him with such a ferocity that it was like Sirius was about to transform into his animagus form.
“Albus, if he is not found I will look for him myself!” Sirius snaps, pointing his wand at the Headmaster.
Dumbledore grimaces, nodding in understanding as he urges Sirius to lower his wand. The rest of the Order did not dare to move, facing the feral Black. “My boy, calm yourself. I am sure that Harry was able to escape whoever had targeted him. He is a resilient child.”
“Exactly!” Sirius slams his hands on the table, “He's a child! A child!”
Dumbledore flinches at his words, pursing his lips and avoiding the vengeance that tainted Sirius silver eyes. The Black Madness seeped deeper into the man, unable to stabilise himself. His only tether to his sanity, his precious baby, had gone missing. He only had a year with Harry after escaping from Azkaban. A year! Just that!
“Who the hell even had the balls to go after him? Dementors? You-know-who? Which one Albus?! Who must I kill to get my godson back?!” Sirius lashes out, his magic shattering the fine china that his mother had purchased years ago. Remus tugd him backward, but Sirius does not relentless. He shrugs Remus away from him, glaring into Dumbledore's soul.
“Who?!”
“Sirius, that is enough!” Molly slams her hands on the table, glaring at Sirius.
“Enough?! When has it been enough?!” Sirius laughs. His voice is hoarse, strained, filled with such sorrow. “It's never been enough when it comes to Harry! You ask and ask for more from him. Why the hell is this enough?! Why can't I give him something more than enough?!”
Molly's breath hitches, quickly sitting down as she finds herself defeated.
As they argued, practically hell bent, Ron leans against the wall listening. In his hands was a letter, clenched and wrinkled as he holds it tight. Sucking in a deep breath, he pushes himself off the wall and retreats into his room. The room he was supposed to share with Harry.
Hedwig, the strange thing, stares at him from the window she is perched on. Beady eyes looking at him with such expectations.
“Fuck… bloody hell Harry… what have you done this time?” He mutters, staring at the parchment.
Dear Ron,
I'm going to change my Fate. I'm going to give us a better future. Wish me luck.
Harry Potter.