I like to write. I’m not good at it, but everyone needs a hobby and a dream. My problem is I have a moment of inspiration, and the beginnings of a grand idea, but then it rarely goes anywhere.
Below is a scene I wrote as the opening to an original story. But then I got lazy, and changed the names to fit into a possible post-canon Harry Potter story I thought of.
Harry has lost someone close to him and is struggling to cope. I tried to be ambiguous with who he lost, obvious choice is Ginny but what if it was someone else…… One day I’ll continue to build on this.
Harry inched towards the edge of the rooftop. The city lights were a billion stars puncturing the darkness, a billion souls peering out through the nothingness. Like the previous nights, he stretched his arms out to his sides and screamed into the void, not expecting a response, but just needing to feel that he still had a voice. That he was still alive. The air was harsher than it had been the previous three weeks, but it didn’t bother him; it was a small discomfort compared to the recent tragedy. “You can’t get to her that way,” a voice called behind him without warning, startling Harry and causing him to turn with a slight stumble in the wind. A tall figure stood some twenty feet away, his face shrouded by obsidian locks and a black trench coat blowing like a shroud in a whirlwind. Harry thought he had been careful not to be followed. Had someone been timing his visits and had finally come to confront him? It was, after all, the same time and the same rooftop every night. “Of course, you could try to join her by jumping,” the figure said, readjusting his hands in his pockets, “but I don’t think that’s you.”
“What do you know of it?” Harry said, a lump now lodged in his throat. “Who are you?” The figure took a few steps towards Harry and inhaled deeply before continuing to speak. “Consider me a compassionate party.” The figure stopped, and Harry could make out a smile behind the forest of hair hanging over his face.
“Losing a loved one is rarely easy,” he finished. Harry stepped down from the edge and squinted his eyes in the neon dark to try to make out more of the man’s features, but he might as well have been looking at a phantom’s shadow. “What do you want?” Harry said. “To offer you a choice, Harry,” the ghostly figure said, stressing the final word. “A chance to regain your lost love.”
Harry felt a chill, and his heart rippled at the mention of his own name by the stranger. “That’s not funny,” Harry said, his voice shaking. The stranger cocked his head slightly. “Perhaps it’s better if I show you,” he said, turning away from Harry, then raising a hand and sliding it once across the empty space. The darkness where the man’s hand had been now seemed to bleed a deep purple, as a massive stream flowed down and ended on the ground. It was the shape of a door, warbling in purple and black from top to bottom.
“I’ve seen her, Harry,” the figure said. “She’s waiting. All you have to do is step through,” he finished.