Glass Dreams


He stirs, nose crinkling, face flushed in fever. He brushes the matted hair from his forehead, scar tingling pleasantly, eyes fluttering open.  “Sirius?” 

Pale skin translucent, dark eyes gleaming through strands of hair. Harry… 

He scrambles up higher on his bed, as the form hovers above him, smiling benignly at him. There is no terror, only bewilderment and aching excitement. 

“This isn’t right.” He doesn’t reach for his glasses, he can see perfectly clear, and there is no surprise, only elation underlined by sorrow and dread. “You should be here, with me.” Not pouty or petulant, but plaintive, almost pleading. 

Shimmering figure, robes draped to outline his frame. He is strong, peaceful, eyes no longer hollow or sunken, but strangely full of life. He nods. 

Pale fingertips, now, brushing his cheek, barely there but leaves him shivering. Fingertips on his wrist, not because he can feel the touch, but because they are moving his own wrist into view, rotating his arm gently. 

Digital numbers glowing an eerie green, fuzzy around the edges from the light, but none of the light is reflected in the face of the figure before him, he’s like porcelain. The seconds on his wristwatch blink past. 

11:59:56…his breath exhaled in misty wisps. 

11:59:57… cold lips against his, the texture smooth and perfect. 

11:59:58… chin tilted upwards, lips parted, the feeling of sharp static between them. 

11:59:59… ragged sigh, Happy Birthday Harry… 


There is a muffled alarm acknowledging the stroke of midnight. And he’s gone. The room is heavy with the weight of the summer heat. And he’s still gone. He shudders trying to stifle a sob, choking it back down his throat.  He rolls over, his hand landing on something icy, a flat but grainy surface as if encrusted with sand. He looks at it, the mirror, the shards of glass no longer shattered, but fusing together before him, un-etched and dirty, reflecting the light of the moon and Harry’s look of wonderment.