Chapter 3
The short walk to Voldemort is agonising. With each step the connection Harry feels in his scar grows stronger, a threatening presence. Sirius never leaves his side for which he is grateful. He stumbles into the clearing and all the death eaters snap to attention.
A booming voice echoes through the trees.
"NO HARRY WHAT’RE YE DOIN' HERE! YE CAN'T LET HIM, HE'S GONNA KILL Y-"
“That’s enough” a cold voice hisses harshly and several silencios are shot at Hagrid from the surrounding dark forces.
“Ah and here he is, I knew you would come to me Harry Potter.”
Harry says nothing just holds his head higher. Sirius tightens the hand on his shoulder.
“Well now that you’ve graced us with your presence, we must move forward.”
Voldemort pauses to turn and give his spiel to the death eaters about the impact this death will have.
Then finally, “Harry Potter, the boy who lived…” he snides. “Come to die…”
In his last few seconds Harry thinks of everyone he is saving… that they could live when he cannot, his friends and his family, his impossibly alive godfather and his parents… whom he never even got to meet properly.
“AVADA KEDAVRA”
The world buzzed with energy. A horrible jagged shock of green light bursts into his chest and he is thrown back.
Then the world goes dark.
-
Harry thought, well… that he could think.
And wasn’t that odd? He should be dead. He wanted to be dead. No, that's not right. He has to be dead, but does he want to be?
He wants to rest. Is this restful?
Slowly he shifts through his thoughts, and as if waking from the deepest sleep he becomes aware that his eyes are shut, not only shut, but squeezed tight. He focuses on relaxing.
Deep breathes. That’s what Moony always taught him. After dementor practice, after he came asking for chocolate because he was feeling dementor effects when he shouldn’t have been. That’s when Remus sat him down and explained the muggle concept of panic attacks. How he could calm himself with breathing techniques and sometimes a bit of chocolate.
So Harry breathes and he finds that he can breathe. Why isn’t he dead? He opens his eyes enough to see the sun.
Or is that the sun? All he can see is brightness surrounding the area which he lays.
And oh he has a body, that’s good. It would be difficult to navigate death as just thoughts or a disembodied face.
The more he observes, the more concrete the place around him becomes.
He uses that term loosely because it becomes solid, yes, less bright of course. But it keeps shifting. A schoolhouse, a shack, Ollivanders, Kings Cross, the train, his dormitory, Ron’s room, Number 12, the tent. Everywhere Harry’s ever felt safe, he realises.
Eventually the shifting stops and he’s in a house he doesn’t recognise. So, he begins to focus on his now stationary surroundings. The bright decor, the obviously magical space which is filled with light and… is that laughter?
Harry looks into the nearest door and he sees someone. A figure standing over a crib. Dark and shadowed Harry can’t seem to make out a face. But he hears the cooing, a baby must be in the crib. He clears his throat, ever the brave Gryffindor. The figure turns calmly as if this were not a surprise and Harry is shocked to see that in the place where a face should be is simply nothing.
Not like a dementor. This thing has no features at all, just a curtain of the same material of the billowing dark robes.
The figure feels familiar for all the mystery. Before he can place the feeling he looks to the baby. A shock of dark curly hair the same as his own, pajamas with Christmas bobbles on them, but the eyes. He sees his mothers eyes in this young boy. This must be me, Harry thinks.
But on the forehead there was no scar, and the boy was happy giggling and dribbling bubbles of drool. Harry had never been allowed to be a happy, messy kid.
He couldn’t help but stare, until the figure spoke.