Footprints

Footprints

The snow falls thickly on this part of the Forbidden Forest. There are trees all around you, dark and ominous, circling your little clearing. When you look down, you're up to your knees in snow, and ahead of you, there are footprints. Behind you, there is no sign, no way of knowing where you came from and how you got here; you only know you must try to find your way out.

It's cold and you can feel the frost, even in your dreams, biting, as if it wants to weave itself into your very skin. It's a cold unlike any cold you've ever felt, a cold that has grown within you until now it encompasses you, turning the whole world to ice around you, sucking you away from heat and warmth and love.

But it doesn't matter. There is no one to love now, no one to risk losing any more.

You follow the footprints across the clearing, pulling your legs up out of the snow bank, but it only seems to get higher and higher as you move. The snow keeps on falling, swirling around you, and you can feel it rising, catching, pulling at your legs. Somehow, the faster you try to move, the deeper it gets until you cannot move anymore. You are trapped, but you haven't gone anywhere; you're lost and you alone and unable to get out of this strange snow-covered place.

The tight circle of trees surround you, moving in. They point their crooked branches at you as if they blame you for the frost that has covered this whole godforsaken place. You killed us, they whisper with their leafless branches, you killed us, like you killed him.

'I didn't! I didn't!'

But you did. You killed him Harry...

'No...'

Panic sets in, a sharp punch in your chest that leaves you gasping for breath in the thin winter air. You struggle and try to get out of the snow, but it's almost as if the tiny white flakes have formed something big and vicious and alive, that's determined to swallow you, to make you suffocate under its heavy weight.... to make you pay for those who have gone. You keep telling yourself that it's not real, no, but it's so, so, so cold, and so frightening because it holds you with a grip of ice that you cannot break out of, frozen fingers that trail across your face and feel very, very real. You want to cry out but the cold has stolen your voice; the snow chokes you. It rises in a roaring tower that spreads its arms and envelopes the world and all you can see is the dark sky above, a sliver of moonshine, before it is all blocked out.

Your whole world turns white and blinds you. You do not settle; you do not float; you are simply suspended, left to find your way in the snow that crumbles at your touch but then piles in again, cutting you off from the world above as you fight to break out.

The only sound in your ears is your tension, your fear and your panic, rising, rising, the blood pumping and the voices, of the dead trees and of the poor creatures that have fallen victim to the snow, to you; those who died by the hands of other but you may as well have killed them yourself.

You killed them, Harry. You killed Sirius. You should have listened. You killed Cedric...

You lash out, trying to find the voice that taunts you, that tortures you so. The snow hampers your movements, but it cannot stop you from touching something solid. You wonder who this being is, if he is the source, if he is the person who is trying to break you. You curl your fingers around his arm and tug, and the body flips over, glassy eyes staring at you from its owner's still face, the red hair eclipsed by the bloodied snow under it.

You suck in a ragged breath, dropping his arm. You cannot think; this can't be, no, not him...

But that's when you notice the snow around you breaking, the bodies rolling out of the storm and coming towards you. All of them bear the same sorrowful expression and wide open eyes; all of them are cold and dead. Some of them you cannot bear to even look at; your eyes tear up and your heart stops as you see the head of bushy brown hair fanning out, her neck twisted and her body lying face down in the snow. Every where you look, there is another body, another person dead...

You killed them all Harry...

... two of them lie, side by side, identical expressions frozen in shock...

This is all your fault...

... he fell protecting you. His eyes are hidden; his graying hair drips blood onto his face...

You are to blame...

'No!' you scream, swallowing a mouthful of cold snow. It reaches inside you and clenches a powerful fist around your heart, slowing its panicked rhythm. Now you do not hear the voice in your head; it is inside you, your lips moving as it speaks, your tears freezing on your cheeks. You try to turn away, try to get away from the stiff bodies, the faces that all stare at you, helpless; their lifeless eyes accuse you, their voices rising, a clamouring, raucous, deafening din.

You killed them...

'I didn't... I...' a weak gurgling sound comes from your throat; you cannot even form the words.

You killed us...

'I... no... oh God, I killed them...'

You cannot stand anymore; your legs shake and buckle under you as you fall to your knees. You curl up on your side, trying to save yourself, but you are not sure that you want to be saved. Here in the snow there is a dull, angry warmth that comes through you, that rises from your words. There is an acceptance, a brutal realization that they are dead because of you...

You killed Lily. You killed James.

'I... it was my fault...'

Harry...

You wonder if this is what it is to die, with peace and purity all around your, your body buried under the drifts. You wonder if they will accept you, if they will accept the broken apologies you struggle to say as your lungs burn with every breath and your eyes water with the effort to see.

'I'm sorry... I'm so sorry...'

Harry, come on...

A hand shoots through the layer of snow covering you, a cold, white hand, almost as white as the snow itself. You stare up at it, marvelling. Are you dead? Are you forgiven? Who has come for you? Sirius? Your father? It searches about, feeling, the fingers wandering over your face. You close your eyes, unable to hold on, feeling yourself slipping away...

Harry...

It grabs you by the front of your robes and tugs you up, up and out of the snow, out of your little cocoon. You are too weak to fight it; too weak, too numb to care.

Harry? Harry!

Someone shakes you hard but you cannot see them; your eyelids refuse to open. You try to mumble a name, to call out to whoever it is, but your lips are frozen.

Harry, wake up!

You're trying to breathe but you cannot force the air into your lungs. You are dying; you want to see them again, you want to tell them that you are sorry...

Breathe! Breathe, Harry!

He's bringing you back, forcing you to return. You are not dead yet, no. Instinct is taking over now. Your lips unstick themselves and you gulp down the air greedily, feeling the searing air cutting through your lungs, a painful kiss of life... but you choke... you are falling again, sinking into snow, into oblivion...

Damn it, Harry!

Thwack!

The sharp feeling of a hand crossing your face in a hard slap jolts you awake. It was a dream. It was a dream. But when did dreams begin being so... real? When did you begin living them instead of just watching them?

Your eyes seem so heavy... you almost can't open them. Water splashes your face, and there are murmurs in the background of the fuzziness; when you finally do open your eyes, there's a sigh of relief. The cold is nothing more than the breeze from the window passing over your shivering, sweaty body. There is no ice, no snow; there are no voices condemning you...

'Wha...'

'Harry! Harry, listen, you're okay! You were just having a nightmare!'

You blink away the haze that enters your eyes. Ron leans above you, eyes wide, his fingers digging painfully into your shoulders. In the darkness he is unnaturally pale, face drawn up in concern. You stare at him in disbelief, the image of his body still fresh behind your eyelids; you take in every small detail to try and convince yourself that he is there, he is real. Your eyes travel over him, over his pinched expression and his wild eyes, over his scarred arms... they glimmer faintly in the moonlight, silver, reminders of what he's been through for you...

You take in a deep breath and choke down a sob. Almost gone... all of them...

Your curtains have been drawn back and the other boys of the dormitory are watching curiously. You are suddenly aware of the tears on your face, the tears that stubbornly refuse to stop and you wipe at your eyes angrily, turning from the glances until you hear the sounds of three pairs of footsteps shuffling their way to their own beds.

Ron stays.

'Are you okay?'

You look away from him and nod, swallowing heavily. 'Just a dream,' you mutter.

'Pretty bad, eh?'

Yes.

'No... not really.'

He places a hand on your shoulder and it pains you because you know that he will always be there... that all of them risk themselves for you... that they could die for you. You shrug away his touch and draw into yourself, suddenly afraid that if you allow him to know, if you let this go on...

'What did you see?'

I saw you dead.

'Nothing.'

'But Harry...'

I saw you all dead. And it was all my fault.

'I'm fine. Go back to bed.'

A quick glance reveals that he is puzzled, confused, hurt. He moves away, hidden after a few seconds behind his own curtains. You curse under your breath, your heart sinking, but you know what you must do now; it hurts you but it's the only thing you can do, the voices of your dream driving you to a decision.

You killed them...

No, you will not allow any more of them to die.

You killed them...

This all stops now. You've got to do it. You've got to break away... for their sakes...

You killed them...

You slip out of bed, quietly putting your belongings in your trunk, listening intently for the sounds of the others sleeping. They sound peaceful in their beds, but you can tell that some are not asleep, despite the silence; you can tell that Ron is awake, listening, and that if he knew what you were doing he'd have already hexed you so that you couldn't move.

'I can't let this happen, Ron. I'm sorry,' you whisper as you finish packing your trunk. 'Locomotor trunk!'

You killed them.

'I killed them,' you repeat quietly. Passing the mirror, you pause to look at your reflection; in your face, you see the lines of guilt. As you slip out of the castle, a cloud passes over the moon, and you fancy you hear the sighs of a murderer.

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fin

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