Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

They think that they understand me, but really they do not, and they never will. One must know me to understand me and, with the exception of one, none have made that effort. So I am alone.

Rarely do I regret my newly found solitude. I entered it of my own volition and when I seek to rejoin the social world I will leave it. Some say that solitude is a cage, binding one in one's loneliness, but if that is true, the caged bird might still sing. And if I am a caged bird, my song is heard widely, the muted birds longing for it and seeking me out, flying freely where I may not – will not – to claim the song for their own.

To claim my song, one must first relinquish a different song. A song that they held dear. A song that, once relegated to the piles of old sheet music put away from sight, will fade, the notes turning to dust until dust is all that it is. The singers will not die with their songs, but rather move on, breathing the sweet life-giving notes into another. The singer will always live. The listener will always die, not from the song, but from neglecting to listen to it fully, to live the music, to be the music.

I will not die.

It is not the fault of the music that my death has not come. It is the fault of my choice of songs – the song of death, the song of control and of the end of control, the song of bones as they dance their eerie dance across the hollow heartbeat-resounding wooden floors when no mortal eye watches. Their song is life, and my song is death, and this does not make us enemies but rather partners. It is an uneasy partnership, to be sure, for there is always the fear that one might try to sing to the other and pull them into a realm that they do not wish to be a part of. To have them relinquish their song. To have them forget their song.

I will never forget my song. I cannot forget it. It is as much a part of me as the stilled blood that once ran in my veins or the dry wooden bones that make up my limbs are a part of me. To think that I might forget that I am made of blood is laughable; to think that I might forget the song that halts the blood, sits it quietly in my body, denies it movement is equally absurd. Life-singers cannot forget life. Death-singers, like me, cannot forget death.

I cannot, will not, forget death. One might say that it is my obsession, and they might not be wrong. Death is to me what life and living are to the young.

Death is all I have, because only there can I hear my precious person. Sirius Black, my godfather.

Time has little to no meaning for me anymore; my mind is just a timeless, frozen glacier where the death song echoes like wind through the still icy caverns of my consciousness.

I don't want to leave this place because I know that if I do, I will not be able to return. I am not happy here, but nor am I unhappy; I am content. Here, I do not have to worry myself with the needs of others because there are no others; there is no one here but myself and the beautiful, numbing cold which echoes the music around my mind.

(space)

'…my…'

'………boy……'

'………………my…beautiful…boy………'

'…Destati…'

Wake up?

'……Destati…'

But I don't want to…If I leave, I won't be able to come back…

'…Then…take…the cold…with you…'

Take it with me? How?

'…Like…ThissSSSS!'

(space)

"HARRY! Oh Merlin, Harry!"

I opened my strangely heavy eyes and found myself staring up at a ceiling that looked eerily familiar.

"Potter?"

I sat up and looked around what I distantly recalled was my bedroom at the Dursleys. There was a layer of frost over everything so thick it could be mistaken for snow. A snow-white owl, an arctic predator, contentedly watched me from a frost-rimmed cage by the window.

"Potter?"

An odd sighing sound came from my mouth and I turned my attention to the people standing just outside the bedroom. I knew I knew these people, but I couldn't bring myself to care.

I turned my attention back to admiring the patterns the frost had made on the window.

"So beautiful, the way the colours pulse and sway, like a dance. It's a circle, never ending never beginning, a circle of love and light, beauty and need." Whispered a voice with a strange echoing quality, and it was only moments later that I realised it was me. A bitter smile twisted my lips. "Words, empty as the void that fills the sky. Need is a thing of greed, a faulty emotion like jealously. Anger, rage, sorrow and bitterness... It is only human after all."

I laughed softly, a light carefree childish sound, and began to admire the tiny ice crystals evenly spaced over the milky white skin of my hand.

I jerked out of my thoughts when something unbearably hot wrapped itself around me, causing me to scream in agony; if the sound I gave vent to could be called a scream. I personally thought it sounded like a warped chord from some kind of wind instrument, but that's besides the point; It burnt.

"STUPIFY!"

I gratefully collapsed into the cold blue oblivion of my mind.

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