Chapter one: realizations in a pine box
Harry awoke to darkness. He stifled a yawn, and became instantly aware of a sharp pain in his chest. Somewhere near the heart. Harry moved to stretch. He quickly found that he couldn't. He was trapped inside some sort of wooden cage. A trunk perhaps.
He wondered what he was to do with himself, being inside a wood box and unable to move. He had an itch then, on his right thigh. He reached to scratch it, and his hand brushed into something.
Since his eyes had adjusted to the dark rather quickly, he grabbed the offending item, and pulled it to his face for a closer look at it.
It was a broom. A curved one. The word "Firebolt" was engraved in it's side. A note was attached to the handle. By looking at it, Harry found it had been cried over for quite awhile. It was in a quick scrawl and read: Dear Harry, Hope you can bring this with you to where you're going. May it bring many happy memories. Ron Weasley
Harry. That was his name wasn't it. Harry what though? Why couldn't this Ron person have written his last name? What kind of a last name is Weasley anyway? It sounds like weasels. Harry felt a surge of annoyance, and adjusted his position to make him feel a little more comfortable.
Harry felt something else in the box with him. Harry grabbed the things he felt and brought them close.
Bouquets, how useless. Harry examined the first. Daisies and Tulips, must've been fresh picked. Harry looked at the note. This one looked to have been drenched in tears also.
Dear Harry, We will miss you. I hope you find peace and happiness on your voyage. Watch over us while you're up there could you? Just maybe, could you say hello to my Uncle John while you're up there? I'd appreciate it. Your friend, Hermione
The name made sense to him. He had heard it before. Where was he traveling? Why couldn't he remember these people?
Why couldn't he remember anything?
Harry turned to the next bouquet. A dozen roses, artistically arranged. This person was either rich, or quite skillful. Harry flipped open the note.
Dearest Harry, It pains me deeply to see you go. However, Something pains me more than that. Something that I never told you. Maybe if I had told you, things would have been different.
I love you. I have for nearly an eternity, Maybe, If you read this, up in Heaven. you will wait for me. I will wait for you. Forever. Ginny Weasley
Another letter and still he hadn't a clue to his last name. Angrily he punched the top to his wooden box. He heard a crack, and lines formed in the wood. It barely hurt.
Harry reread the letters as to some clue in them as to where he was going. There wasn't.
Wait a minute. Up in Heaven? Was he dead? No, of course not. Hell wouldn't be a wood box. Neither would Heaven.
This must be his grave. A surge of anger passed through him, and he punched the top of the coffin. This time, it shattered. Fairly fresh dirt lay beyond it. With the thought of the outside world, he began to dig.
How had he died?
His chest had hurt earlier. Perhaps he had been shot or stabbed.
Six inches into the dirt.
Shooting or stabbing didn't feel right. It wasn't a deep enough wound.
Could he have had a heart attack?
He was nearly a foot and a half out of the dirt now.
Dig scrap dig scrape.
Maybe he was murdered?
Two feet now.
No. Who would need to kill somebody as young as him?
Three and a quarter feet.
That meant natural causes or an animal attack.
Scratch, scrape, dig scrape
Aren't animal attacks natural causes?
Harry could stand now.
Who knows? It doesn't matter.
Six inches to go.
I will be free from this grave. I am not dead, so it is not for me.
With a strong punch, he reached the surface. He widened the hole and pulled himself through.
Brushing himself off, he looked around. It was night and he was standing in a graveyard. A large statue bearing his likeness stood before him, which was covered in various flowers and gifts.
For some reason, Harry felt the urge to examine the thing on his chest that was causing his pain.
Ripping his suit shirt and throwing it to the ground, he peered at his overly pale chest.
Two marks were there, one next to the other. It reminded him of a bite. Suddenly he knew it was a bite. A vampire bite.
Smiling, He went out into the English night to catch some dinner.
Worlds, Wizard and Muggle alike, beware. The Boy Who Lived again, was out for blood.
Harry awoke to darkness. He stifled a yawn, and became instantly aware of a sharp pain in his chest. Somewhere near the heart. Harry moved to stretch. He quickly found that he couldn't. He was trapped inside some sort of wooden cage. A trunk perhaps.
He wondered what he was to do with himself, being inside a wood box and unable to move. He had an itch then, on his right thigh. He reached to scratch it, and his hand brushed into something.
Since his eyes had adjusted to the dark rather quickly, he grabbed the offending item, and pulled it to his face for a closer look at it.
It was a broom. A curved one. The word "Firebolt" was engraved in it's side. A note was attached to the handle. By looking at it, Harry found it had been cried over for quite awhile. It was in a quick scrawl and read: Dear Harry, Hope you can bring this with you to where you're going. May it bring many happy memories. Ron Weasley
Harry. That was his name wasn't it. Harry what though? Why couldn't this Ron person have written his last name? What kind of a last name is Weasley anyway? It sounds like weasels. Harry felt a surge of annoyance, and adjusted his position to make him feel a little more comfortable.
Harry felt something else in the box with him. Harry grabbed the things he felt and brought them close.
Bouquets, how useless. Harry examined the first. Daisies and Tulips, must've been fresh picked. Harry looked at the note. This one looked to have been drenched in tears also.
Dear Harry, We will miss you. I hope you find peace and happiness on your voyage. Watch over us while you're up there could you? Just maybe, could you say hello to my Uncle John while you're up there? I'd appreciate it. Your friend, Hermione
The name made sense to him. He had heard it before. Where was he traveling? Why couldn't he remember these people?
Why couldn't he remember anything?
Harry turned to the next bouquet. A dozen roses, artistically arranged. This person was either rich, or quite skillful. Harry flipped open the note.
Dearest Harry, It pains me deeply to see you go. However, Something pains me more than that. Something that I never told you. Maybe if I had told you, things would have been different.
I love you. I have for nearly an eternity, Maybe, If you read this, up in Heaven. you will wait for me. I will wait for you. Forever. Ginny Weasley
Another letter and still he hadn't a clue to his last name. Angrily he punched the top to his wooden box. He heard a crack, and lines formed in the wood. It barely hurt.
Harry reread the letters as to some clue in them as to where he was going. There wasn't.
Wait a minute. Up in Heaven? Was he dead? No, of course not. Hell wouldn't be a wood box. Neither would Heaven.
This must be his grave. A surge of anger passed through him, and he punched the top of the coffin. This time, it shattered. Fairly fresh dirt lay beyond it. With the thought of the outside world, he began to dig.
How had he died?
His chest had hurt earlier. Perhaps he had been shot or stabbed.
Six inches into the dirt.
Shooting or stabbing didn't feel right. It wasn't a deep enough wound.
Could he have had a heart attack?
He was nearly a foot and a half out of the dirt now.
Dig scrap dig scrape.
Maybe he was murdered?
Two feet now.
No. Who would need to kill somebody as young as him?
Three and a quarter feet.
That meant natural causes or an animal attack.
Scratch, scrape, dig scrape
Aren't animal attacks natural causes?
Harry could stand now.
Who knows? It doesn't matter.
Six inches to go.
I will be free from this grave. I am not dead, so it is not for me.
With a strong punch, he reached the surface. He widened the hole and pulled himself through.
Brushing himself off, he looked around. It was night and he was standing in a graveyard. A large statue bearing his likeness stood before him, which was covered in various flowers and gifts.
For some reason, Harry felt the urge to examine the thing on his chest that was causing his pain.
Ripping his suit shirt and throwing it to the ground, he peered at his overly pale chest.
Two marks were there, one next to the other. It reminded him of a bite. Suddenly he knew it was a bite. A vampire bite.
Smiling, He went out into the English night to catch some dinner.
Worlds, Wizard and Muggle alike, beware. The Boy Who Lived again, was out for blood.