Disclaimer: I still don't own Harry Potter

Written for the QLFC Round 6: Lesser Used Genres
Position: Harpies, Chaser 2
Prompts:
2. (word) experience
8. (picture) Bench
12. (word) keyhole
Genre - Spiritual
Word Count: 1,142

First of all, a huge thank you to Nasim (natida) for being an excellent beta and turning this into something I didn't want to post into something I'm quite proud of.

This takes place at the end of the Prisoner of Azkaban, and is written from three perspectives but all are happening at the same time, followed by an epilogue. Hopefully it sort of makes sense... Enjoy!

The First

It hung in the frozen air; not that it could feel such things (or feel at all, they all said so), but it could sense, sense the three sparks inside the bodies on the ground by the black water, along with the others of its kind who, like it, perceived the pulsing light of the souls below them.

It knew (not that it could know or think, so it had been told), to move towards the light. Happiness lingered in the air, increasing its hunger. It had never experienced the full meal of a soul before, only the teasing appetisers of happy memories sucked from the environment, which only could be tasted for a few precious moments before they dissolved to emptiness.

The lights flickered more as it approached, cowering in fear away from it. They were so wholesome, so pure —it could sense them being repelled from the darkness it resembled. Still it continued to approach, so close now that the happiness was no longer just a whisper that trickled down its throat, but a shout that played out scenes in front of it. Laughter, smiles and love filled its mind and mouth, and it drank them in like a drug that it couldn't get enough of.

One of the souls seemed to burn a little brighter than the rest. It was the blue one—blue like the sky.

It had never seen blue skies until the day a group of them had left their home to be bought here. Here there were the storms it was used to from the enchanted sky of Azkaban, but also sun and snow and far more happiness than it had ever experienced. It was hungry for more.

The soul the burned a little brighter was the happiest one there. It also happened to belong to the only girl in the trio, already passed out from the overwhelming misery surrounding her. But her soul shone brightly, playing out memories of her childhood, of two parents giving her a present, their faces shining with pride. Of her receiving a letter on yellowed parchment, stunned that it was her name, Hermione Granger, at the top, and relieved that there might be a place where she would fit in after all. Of the messy haired boy who was next to her, and of another boy – this one tall and ginger – whose face appeared again and again in the montage of memories.

It could sense no others around going for this girl's soul, so it struck, open mouth ready and waiting.

The Second

It was pulled towards the red soul of the group. The blue one looked appetising, and it could see one of its younger fellows heading straight for it. But this one had tasted a soul before – a young child's - the brightest yellow soul there had ever been. It had been unable to stop itself, the small muggle's parents being unaware and defenceless. The soul was sweet, almost burning with happiness. But it faded quickly, the memories empty and meaningless. This time, it thirsted for experience.

That's what had attracted it to the boy. But to get to this soul was to be part of a fight. It glided through the air, repeatedly passing by the boy, trying to stake its claim. It was denied repeatedly by the bright light shining from his wand, the pure goodness forcing it away. But the boy was becoming weaker, the shield turning to vapour , which in turn became wisps with each wandwave.

The same memory kept being pushed forwards as a defence, again and again, and it wasn't even a happy memory. There were happy memories there, oh yes, but hidden beneath this powerful one. There was a golden mirror, filled with the reflections of people who were not there. While there was joy in the memory, there was also sadness, and a deep, deep longing. If there were more of such thoughts in this soul rich with life, it knew it would keep its thirst satisfied for a long time to come.

The spell finally failed and—seizing its opportunity—it pulled the boy up, its open mouth ready and waiting.

The Third

One of them hung back. It was thoroughly unsettled by the scenario being played out before it. One of the souls was being ignored, while they contested over the other two. It didn't blame its companions. The last soul was grey and barely shining, its life almost entirely lost. But it knew this soul.

This was the soul it had guarded for years— the soul, like so many before it, that it had been promised should the prisoner ever escape. That had seemed an exciting prospect when the man had first arrived, his golden soul so different from the black ones Azkaban usually housed. But it was cursed, and over the years the grey had spread through it, killing the soul until only a golden heart remained, its dimmed light weakly pulsing through the darkness.

One day, the soul had vanished, and they had believed that the man had died, like so many prisoners did, and that Death had stolen another of their souls. And yet here it was: the mass of grey that it had watched over for all that time, protecting the few happy memories that it clung to.

The memory that could be seen now was one it knew by heart (not that it had a heart): the same man, nearly unrecognisable, sat on a bench covered in snow, surrounded by three friends. They wore school robes, and held steaming mugs between their hands. They laughed, and in that moment, they had not a worry between them.

But in the presence of so many of its kind, it could see the memory fading, the last golden light being consumed by grey. It had seen this happen to many, watched them go insane afterwards, driven mad by the dark thoughts that consumed them. It had tasted too many souls to find pleasure in such things anymore. But it could save this one—save him from the darkness.

It greeted the soul like an old friend, open mouth ready and waiting.

Epilogue

Years later, it peered through the keyhole at its new prisoner. This soul was green, not black like the ones it was used to. But the grey would set in, just like it had with the golden-souled prisoner all those years before. There was no silver stag riding through the night that could stop the inevitable greyness.

It knew (not that it could know or think, that was forbidden), that the grey would take over the man's body and mind, until the darkness of his soul consumed him.

It just hoped (not that it could feel, especially not hope), that it could save this one before it was too late.