Oh, Darling
PANIC. PURE AND utter panic sets in. His breathing becomes ragged, painful almost. Tears well in his eyes — he thought that it was over. That death would be kind to him. He thought that because of his death, things would be peaceful. That he would finally get to rest. Harry can feel his body shake, his hands frantically slamming against wood that's not budging nor breaking. His body feels weak, he's utterly useless against the firm wood that has encased him.
They buried him alive.
No, they wouldn't. In a world filled to the brim with magic, there was no way in hell they would have put him in a grave alive. He must have — must have been dead. He is dead. There is no way he's alive. If this was the afterlife, had Harry somehow managed to piss Death off? This was torture — death was meant to be peaceful. Why was he alive? He wasn't meant to live — Dumbledore told him so. To kill Voldemort indefinitely was to die. For the greater good. And Harry did as he asked; why was he breathing? Locked in a cage?
Is he even alive? Was this all a cruel joke, played upon him by his ancestors? His mum, dad?
All the questions in the world filled his head to the brim. But, just as Harry attempted to escape this torture once more, the ground suddenly begins to cave in. The back side of those white, sheets he was laid against, becomes a black hole. Swallowing him.
He's falling, so fast that he can't prepare for the moment when his body hits the ground. His body cracks and shatters, a gasp leaves his mouth and a shadow stands above him. Before he can ask, his eyes shut.
Harry Potter is dead once more.
•••••
"IT IS CRUEL, you know?" Harry's green eyes snap open. A light blinding him, causing his sensitive eyes to clamp shut as their greeted with what he can only describe as shuttering. It reminds him of the aftermath when Sirius fell through the Veil. "How a boy so youthful can be put through something so unfortunate." A voice is speaking, but Harry cannot find the voice. Nor the person speaking. Was this his destiny?
"No, it is not."
Harry forces his eyes open, but nothing is there. He coughs, instinctively covering his mouth, just to see dark red covering his hand. The taste of iron fills his mouth and he grimaces, spitting out clumps of blood. His body is sore, as he attempts to sit up, his body creaks and cracks. He breathes through the pain, "Do not strain yourself, young master." It's the voice again. But, Harry, at this point; is assuming the voice is all in his head. That this was something from the deep crevices of modern day Hell.
Vernon did say that Harry was going to hell.
"Sickening, those humans." The voice growled out, startling Harry. Disdain was in the thing's voice, "I am not a thing, young master."
"Who-who," Harry twists his head to side, "Who are you?" There's desperation in his voice as he stutters. His body begins to somewhat shake — out of fear — maybe. Harry doesn't really know; the room is both cold and hot, his hands hurt. The joints clicking as he runs his hands through his hair, blood smearing on his face.
Where are his glasses?
"Imperfections do not exist here, young master." The voice is monotone — yet comforting. "You have conquered a great feat, Harry Potter. Capturing every bit of the Deathly Hallows has proven you worthy of life beyond humanity." And still, as Harry turns and twists, looking for the voice: there is nothing. "Defeating a man not worthy of immortality, but you, Harry Potter, have done the unimaginable."
He doesn't understand, "Please, I jus', I want to go home." He attempts to stand, but his legs burn with agony, forcing him on to the ground once more.
One thing that Harry Potter will forever be afraid of is dementors. Evil creatures that sucked your soul from your body. Magic was a concept of positivity — love — and power. Dementors were quite the opposite. They held factions of an entity that were malicious, dark, and negativity. They were the worst part of magic itself. Harry firmly believed that once greeted with the afterlife, he would never have to face another creature such as dementors.
Yet, one stands in front of him.
Though his body, broken beyond repair, still fights through the pain. Fear laces through his veins. He remembers Sirius' face. The look of terror as he realized his fate was about to be sealed. He was destined for death as the dementor tickled down his body, forcing Sirius to stare into an abyss of shadows and nightmares. Harry frantically shuffles back, intent on getting away. He fights through broken bones, bleeding wounds, and lungs that are failing him. He sobs as the thing approaches him. Sobs as if this is his last moment alive. He had died once already and still, a dementor was the scariest thing he had faced.
"I," It's floating towards him with rapid speed, "Will not hurt you, young master." It hisses softly. The thing grazes his face with shadowed hands, "Now fall." It pushes his forehead gently, barely grazing his face as he's softly shoved backwards.
And Harry floats, almost spiraling.
Everything begins to flash once again. "Wait! Please, stop this!"
Spinning in circles — faster than anything he's ever experienced before. He's grapples at the side of walls that are closing in on him. It's like he's levitating through time. "You have your mother's eyes." Severus Snape's voice plays repeatedly throughout his fall.
Then, it stops.
It felt like hours. Voices of those both dead and alive grace his ears and they're not stopping. When Harry's fall eventually ends, he lands softly against the ground. He pants, as if he's ran a marathon. "You," He whispered, "Lied." That thing said it wasn't going to hurt him — but hearing the voices of those deceased was like auditory torture. He clamps his hands over his ears, shoving out the voices, "Just, make it stop, please. Please, just go away." He cries, begging for it all to end.
And it does, with a soft voice that whispers.
"Harry?"
Green eyes ignite with fiery emotion. He frantically whips his head around. Where green meets green.
"Mum."
•••••
LILY EVANS-POTTER died a hero. She was a beautiful woman; with ivory skin, shades of brown freckles that danced across her face, and emerald green eyes that would forever be remembered. Her personality; articulate, compassionate, and most of all, courageous. There would be no one like Lily Evans-Potter. There was not a single, damn person in the world that would replace what Lily Evans-Potter was.
Her son — oh the boy who she gave her life for — was dead. Life was not kind to Harry. She watched; enraged as her son was put through task after task, tragedy after tragedy. It was not fair. Harry Potter was a boy meant to live — to see freedom from plight.
Her sacrifice was not destined for this outcome.
“Harry?” She had whispered so softly that she didn’t think that Harry would hear her.
But when Harry’s eyes met her matching one’s; she felt her pulse quicken and her eyes began to well. She hadn’t seen Harry in a long time. Her boy was grown, barely a man. He had James’ hair, his facial features. There was so much of James and herself loitered within the boy. He fought like Hell for the magical world, but in the end, he succumbed to the fate forced upon them. Watching Harry from so far felt like a movie of sorts — a tragic story — held with the darkest of secrets. She hated that this was his fate. Hated that her child laid on the ground before her — shaking like a leaf with fear in his eyes.
He was afraid of her.
“Mum.”
He began to sob violently. Harsh and panted filled cries. Accepting fate was not easy. James and herself found themselves in the same position. Realizing that their lives, along with others, would come to a startling end. “I’m dead.” He cried, “Why’re you here?” He questioned, “Go away!” He screamed. All of those emotions had surfaced and Lily watched with concerned eyes as Harry lurched forward, shaking and sobbing his eyes out.
“You are not dead, young master.” A voice hissed — and Lily felt her body stop with panic.
Death was here.
Harry stopped his crying immediately — fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. “You - you, what does this all mean?”
He looked towards Lily herself, and the woman couldn’t stop herself even if she tried. She sprinted, closing the gap between Harry and herself, grasping the boy with a comforting force. “Oh, Harry.” She said with a wet voice — “It’ll be alright, darling.” A wave of protection peaked in Lily. The same one from sixteen years ago, “What is the meaning of this?” She glared at Death. Lily Evans-Potter would not back down from this. Not when her son was cowering, hiding himself between her hip like a toddler.
She had faced death before, so she would face Death again.
Death had chuckled, “Always so quick with judgement, Potter.” Death had sighed, almost like they were fed up with this whole ordeal. “The boy is not dead, yet.” The entity shrugged, “Your son has done the impossible and the Goddess of Magic has deemed him…” Death trailed off, black sockets gleamed with what seemed to be…softness, “Immortal, for lack of better word.”
Immortal? Impossible, Lily thought. “No, not impossible, my dear.” Death countered, “Your son is only here as a courtesy call on my behalf — really. I didn’t have to let him see Mummy one last time.” Death snarked.
Lily scoffed, “You cannot be serious,” He grounded out through gritted teeth, “He’s been through enough as is, damnit!” She cursed.
“Fret not, dear Lily.” Death soothed in a soft tone, “Your son is a remarkable being — not destined to this life.” Death’s eyes, void and black, glimmered; maybe Lily was imagining things, but the way Death’s eyes sparkled made her heart clench, “He has much bigger and better things to do now, isn’t that right, young master?”
“I don’t understand.” Her child’s grip got harder as he cried, “Please, I don’t want to do this.”
“Unfortunate as it may be,” Death stated, “Your life has only just begun.” It tilted its head, “Say your goodbyes.”
“Harry,” Lily’s pale hands found Harry’s tanned cheeks, “Listen to me,” She stared into those beautiful eyes — one’s that she hadn’t seen in so long — “Death is right, you are not destined for this. My darling, I love you with everything in my being.” Her thumb found his scar and she gently grazed it, “I will be with you til’ your time has finally come, but do not think that I will not be here with you,” She pointed to his chest, “I will be with you every step of the way and I will make sure that you will be okay.”
Harry cried harder, “I just wanted to die, mum.”
And her heart broke more hearing those words, “No, no you didn’t, Harry. Life for you does not end here, darling.”
“Time is up.”
And then everything was ripped away from her once more.
•••••
HE’S BACK IN the box when he awakes. His cheeks are wet and his eyes swollen. He slams his fists against the wood, trying so desperately to get out. Yet, he can’t. Death was cruel, not peaceful. Harry felt his pulse quicken and his heart rate picking up speed. “Damn you!” He screamed. He cried a bit more, throughly worn out. It was pitch black inside the wooden coffin; how long would it be until he suffocated? How long would it be till he died once more?
He hands shuffle around, attempting to grab at anything. His hands find the softness of the sheets beneath him. he frantically begins to search for anything.
That’s when his bruises and bloodied fingertips find a rough source. The familiar texture comes back to him and he feels the relief floods him instantly.
They buried him with his wand.