Soulspeaking

Three days after Harry was left at the Dursley residence, his eyes turned white.

Three years after his arrival, he asked his Aunt Petunia where the pretty music was coming from. She couldn't answer; she simply couldn't hear it.

Three years after that, Harry found a bird dying in the back yard. It had been mauled by Ripper, Aunt Marge's dog. Petunia watched as Harry closed its eyes, humming a quaint little tune, and told it that it was safe to go home now. The bird stilled and died.

Three years after that, Dudley told his mother that his friends refused to go near Harry. He scared them, but they couldn't say why. He was never violent, never angry, never loud. He simply looked at you, through unseeing eyes, calm and collected.

Three days after that, a strange letter arrived in the post. Aunt Petunia took one look at it, sighed, "Thank Heavens," and read it to Harry. It claimed to be from a 'Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.' Aunt Petunia told him it was a great honor to be accepted. Uncle Vernon kept humming as he counted the days on the calendar.

---

The lady they had sent the letter to, a "Professor McGonagall," had replied that they would be sending someone on the thirty-first of August to take Harry and his guardians shopping for school supplies. The letter had not identified who this mystery person would be; it has simply said that they were a trusted member of the faculty who would be able to explain everything to them.

Dudley had done a good job at making himself scarce that day, ostensibly going out to play with Piers or Gordon or somebody, though neither Petunia nor Harry were fooled. He, too, was scared of Harry, though he was scared because his friends were. It was not quite a concrete thought.

At nine o'clock there was a knock at the door, which Petunia, being a good hostess, answered promptly. The man who entered was tall and dressed entirely in black. He had sharp, severe features, permanent frown lines, and lank black hair. He carried in his hand a manilla folder which contrasted sharply against his attire.

After the appropriate introductions, Petunia led her visitor into the kitchen, where Harry was sitting on one of the wooden kitchen chairs with his back to them. "Harry?" she said, clearing her throat. "The professor is here to take us shopping for your school supplies. Won't you come greet Professor Snape?"

The Professor lost his perpetual sneer when he saw that the boy's eyes were blind.

---

"There has never been a blind boy at Hogwarts," Professor Snape told Aunt Petunia, politely accepting a steaming cup of tea. "Not one in a whole thousand years."

Aunt Petunia poured Harry a cup and placed it before him, carefully positioning the handle at 3 o'clock. Then she poured herself a cup and sat down. "Not one?" she asked. "They what do you people do with the blind children?"

"There simply aren't any."

At her incredulous look, he elaborated. "The problem is simply fixed, usually after being detected at birth or immediately after it happens," he explained. "Muggle-born blind students usually look elsewhere for an education, usually at a muggle school specializing in blind students."

There was silence. "Why can't I go to Hogwarts?" Harry asked, his voice soft, as he looked straight forward and calmly sipped his tea. "Do you not accept disabled students?"

"It's not that, Harry, " Aunt Petunia answered quickly. "It's that they simply have never had a blind student before and the curriculum, as such, isn't ready--"

White eyes were bored into her, making her shiver. "I have never needed an adjusted curriculum before," he said. "Why would I need one now?"

Professor Snape sneered. "The Hogwarts curriculum is much... different... from that which you experienced at your muggle school. You would not survive."

This time the eerie eyes were turned onto him, and he felt a strange unease at the blank gaze that seemed to bore straight through his soul.

"I cannot go?"

Snape felt a rush of excitement, an evil sort of vindictive pleasure. Touché, Potter. Who is the winner now? "No."

But Harry did not kick and scream, like Snape expected him to. He did not throw a fuss or a tantrum. He did not whine or beg or plead to be let to attend Hogwarts. He simply nodded, finished his tea, and went upstairs.

After giving Mrs Dursley some informational packets in the manilla folder that pertained to the raising of magically active teenagers, Professor Snape bid her goodbye and left 4 Privet Drive. At some point on the journey back, the sense of accomplishment turned sour in his mouth and started to feel oddly foreboding.

---

Three days later, Harry Potter disappeared.

The Ministry of Magic called up every Auror, every Unspeakable, every reserve to find him. They found nothing. His room was as immaculate as when he'd left it, his bed was made, his shoes lined up neatly in his closet.

The Order of the Phoenix called in every member, every spy, every person even remotely affiliated with the organization, and they too found nothing. Nothing was missing of Harry's but his staff -- for he had always disdained the white plastic canes for a solid wooden dowel -- and a set of clothing.

The Surrey police squadron searched far and wide for Harry, but they couldn't find him. They interviewed classmates and teacher. They would have interviewed his friends, but he hadn't had any.

Seven years later, they stopped looking.

---

The year Harry Potter disappeared, Quirinius Quirrell succeeded in raising his master from the dead. Lord Voldemort was back, immune to natural death thanks to the properties of the Sorceror's Stone.

The year after Harry disappeared, the Chamber of Secrets was opened. Rubeus Hagrid was sent to Azkaban indefinitely. Ginny Weasley was murdered. The school closed early.

The year after that, the school did not open as a massive basilisk hunt took place.

The year following, Death Eaters attacked the Quidditch World Cup en masse. There were numerous casualties. Viktor Krum died. So did Amos Diggory and Arthur Weasley. Hogwarts hosted the Triwizard Tournament. The Hogwarts Champion, Cedric Diggory, hung himself from the rafters of the owlery.

The next year, Voldemort held the castle under siege. The school held strong for the first four months before finally falling on Christmas day. Children and professors alike were held captive and tortured. Only one person ever managed to escape.

---

Ron Weasley lay panting on the snow-covered ground of the forbidden forest. His lungs burned with the exertion of running this far, his body ached from the cruciatus curse he had been held under not six hours before that. He knew he had to get to cover, to hide, but he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes right now, to die.

"There are better ways to die, friend," a calm voice interrupted his exhausted doze. "Less cold, less alone, less cowardly. Your soul yearns for more life, not for death."

Staggering to his feet, Ron peered at the stranger. It was a boy, a teenager, roughly his age, perched upon a large boulder. With long black hair, roughly cut, and a small half-smile. He wore a brown tunic and tan pants with leather boots, a simple, thin, grey robe over-top. He looked familiar. And he had a most peculiar scar...

"Harry Potter?" he gasped.

Harry smiled and said nothing. But there was something wrong.

"You're blind!" Ron exclaimed.

"Always have been," Harry replied. "That's why I didn't come to Hogwarts. Professor Snape explained that there had never been a blind student and I might not be able to withstand the curriculum."

Ron snarled. "That slimy, Slytherin--" he stopped himself, remembering. Remembering the man that the death eaters tortured vindictively, day after day, til the once deep, smooth voice had turned raspy and rough with screams and begged them, endlessly, to just let him die, let him lose consciousness, let him leave the pain--

"His soul is tortured," Harry said calmly, sadly, turning unseeing eyes towards the sky from which little cold flakes of snow floated quietly. "It begged me, when I met him, to release it, to let him leave this life of pain, suffering."

He turned towards Ron, who suddenly felt uncomfortable at the gaze. As if all of the horrible, nasty things he had ever done were on display for this stranger to see. As if Harry could see them, judge them and him, dictate his worthiness to live, to exist...

"There are many more now," Harry continued, his gaze never leaving Ron. "And each day their pain grows, their agony doubles, triples. Their humiliation, their shame. The degradation, the inhumanity overwhelms me at times and I must rest like now. So I came, to help them. To give them rest."

He stood up and picked up a simple wooden rod that lay beside him. "But his soul cries out the loudest," he added quietly, no longer able to meet Ron's eyes. "His was worst to start, and now they treat him worst because of it. He had a young soul, but it will not be reborn after this. It has seen too much pain."

Harry closed his eyes and swayed slightly, humming a snatch of song under his breath. "Do you hear the wards sing?" he asked, reverence in his voice. "They sing of many things. Of children and learning, of laughter and excitement. Of flying, of brewing, of casting, of magic. They sing of protection, many, many layers of the song. They sing of sorrow because of their failure." He started walking, eyes closed though he never once faltered in his step.

Ron stared after him in disbelief before following.

"Your soul sings as well," Harry told him as they walked through the drifting snow. "It sings of brothers, of friendship. Love, and acceptance. It sings of passion and protection -- deep, strong, loving protection. Strategy. Tactics. It sings of freedom and flying. Your soul is young. It has much further to go on its journey."

Harry began humming again, a melodious, haunting tune that seemed to echo about them as he uttered it. Somehow, Ron felt reassured by his words.

As they reached the edge of the forest, Harry stopped. "Can you hear the magic, friend?" he asked. "It is stronger here, where the wizards are. It sings of hatred, vengeance. An overwhelming vindictiveness. And anger -- much, much anger. Can you hear it?"

"We-- I don't have to go back there, do I?"

"Your soul yearns to protect those of your blood, your heart cries out for the well-being of your friends, but your body whimpers at the ghosts of its pains. Go, friend. Return to the place you call safe. Your journey need not follow mine."

Ron watched him walk calmly across the dead grass towards the gloomy castle before him. He closed his eyes and tried to hear the music that Harry talked about, but all he heard was silence and the haunting reminder of past screams. With a deep breath, he made a decision, and sprinted after the other boy.

---

"Where are we going?" Ron asked quietly as they made their way through the halls. They seemed to be headed towards the dungeons.

"I am going to free the souls that are in pain, that cry out for death. All of them," Harry replied equally quietly. "They call to me, I come to them."

Suddenly he stopped and frowned. Abruptly he turned right and stalked down an adjacent corridor. Two more rights and then he was in a doorway. Ron stopped in the doorway, turned, and gagged, unable to look.

Harry kneeled next to the student, stroking the child's hair back from her terrified, bloodied face. "Shhhh," he said quietly. "It's all right now. Close your eyes. Shhhh." The girl closed her remaining eye and calmed visibly.

Harry began singing, a calm, wordless tune, haunting and mesmerizing all at once. Even Ron turned from his place at the door and stared at Harry, somehow drawn from the core of his being towards the sound. Harry placed a hand on the girl's forehead and sang louder for a second, and then quieted, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. The girl breathed with him, and then fell utterly still. "Be at peace, Rose," Harry whispered, and then stood up.

In the hallway, they came face-to-face with a sneering blond boy. "Weasley," he snarled, pointing his wand at Ron. "And who the hell are you?"

Harry turned to face him, and the boy gasped. "Potter?" he asked incredulously, lowering his wand. "Harry Potter?"

Harry didn't reply, but kept his gaze squarely on the blond. He stepped closer, and the boy began trembling. "G-get away from me," he gasped, seemingly unable to move himself.

Ron watched, uncomprehending, as Harry placed his hand flat on Draco Malfoy's head and then ripped it back suddenly. Malfoy's eyes rolled into his head and he collapsed bonelessly on the floor.

Harry walked back to where Ron was standing and held up the hand for him to see. Trapped within his fingers was a glowing grey-white dust-mote of light. "The greater the corruption," he said. "The easier it is to crush." When he opened his hand back up, the light was no more.

Only pausing momentarily to consider the body lying unmoving in the corridor, Harry strode onwards, Ron following uncertainly in his wake.

---

They stopped a number of times more, and at least four-dozen of Voldemort's finest now lay dead in their beds and common rooms. "I reckon there's hardly anyone left," Ron reasoned out loud to his uncaring companion. "He only had about 90 to start with, he lost about 20 since then, and took fifteen with him to inhabit Azkaban fortress. If we free the rest of the prisoners, we could take back Hogwarts and annihilate him when he got back!"

Harry stopped suddenly in his tracks and closed his eyes, a look of pain crossing his face. Then he opened them once more and strode purposefully down the next left-handed corridor. The passage was damp and musty and it twisted often as it went deep into the underground bowels of Hogwarts. Finally, it dead-ended at a thick, wooden door.

The room they entered obviously served no purpose other than that of a torture chamber. Rusty, bloodied instruments hung from the walls and on the available surfaces, inviting a closer look which Ron had no interest in giving. Harry, however, ignored these distractions and walked straight to the table in the middle; a long, rough wooden table to which a body was chained.

It was Professor Snape, stripped naked with large chunks of flesh missing and others burnt and mangled and desecrated in any number of heinous ways. At their approach, he opened his eyes and gasped out, "Potter."

Harry leaned his hip against the side of the table and placed one hand against the man's cheek. "Shhhh," he said. "Don't speak."

But Snape seemed to be trying to force something out. "I--" he paused as blood gurgled in his throat, spilling out, over his lips, and dribbling down the front. "I'm sorry--"

"Shhhh," Harry repeated. "I know. I knew then, too. I could feel your pain. Now hush, let me help you."

Snape gurgled again, the blood coming quicker now, the same vibrant, beautiful, Gryffindor red, and closed his eyes slowly and painfully. Harry sat on the edge of the table and pulled the man's head into his lap, clasping him against his chest and stroking his hair as he began to sing.

The song was a low, mournful tune, much like one Ron had once heard from Dumbledore's phoenix many years before. It echoed about the room, the notes rising and falling with every breath, until it seemed to echo back as if sung by the very stones of the castle. Harry's hands began emitting a low, pulsing white light, that quickly grew in magnitude and brightness until it was unbearable. Ron looked away and Snape cried out one last low, horrible, pain-filled plea--

-- and then there was silence. A deep and utter silence, so deep in magnitude that Ron could hardly bear to open his eyes, though he couldn't exactly remember closing them --

And when he did, he found himself in utter darkness. He stepped back into the hallway and followed the faint scent of a fresh breeze up towards the main dungeons, where he found a body. Lucius Malfoy, splayed out upon the ground. He had been one of the few who had followed Voldemort to Azkaban. Further exploration found more dead bodies, two more Death Eaters and a number of prisoners. The cells were full of the dead -- his brothers and friends and classmates and teachers. Voldemort lay unmoving in his throne in the Great Hall. Hogsmeade, too, was dead. As was St Mungo's and the Burrow and Ottery St Catchpole. The Ministry resembled a tomb, the floo remained silent no matter how loudly he called.

I am going to free the souls that are in pain, that cry out for death. All of them, a long-departed voice sang to him on the winds.

Outside, an owl hooted at him, a letter tied to its leg but with no one left to deliver it to.