Murmurs from the Dying Sun

Murmurs from the Dying Sun

Chapter One: A Hollow Form With Empty Hands

'The stars,' she whispers, 'blindly run;

A web is wov'n across the sky;

From out waste places comes a cry,

And murmurs from the dying sun:

'And all the phantom, Nature, stands --

With all the music in her tone,

A hollow echo of my own, --

'A hollow form with empty hands.'

~Tennyson

Harry awoke to a strangely familiar tapping sound from the first real sleep he'd had in a month. His senses tried to comprehend his surroundings, but his befuddled mind wasn't allowing for it. The long shadows that surrounded him looked like nothing more than dark blobs and the tapping seemed very far away and very near at the same time. Peeling off a sticky sheet, Harry sat up in bed and shook his head, as though the physical action would dispel the negative effects of the potion, and not make it worse. His vision clouded over completely as his body threatened to again fall into sleep, but with stillness it passed in a moment.

Reaching for his glasses on the bedside table, Harry slipped them on quickly, and it was like slipping seamlessly back into consciousness. He wasn't sure why, but his glasses seemed to act as a catalyst between him and the rest of the world. Putting them on in the morning, or the middle of the night as the case might have been, seemed to allow Harry to align himself to his surroundings. Likewise, taking them off was as good as trying to shut himself off from the rest of the world. The objects around him would become a blurry haze and his mind would immediately try to extradite itself from the outside world. Harry had become accustomed to what lay in his mind, and it was why he rarely took his glasses off. He had no desire and no necessity to explore the depths of an object that could be his undoing. Perhaps that was his first mistake.

Almost immediately after putting his glasses on, Harry came to the obvious conclusion that it must be Hedwig trying to get in through the window. He rushed to open it, both because she would be angry with him for leaving her out there for so long, and because he didn't need Uncle Vernon to be woken by the noise. Normally, he would have just left the window open so she could fly in and out as she pleased and a cool breeze would run through his room, but an early hot spell had hit Surrey and even when the sun was down the air was so stuffy and stagnant that keeping the window closed seemed a much better option. Allowing his snowy white owl to enter, Harry shut the window quickly again, figuring she'd had enough hunting for the night, and could relax until day. He still felt groggy and figured he might be able to fall back asleep if he lay down right away, but as he moved toward the bed, Hedwig let out a light hoot.

Harry spun back around, his eyes widening in panic. If Uncle Vernon had heard ... he could only hope that he, his bird, and his large uncle all made it through the night. "Hedwig, shh!" he whispered urgently, listening for some sound of movement from the other bedrooms.

After a good few minutes of complete silence and stillness, Harry was able to breathe again, albeit lightly. He turned to his bird, figured she must have hooted for a reason, and immediately noticed the letter she had for him. Why was she carrying a letter when she had gone out to hunt? Living with the Dursleys, barely coming out of his room, was taking its toll on Harry. He could hardly keep track of the day and it didn't help that he hardly slept. When you were awake to watch one day fall seamlessly into the next, it was hard to realize that you had been existing for an infinitely small amount of time compared to the feeling that you had been in one place forever and ever. But with letter in hand, the events of the night came flooding back into Harry's mind.

"POTTER!"

Harry flinched as his uncle's yell wafted up the stairs to where Harry sat on his bed, chin resting on curled up knees. He had been thinking about Sirius, but there wasn't much new there. After the confrontation at King's Cross in June, Uncle Vernon had mostly left Harry alone, but he sounded especially cross that evening, and Harry wasn't looking forward to dinner, which the Dursleys now insisted he be present for every night.

Sighing heavily, he uncurled himself and stood up on unsure legs. He slept so little that he never knew whether he would keep going like always or simply collapse under the weight of living. He managed to keep going, and descended the stairs where his aunt stood over the stove, stirring something in a pot.

Uncle Vernon immediately noticed his nephew and grimaced. "Set the table, boy." Harry moved to do as he was told, but apparently he wasn't fast enough. "Hurry up, boy!"

Uncle Vernon grabbed his upper arm and spun Harry to face him. "You look terrible, boy. I know you've been staying up at night, reading those freak books of yours, writing letters to that psycho godfather of yours!"

Harry went white as a sheet. "Don't ever talk about my godfather," he said in a deathly cold voice.

"What, he's finally realized what a horrible freak you are and given up on you like the rest of us?"

A shot of anger coursed through Harry's body and his pale color shifted to a dark fuchsia. He could feel his heart trying to pound right out of his chest as his breath became labored. His hands pulsated from the emotion within and the forks he had been holding went tumbling down to the floor.

"Pick those up now!" Vernon roared.

Ignoring him, Harry spoke. "I don't ever want to hear about my godfather from you! Never!" Harry shot him a look of hatred and for a moment, Vernon faltered.

But he stood his ground, smiling evilly. "Or what, did they finally catch that raving lunatic murderer and put him back in jail where he belongs? If you ask me, they should just hang the good for nothing -"

He stopped when he saw the look on Harry's face, a hard, enraged, almost insane look not far from how Vernon imagined the boy's godfather must look. Harry tried to control his emotions, tried to tell himself that what Uncle Vernon said didn't mean anything, but a wave of rage flew through his body, just under his skin, and broke through the surface, releasing his magic to the world outside his being.

Uncle Vernon looked terrified. Aunt Petunia screamed and jumped back as the burners on the oven flared up, fire catching the wooden cabinets. "Dudders!" she screamed. "Dudders, go outside!"

She ushered her child outside and ran for the pantry where Harry knew they kept a fire extinguisher. She ran out and began spraying the fire, as Vernon remained frozen, staring at the boy. Harry stared him down, unable to face the reality of what he had just done and what it might mean. He glanced to the side to see the last of the flames being put out by his aunt, and before his uncle could utter a word, he ran up the stairs and back to his bedroom, so many thoughts racing through his head that he almost felt dizzy.

What was going to happen? He recalled the time he had accidentally blown up his Aunt Marge. He was fairly certain this was worse, as his entire family could have been killed. Yet he didn't see how they could punish him for accidental magic. He hadn't uttered a word and his wand had been safely tucked in his pocket where the Dursleys wouldn't be able to see it. But Minister Fudge was just looking for a reason to get to him, and setting the Dursleys' home on fire was a very good way to go about it.

Harry collapsed onto his bed and curled up into a ball, trying to stop his heart from racing, trying to ignore the thoughts running through his mind. His stomach was clenched tightly and he felt like he may be sick, but he had no will to try and make it to the bathroom. He just laid there, eyes squeezed shut, wishing he were anywhere else, and waiting for a letter he was sure would arrive soon.

But it didn't. He wrote a note to Ron and Hermione warning them that he was going to be expelled for accidental magic, but had no proof of the fact. Harry waited for an entire hour to receive an owl telling him he was expelled from Hogwarts, but it never came. Unable to bear it any longer, the pain, the sickness, everything, he found the Dreamless Sleep Draught that Hermione had sent him, and in moments, he had plunged into a dark, silent world where his past could no longer haunt him.

Pushing the thoughts out of his head, Harry rummaged quietly in a drawer for an owl treat, then took the letter over to his bed. It was clearly addressed to him, but with no indication as to who might have written it. It clearly wasn't from Hagrid, as it was actually legible, but it wasn't in Ron's messy scrawl or Hermione's sensible, stick straight hand either, and they were the only ones he had received owls from. These letters were slanted and lightly curving, and although it looked familiar to Harry, he couldn't figure out who it was from.

Slipping his fingers under the flap of the paper, Harry broke the wax seal that held it shut and carefully unfolded the creamy parchment. He scanned the letter, looking at it without reading it, from the top of the page to the bottom, where it was signed in a signature slightly messier than the text by Lupin. Suddenly afraid of what Lupin would have to say about his magical outburst that evening, Harry licked his lips, then performed the inevitable and began reading the letter.

Dear Harry,

How are you holding up? Well, if tonight is any indication, not very well. I hope you're not angry with Ron and Hermione for telling us, but accidental magic in a wizard your age is a serious matter, and they had no other choice.

Harry hadn't expected that they would keep the fire a secret, even for him, and he had not asked them to do so. It would have only served to make them feel worse about going against his wishes, and besides, he was almost relieved that an adult would be informed of the situation. As much as he hated his relatives and living with them in Surrey, he didn't actually want to harm any of them. He just wanted them to stay out of his way. But deep inside him was some hidden anger, coloring all of his emotions and actions. And he was so afraid that he would no longer be able to carry such a burden.

I also hope you won't be upset, but Hermione told me that you weren't sleeping well either. She did assure me that this has nothing to do with Voldemort, and said that she sent you potion to help you sleep. I hope that you have been taking it, for I hate to think of another losing sleep over this, and you need your rest, for the coming months will be difficult, especially on you, I imagine.

But I suppose I should get to my main point. No matter whose fault it was, the fact remains that you performed accidental magic this evening. While the Ministry can't apprehend you as such, it is still an issue. Some of the Order members have discussed the situation, and we all agree that shutting you off in the muggle world alone, especially after recent events, was not the smartest move Dumbledore could have made. In any case, we do understand his logic, but we feel that the situation would only be exacerbated by you remaining with your relatives. If it is convenient for you, we wish to pick you up on Saturday morning and bring you back to Grimmauld Place. Trust me when I say that I know it won't be easy living here either, but the Weasleys are here and Hermione just arrived. I think it would do you good to be around people who care about you and will be there for you. I myself would like to be there for you, Harry, if you'll allow me to.

So, if you are conducive, I will come to the Dursleys' on Saturday around ten o'clock in the morning with a few other Order members. Stay strong until then, and try to avoid your relatives, especially if you feel yourself losing control. Let me know if they have any issues with us arriving at that time, and I will deal with them. I look forward to seeing you again.

Hang in there,

Remus

Harry breathed a sigh of relief upon reading the letter. Remus, it seemed, was not truly angry with him for losing his control earlier that day, but rather concerned about him. He paused over the line about another losing sleep, wondering just what Lupin had meant. It was difficult for Harry not to feel as though he was in more pain than anyone could imagine, as though no one had ever been through that which he had suffered, but Harry had to admit that if there was anyone who understood now, it would be Remus. Not only had the man suffered for years of his life because of his lycanthropy, and continued to suffer today, but his best friends in the world had thought he turned to the Dark Lord, and then he lived for twelve years thinking that James and Peter were dead and Sirius was the one who had betrayed them in the first place. Now, after finally discovering the truth, that he did have one true friend left in the world, he had lost him as well. Thinking that way, Harry almost felt guilty. At least he still had Ron and Hermione.

If only he could think about Lupin every time he began feeling depressed or angry or lonely or any of a million horrible things he felt daily. But all too often his thoughts took on a life of their own and he was never truly free of them. Thoughts of Sirius, wherever he was, hating Harry for what he did, hating him for causing his death. Hating Sirius for leaving him even though at the same time he knew it was his entire fault. Hating Voldemort for taking his parents away from him and hating them for leaving. Hating Peter for betraying his parents and hating his parents for not realizing that it had been the rat who had joined the ranks of Voldemort. Hating life, and wondering what would happen if he just stopped living. Not that he was contemplating suicide, just wondering what it would be like if he happened to just stop living, because sometimes he felt so overwhelmed by everything that he was sure his heart would stop beating and his lungs would stop wanting for oxygen. That his mind would shut down and his soul would flee, running as far away as it could from the mess that was Harry Potter.

He told himself every day that it was just the grief over losing Sirius that made him think such thoughts and feel such emotions. He told himself that it was natural to feel guilt but that Sirius's death wasn't really his fault. He never truly believed himself. He told himself that the pain was still too raw and he was too cut off from the world, living with people who ignored his existence. That once he got to Grimmauld Place with Hermione and Ron and the rest of the Weasleys, he could get through this, he could heal. But another part of him dreaded going, having to pretend to be all right. Sure, he knew his friends would expect him to be depressed and would want to be there for him. The thing was, they didn't understand what he needed. They didn't understand that being there for Harry didn't mean just listening to him talk through things until he felt better. It meant leaving him alone when he needed to be alone and just sitting with him when he couldn't talk about it. It meant listening to him when he was ready to talk and realizing that he didn't always mean everything he said when he was upset. It meant accepting him when he was in a good mood but understanding when he reverted back into his moody ways, understanding that not every day was going to be a good day.

It meant, most of all, letting Harry be the Harry he was growing into, and not trying to force him to be the Harry they had once known. You didn't lose your godfather and stay the same person. You didn't watch Voldemort return and you didn't watch a handsome, successful boy being killed in an instant by one of his servants and remain the same. He knew Ron and Hermione understood that in theory. He knew they tried. He knew he couldn't ask for better friends, but sometimes he wanted to. Sometimes he wanted friends who understood what it was like to mess up as badly as he had. Sometimes he wanted friends who understood that dark side of his thoughts, the side that found it harder to choose good over bad, to choose love over hate.

The letter from Remus, which he had set in his lap, now fluttered to the ground as he jumped up from the bed. Leaning down on the floor, Harry pulled up the loose floorboard where he still kept his most precious of possessions and pulled out the photo album that Hagrid had given him at the end of his first year. He was always afraid that if he didn't hide it, the Dursleys would find some way to ruin it, the only thing Harry truly had to remind him of his parents, besides a haunting, chilling memory that made his blood run cold even as he wished to remember.

Harry turned slowly through the pages of his album. As usual, his eyes couldn't help but catch on the images of his parents, his father looking so very much like Harry himself, his mother's emerald eyes shining just like Harry's did when he was truly happy. But now Harry was not focusing on his parents. He was focusing on another man, who appeared in almost half the pictures, a man with silky black hair, a broad smile, and youthful good looks that held little resemblance to the man Harry had known and loved. There was one of Sirius and James together seemingly before the wedding, as they looked to be in Madame Malkin's or a similar shop, being fitted for dress robes. Next, one of the four Marauders, Remus and Sirius embracing Peter like a brother as James eclipsed them all from behind acting goofy. And then there was one simply broke Harry's heart to look at, of his parents and Sirius. His parents were standing together, posing for the photograph when Sirius suddenly ran into the frame, bumping into James, who had to catch Lily to prevent her from falling. And while Harry's father held his mother tenderly in his arms, looking softly into her eyes, Sirius laughed at the camera, demanding attention. These were the people who were supposed to be asleep in the next room over, who were supposed to be worried about Harry because he wasn't sleeping and not just getting angry with him for being tired. These were the people he had been denied because of Voldemort and Peter, and his own brazen stupidity. His parents he had never known, and they were more like idols in his mind than the way a child normally thinks of his parents. But Sirius had been real to him, and if he had entered Harry's life belatedly, he had made up for it in his fierce and loyal caring. And what had Harry done to repay him? He had practically signed his death certificate.

Bitterness rose up in him, and tears stung at his eyes. It's not fair, he thought. Of course, life was never fair. If it was, Harry would have both of his parents and Voldemort would be dead and Peter would be in Azkaban with Bellatrix Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy, and perhaps then Malfoy wouldn't be such an arrogant git. If nothing else, Sirius would still be at Grimmauld Place, writing Harry letters and promising that they would see each other soon. What had he done to deserve this? Been the subject of some prophecy? Why hadn't Voldemort just chosen Neville?

Lashing out at the only thing he could, Harry tore the picture up from its spot in the album and ripped it in half before he had a chance to convince himself otherwise. The occupants of the photo were disrupted and disturbed by what was happening. Harry couldn't stand to look at them and so he didn't. He tore it in half again, and again. Every time the paper made the terrible ripping sound, he felt some horrid relief inside, as though destroying the evidence would erase the memories from his mind. And he kept ripping, until the entire photograph was lying on the floor in tiny little pieces. He wanted to cry out, to scream, to yell, but held it in, curling on the bed as angry sobs wrenched his body. Harry gasped for air, but it hurt too much. He was alone in the world, all alone, or so he felt. Somewhere inside, he knew that Ron and Hermione loved him and cared about him. He knew that Dumbledore and Remus adored him; he knew that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would be there for him. But where were they now? They weren't with Harry, none of them were there to hold him as he cried, to soothe the pain away. They were asleep in their own beds. The Weasleys were with their family, and as much as he wished it, that didn't include him.

Deep down inside himself, Harry was entirely alone. There was no one who could share with him the infinite sorrow, the infinite pain embedded in his soul. There was no one who could understand the perverse joy he had felt in hearing his parents as they died, simply because he was hearing them. And Harry knew, he knew, that, even though he fought for the side of light and always would, no one would understand that there was an infinite darkness that Voldemort had forced into him, a black hole that was the core of Harry Potter.