Chapter Text
Chapter One
When Harry woke, he felt heavy. If he had a coin for every time he felt like that he’d have enough money to fill the fountains of life and death to the point of flooding…
Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration. But a coin for each eye and he would slowly pay for the deaths he had caused. If they used the coins they could finally stop haunting him.
Memories flowed differently in the space between life and death. And in those moments of groggy awareness where his eyes refused to open but his mind was aware he was alive, those memories were more disoriented. Only this time one stood out; McDennon had killed him, again.
He remembered taking the poison, remembered the taste of death on his tongue, remembered not caring. At first he wasn’t sure if it had been enough to kill him. His head was fuzzy. The room spun as he was pranced in front of the cameras and showed off like an ugly show dog. He stood with that fake smile. Ate the little o-dou-ve-french-word-that-meant-fancy-finger-food. Got his pats on the back from Minster Only-Survivor-of-the-Order-of-the-Phoenix who held Harry’s arm so tightly it bruised. Then he got home. Stomach cramps, light headed, dizziness symptoms he knew too well.
That was pre-mortis if you will, he was post-mortis. He opened his eyes. His room was dark, smelling of dust, broken dreams, and faint cigarettes. All the things that reminded him of Padfoot. It was once Padfoot’s childhood bedroom. Then it served as Harry’s living tomb.
Chills raked up and down his body. His limbs felt numb, his stomach groaned. He forced himself to sit up. This was always the worst part. “Dying is the easy part.” It truly was, the hardest was coming back. That slow crawl from dead to his heart beating, blood pumping. He could have been lifeless for hours or days, stiff and cold.
He took a deep breath to stave off his unease. Later, right now he had a big decision to make; food or shower. An image of scrambled eggs with butter, cheese, and salt came to his mind. That sounded great. Maybe a little pepper, a little dill, ketchup or beans if he had any.
His legs wobbled, pins and needles the only sign they were alive. Then he moved, slowly. Each step made him whimper in pain. His back throbbed. Sleeping in a chair across from him was the vision of Remus. He smiled at it; how very Remus. Large comfy sweater, his head bowed against his chest, snores filling the room.
The house still felt haunted, Sirius’s voice floating up the stairs, Ron and Hermione’s hushed whispers finding him, ghosts. Not literal ghosts, or wraiths in his home. Just Harry James Potter the Muse of Death and his many, many shades. And nightmare fueled visions. The therapist he stopped seeing said it was PTSD. He didn’t care. Firewhiskey helped him face them and not paint the inside of the bathroom with his brain matter. Worst death he ever woke up from.
On the second landing he met with the shade of Sirius, or maybe a vision. As he got closer he could see color to Sirius’s skin, a spot of blue and red on his Black Sabbath shirt. He was a vision. “Harry!” No point in acknowledging him. Harry walked past making his way down to the kitchen. The vision didn’t disappear though. He followed Harry down the stairs. “What are you doing out of bed? You’ve been sick for days. Come on, let's get you back upstairs.” There was no point in engaging.
Death always left that awful taste in his mouth, especially poisonings. Once he made the short trip down the stairs he got himself a glass of water, then jumped up to sit in the sink. Vision Sirius stood in front of him, hands on his hips hard, concerned eyes on Harry. “Sprong, what’s wrong?”
“Everything,” he whispered to himself as if shades would jump out from the cupboards to remind him how loved he was. Yeah, being loved by people he would never get to meet again, how great.
Maybe this wasn’t a vision, this Sirius seemed so real. He moved, and bounced around like the real Sirius would. Maybe he was in the Hell Aunt Petunia would rant to him about. Harry reached forward pinching Sirius’s arm. “Ow! Harry! What was that for?”
“Am I in hell?”
Vision Sirius looked at him eyes widening, “Harry-” he sounded so heartbroken. This was definitely Hell.
Before he could question further Mrs Weasley bustled in. “Harry, get out of the sink!”
He smiled at her. “Good morning to you too.” Had he finally done it? Fought his way into an afterlife? “So we have a vividly realistic Sirius, and now Molly Weasley, I’m in hell.” Laughter bubbled up in him. “That is so unfair yet sooo fitting.” She gave him a pained look that abruptly cut his laugh off. “That or I’ve just won my own permanent room in the Janice Thickly Ward. That sounds more likely. Wonder if they will put me in Lockhart’s old room.”
Vision Sirius reached for him, but Harry snapped at him narrowly missing Sirius’s arm. His glare pierced into the vision all the small hairs on his body rose, ready to fight. The unnerved look on Sirius’s face made him smile.
“Let’s make breakfast before I’m doomed to mashed veggies for the rest of my undying days.” He jumped out of the sink. Opening cupboards, and drawers he searched, “where did that radio go?” In his mind he could see it. A small handheld radio that took CDs.
“Harry-”
“Oh forget it, Sirius’s,” he paused to look at Vision Sirius, “the real Sirius’s record player should still be in the front room.” The steps were short, Walburga’s curtains drawn.
“Harry, wait!” Vision Sirius ran after him while Mrs Weasley snuck off. Probably to get back up, what damned soul acts like him.
The sitting room was a mess, more of a mess than he remembered leaving it. It made him pause. He didn’t do this? Some dead instinct tried to resurrect itself inside of him. Like every other time he faced death he squashed that feeling down. What did it matter if he died again? Maybe he deserved this. Sirius’s old record player was there like a monument surrounded by his records. Harry carefully looked around. Where was his favorite Pearl Jam? Judas Priest? Gone, even the Creed and Greenday disks were gone. He grabbed a familiar Queen album and popped it in. He fiddled with it for a second before the piano filled the lower level.
The curtain around Walburga’s portrait fell as the woman began her old howling. “Burga please, you should know the lyrics by now! So much ado about nothing / Is what she’d try to say / So much ado, my lover” He sang along, sliding gracefully down the stairs, landing on his feet like he had a hundred times.
Vision Sirius still followed him like a lost wraith seeking him for peace. Harry grabbed a skillet, flipping it before pointing it at Vision Sirius. “So many games we played / Through every fleeted summer / Through every precious day / All dead, all dead. Come on, Vision Siri.”
“Vision Siri?” It asked.
“And I wonder why I still live on.” He cracked the eggs too aggressively. Making a mess of egg on the counter.
There was movement on the stairs, he turned expecting to see the aurors there to drag him away. Instead he spotted Ron and Hermione watching him. He gut twisted. They looked so much younger than the corpses he tried to bury. “All dead, all dead / Take me back again / You know my little friends / All dead and gone.” He scrambled the eggs in the pan as he heard his name.
In the door now stood more visions, Remus, Snape. All there, all looking really concerned.
“I wander all the while / But please, you must forgive me / I am old but still a child.”
Hermione had her hand over her mouth while Ron stood dumbstruck. Even Vision Sirius was frozen with shock. That dead feeling came back with vengeance. This was wrong, everything about this morning was wrong.
“All dead, all dead / But should I not grieve / In time, it comes to everyone.”
Magic washed over Harry in freezing waves that made him shiver. But who’s magic, it felt like Snape’s but… He stepped away from the stove, his grinning hyena front faltering, this was wrong. Vision Snape leaned in to whisper to Vision Sirius, “his body temperature is still really low.”
Everything about this episode was wrong. His eyes finally tracked over the parade of visions. He sat on the floor as he just took a movement to stare and feel, these people, these- “Why do I feel like the only fragment of tragedy here?” He looked down at his hands, no Bloodquill scars. Swiftly he took off his sweater studying his arms and chest. The same burns from Petunia’s punishments and cooking were still there, his fingers traced a bare spot on his arm, another on his bare chest. He looked so young. Fingers tugged on his hair as he tried to glimpse its color.
His hands were shaking, Visio- no, a real Sirius, was kneeling next to him. “Harry.” His voice was so soft, so gentle as if Harry was about to crack like the eggs he brutalized.
“Please Death, I can’t do this again.” His voice broke. His knees came up to his chest as he wrapped his arms around them, like he had a million times in that godforsaken cupboard. Tears rolled down his unscared cheeks soaking the knees on his pajama pants. A sob clawed its way up his throat, choking him. Where was his seat in Valhalla? Where was the ferryman to take him to Elysium? Where were the angels to take him to heaven? Was the great Beyond just beyond his reach?
There were people and shades surrounding him, he couldn’t, it was all so suffocating. He buried his head in his knees as he let the wave of emotion pull him under, his breath growing shallow until it was gone.