REQUIEM - [h.p]

IV; something amiss

"There will be no need for the boy to seek out answers as long as the knowledge remains out of sight," Albus advised. "Danger and imprudence are nothing one should aspire for, let alone with a matter as large as this. Do not make a decision you will come to regret, Newt." 

—

Things were quiet for Harry after the Quidditch World Cup. And he hated it. He couldn't stop thinking about what he saw that day, as he wandered around what was left of the countless tents that had been so filled with life and joy mere hours before. And the blood. There was so much blood.

His friend was barely recognizable. There was dried and wet blood smeared all over Edwyn's face, and his arm was a mangled mess that Harry nearly vomited at the sight of. It should have been him, he thought glumly. Edwyn didn't deserve any of that, and from what he was told, his friend might not even fully recover. It wasn't fair. None of it. Why couldn't it have been him in that field?

Letting out a quiet sigh, Harry turned his head away from the ceiling of his room and looked toward the window out into Privet Drive. The street was empty and illuminated by the streetlamps and occasional lit windows from the other suburban homes.

Two weeks. Only two more weeks of this prison, and he'd be back at Hogwarts. Back home. Harry could only hope that this would be a normal year. No basilisks, no dark lords, and no soul-eating demons. Just a normal year, filled with the most tooth-rotting mundanity one could ask for.

—

He groaned, bringing up a hand to massage his stiff neck, then tilted his head side to side. Rolling his shoulders for a short while to ease the tension.

He breathed out a sigh. And his eyes shifted back to the papers that stacked upon each other atop the desk. He had done the best he could with the tools he had, as the saying went. But the amount of work he produced in this long stretch of time was less than impressive. After a while, all the small sketches, words, and diagrams started to blur together on the pages. He had to screw his eyes shut more than once, and even then, he couldn't shake off the growing headache and strange absentmindedness that altered his mind to that of a dull blade.

Time passed strangely for him. Memories would flicker in and out of existence, and he couldn't get a grip on anything to anchor himself to reality. Every time he tried to really think, it would slip out of his fingers like water from a creek.

Pulling himself away from the papers, he shifted his focus toward the ceramic cup that held his tea. He debated, for a moment or two, with himself if he should take another sip. The liquid had long since gone cold from remaining still for so long, and the taste had likely staled as well. Nevertheless, he reached out an arm and raised the mug close to his lips. He paused. 

Floating at the surface of the dark liquid was a fly. It was still alive, buzzing away and desperately flapping its heavily soaked wings. Its legs moved just as haphazardly and quick. They were feeble, last-ditch efforts to escape the gaunt fingers of Death wrapping around it and cutting the string of its life. He stared, almost frozen, as the fly's struggles grew weaker and weaker, until the insect finally gave up, and its body floated motionlessly in the cup; the sound of its buzzing having stopped too.

As he continued to stare into the infused water, he allowed himself to drift off again. Staring past the floating carcass of the fly, and past his wavering reflection on the tea's surface — all the while, his surroundings blurred and morphed, and if he were aware of it enough to care, he might have even found himself a bit queasy at the presence of all those swerving lights and colours.