The Medium Between Life and Death

Chapter 1

There were very few things in Harry Potter's life that he was absolutely certain of. He had an idea that keeping a child in a cupboard when there were two empty bedrooms in a house was probably considered bad, he was a little more sure of the fact that his aunt and uncle hated his guts and lied to him frequently, he was fairly positive that his cousin Dudley would end up in prison at some point in his life, but none of those were complete certainties. Frankly, he only guessed that his name was Harry Potter since his aunt and uncle only called him Freak or Boy, but he figured that Harry might be short for something and no one had bothered to tell him. There was one absolute certainty though, he'd felt it in his bones for as long as he could remember. That certainty was that he, Harry Potter, was indeed dead.

Now, this seems a bit unreasonable, especially taking into account that Harry did in fact eat, sleep, and breathe. When he'd mentioned this belief to a teacher once, she had sat him down and talked him through all the scientific reasons why he was definitely alive. Harry had listened, nodding his dark, shaggy head the entire time, and he heard her, but he didn't believe her. He knew. He didn't know why or how, but he did know...he was dead, a corpse, much more animate than usual, but dead nonetheless.

When he mentioned this belief to his relatives, his aunt screamed at him for fifteen minutes before his uncle threw him into his cupboard and didn't let him out for a week with only tiny scraps of food. Harry went back and forth on his feelings about his cupboard. It reminded him of what a coffin must feel like: small, wooden, and dark. Some days, it seemed fitting, calming almost. Some days, it felt like he couldn't breathe, that he'd been buried six feet underground, and he'd never surface again. Other days he wondered, what if he'd been buried? What if his relatives forgot to feed him a little too long? What if Dudley hit him just a little too hard one day, or he didn't duck fast enough when Aunt Petunia swung the skillet at his head? Could someone who was dead be killed? Could a dead person die? Regardless, he learned to never speak of this certainty around his relatives again.

It's not like there was no evidence that supported him. Frankly, there was definitely evidence. Animals all seemed to know, especially dogs. They either tried to chase him or avoided him. Aunt Marge's dog, Ripper, definitely fell on the chase him side of the spectrum. Also, there was that one night. The night that the Dursleys left the house to go to a restaurant and locked him out in the back garden since he'd been the one to burn dinner, causing them to have to go out. They had gotten stuck in a horrible traffic jam and decided to stay at a hotel for the night. The temperature dropped well below freezing and snow fell from the heavens. Harry ended up curling up under a bush in the backyard, looking at the stars and the snow, and shivering until he just stopped and fell asleep. When the Dursleys arrived back at the house in the morning, Harry uncurled painfully, feeling like his blood had frozen in his joints. However, he went inside, cooked breakfast, and continued on with his day. He figured that probably wasn't normal, but what did he know, he was only nine. And ever since that night, he felt things...like whispers in his mind or the brush of a hand or a phantom hug...things he knew weren't there and hadn't been before his night spent under the snow.

So, armed with his limited evidence, Harry remained sure that he was in fact one of the dearly departed. He maintained this certainty even when other things changed in a whirlwind around him. When his Hogwarts letter came, Harry smiled. Magic was something that might explain what had happened to him. He hated that it had taken so long for him to get the letter, and that Mr. Hagrid had to come and give it to him. He wished his aunt and uncle had just told him that magic did actually exist and that his parents weren't drunks that died in a car crash, but he knew that was asking way too much from Vernon and Petunia Dursley.

Walking through Diagon Alley, Harry wondered if there were more people like him. More people who were dead but also very much alive. The goblins seemed to know...both the teller and the goblin who drive their cart to the vaults gave Harry looks. These looks were surprised, knowing, and had a bit of suspicion in them. Harry just smiled at them, hoping he looked reassuring. Mr. Hagrid didn't seem to notice, but he was so tall that Harry figured he couldn't see everything that happened as close to the ground as Harry and the goblins were.