Requiem

Requiem

For certain is death for the born
And certain is birth for the dead;
Therefore over the inevitable
Thou shouldst not grieve.

- Bhagavad Gita (250 BC - 250 AD), Chapter 2

* * *

A solitary tear squeezes between tightly clenched eyelids, forcing its way out. It drops lightly onto the cheek and begins marking a wet, salty path down the first slope. It stops abruptly as it hits the black rim of a pair of glasses, its journey almost certainly over. However, the glasses are shunted aside as a large hand rises to wipe a runny nose, and the tear slides further still, leaving a shiny trail in its wake, as it slowly heads towards the edge of the cheek. It gains momentum as it reaches the cheekbone ridge and picks up speed with the downward descent, niftily dodging the pockets of newly-grown fluff marring the childhood smoothness as the body prepares for manhood, only to be wiped away roughly by the brush of a hand, followed by an involuntary sniff.

Harry Potter's vision blurs as more tears follow the example set by the first, stubborn in their persistence to flow freely. He clenches his jaw, pulling his legs close to his body. Long arms clasp them tightly to his chest, and he blinks hurriedly as though frantic to hide the tears. In the same way he is hiding the aching pain tearing him to pieces inside. The pain frightens him - it reminds him of the gaping hole of emptiness and loneliness brutally slashed open in his chest, refusing to heal.

Hello darkness, my old friend

I've come to talk to you again ...

Death.

It is a darkness he is well acquainted with; the Black Hole of human existence, sucking in all life that crosses its path, never relinquishing its hold over the nameless souls that swirl within its murky depths for all eternity. It seems to him that the Black Hole has a personal vendetta against him - first his parents, then Cedric, and now ...

The world keeps spinning. Time ticks on in its meticulously measured way, moments gone, never to be regained. Whoever said time heals all wounds obviously never loved another living thing so much that it almost kills you to lose them. Another tear spills down his cheek. Why does the world keep on living while he feels like he's dying inside, he wants to know.

He feels the fire drying the wet patches on his cheeks, the lenses of his glasses reflecting the bright flames that do not warm him despite his close proximity. He is frozen inside, numb. He plays absentmindedly with the red velvet upholstery of the armchair he sits upon, tracing random patterns, writing indecipherable words, mesmerised by the feel of the soft-spiky material on his bare skin. For a brief moment, he forgets the troublesome past he cannot escape, no matter how hard he tries; he concentrates on the present, on the rough silkiness of fabric on the tip of his finger ... tracing ... tracing ...

But this does not last for long. Relief and peace are not his friends; sorrow and anger are knocking on the door, demanding entry.

To this, he has little choice.

His thoughts drift to the people above and below him in the castle who are sleeping peacefully, dreaming of picnics by the lake, of dancing sugarplums and loving parents; he envies them. His own restless slumber is dotted with dreams of black masks, black doorways and black veils. Why does everything have to be so dark, he wants to know, as he stares above the light of the fire to the high ceiling. Why can't there be light? Out of the corner of his eye, he can make out a large window, where a cluster of stars shine brightly in the clear night sky.

He sniffs once more, shifting slightly in his seat to ease the growing stabs of pin-and-needle numbness in his calves. No, he does not sleep - he prefers to stay awake. He tells himself that dreams have no power over those who are awake; the dreams will not haunt him if he doesn't sleep. He tries to make himself believe this. He has still not forgiven himself for dreams of long, dark corridors.

But the memories haunt him, and a single word fights its way into his conscious; the word he has been trying to forget so the pain will go away. A sole name that causes his heart to catch in his throat, his clenched fists to tremble, and his eyes to well with tears once more.

Sirius.

Sirius, the Dog Star. The larger hunting dog of Orion. If he looks up into the starry night sky will he see him in the constellation?

He shakes his head forcibly, as if this will disrupt the images forming in his head. He does not want to think about it, he does not want to remember ... yet, he will always remember. He smiles at the memory of a large, friendly black dog almost knocking him over on the train station platform. The Grim.

Padfoot.

The smile falters.

Then, there is silence. Silence, and a sequence of images playing over and over in front of his very eyes. He cannot shut them out, he has never has been able to, although he is squeezing his eyes shut and clamping hands over his ears to block out the rushing sound of the silence. It pounds inside his head; it's so loud! He opens his eyes, defeated, yet he finds he cannot see anything at all, not even the dancing flames. Panic envelops him, his eyes darting about frantically as a picture unfolds before him that is worse than the empty darkness. He can see a man with long, straggly black hair being hit by a bright flash of light, sometimes red, sometimes green; he can never keep this detail constant. An insane person, a witch, a murderer with a hollow face stands in front of the man, her wand out, watching her handiwork, cruelty marking her demeanour, and a name that contests the mighty Orion as warrior.

The warrior slays the hunter. The bloodlust is sated.

He watches the scene in horrific clarity, rubbing his eyes futilely to try and to rid himself of the vision as a look of fear mingled with surprise etches on a face he will never see again, spiralling ... spiralling ... falling through a thin curtain of inky black cloth.

He is gone, disappearing as suddenly as he appeared in Harry's life; the injustice is too great. Sirius wasn't supposed to leave him, that's not how the story was supposed to go. He was supposed to be freed - to be pardoned from the crime he never committed. He was supposed to rescue Harry from the nightmare that was the Dursleys.

He was supposed to live.

The story was all wrong. It's just a nightmare, a horrible nightmare, he thinks. An overwhelming sadness washes over him in a cold shiver. Where the hell are you, Sirius? You said you'd be there when I needed you, and now I need you. Why aren't you here?

Raw emotion flows in his veins, pushing, rising to the surface with a loud scream that echoes over and over inside his head; he convulses with the weight of it. He wants to yell, to scream, Sirius, how dare you leave me! but the words catch in his throat. He wants to cause damage, he wants to hurt someone else, to make them feel how he does; no one should have the right to smile, or laugh, or be happy when he is feeling this unbelievable pain! The tears flow unashamedly now; he does not wipe them away - he doesn't trust his hands, which are shaking uncontrollably.

Why didn't you scream, Sirius?

He fights against releasing a loud sob, clenching his trembling fists until the knuckles are pure white, digging his nails into his palm until he draws blood; he does not want to wake anybody from their peaceful dreams. He does not want any of them to see him hurting like this. He is Harry Potter, after all - a hero, and heroes do not break down in tears.

Or do they?

The hero is not infallible as the worshipper would believe; they too have weaknesses that, more often than not, lead to their downfall. Harry scoffs as this thought crosses his mind. He spent fourteen years idolising his father, the lovable and forever fawned over James Potter, but he turned out to be nothing more than an egotistical bully. The view from Snape's Pensieve had forever punctured a hole in Harry's beliefs. James had been Harry's hero, but not anymore.

Harry, himself, does not feel like the hero everyone wants him to be. If he was a hero, then the man who was his friend, the man ... who was his only link to a father, fourteen years lost, would not be floating in nothingness, sinking into some sort of oblivion, belonging to neither life nor death.

He curses himself for his heroic instinct; this is his own personal weakness - even his worst enemy was able to play him like a twisted, ugly fiddle on his own terms. It makes him feel dirty for being so honourable, like a true little Gryffindor.

He feels sick.

All there is left for him are the 'if only's, and they are not enough. They are never enough; nothing can change the course of history.

He tenses unwillingly as a rush of red-hot anger bubbles in the pit of his stomach; he never asked for any of this! He never wanted to be a hero. He despises the hand fate has dealt him, convinced that somewhere out there, greater beings are laughing, thoroughly amused by his desperation and sorrow. He narrows his eyes, and stares deeper into the flames, almost not seeing them, cursing under his breath.

Sirius. Godfather. Father figure. Friend.

Upon an armchair in a deserted common room sits a lonely boy on the verge of manhood, his face etched in grief, tears drenching his cheeks, his arms clasped protectively around the legs curled beneath him.

A loud crackle from the fireplace rouses him out of his stupor, a combination of overwhelming heat and internal sorrow. He stares directly at the flames that he remembers once turned green. They will not turn green for him ever again, not in the way he so desperately wants them to. His lower lip trembles.

The sob he has repeatedly repressed escapes with a loud cry, and he buries his head into his lap, wrapping his arms more tightly around himself, and moans. The pain is too great for a boy so young to bear alone. His body shakes almost uncontrollably with each sob as he gives into the agony that slices through him, his muscles aching. It hurts him physically as well as mentally, and he doesn't know which is worse.

His cries grow progressively stronger with the flood of memories that run through his mind and the guilt that plagues him; he doesn't know where one stops and the other begins. He buries his head deeper into his lap, drawing his arms so they encircle his head and muffle the sobs. He wants the pain to stop!

He does not hear footsteps tread lightly down stone steps behind him; he is oblivious to everything but his mounting grief. He does not hear the soft shuffling of a nightgown move towards him; he is crying openly now, not caring about anything but the overwhelming pain coursing through his body.

He does feel, with a shock, hands calmly peeling his arms back from the protective ball he has made of himself, although he does not lift his head. The hands are examining his own, which are throbbing dully from the half-moon-shaped cuts on the palms, oozing blood; he feels them being wiped clean. He moves almost automatically as he feels another body slide down next to his.

He looks up; in his blurred vision, he makes out a pale face framed by long red hair. He sniffs and tries to wipe his eyes, tries to stop the sobs so he can pretend everything is all right, but warm arms slide around his back, pulling him towards her until his head is resting on her chest. She strokes his hair and hums soothing songs she remembers hearing her mother sing to her in his ear. He wraps his arms tightly around her like a teddy bear, suddenly glad she is here. He is not alone anymore.

'Cry,' she whispers, gently caressing his back. 'He will never be forgotten.'

A/N: Hello darkness, my old friend/ I've come to talk to you again comes from the Simon and Garfunkel song 'The Sounds of Silence'.