The Tear Collector (a Harry Potter fanfic)

Chapter One: Tears of Sorrow

It was after hours, and Orsay Westwall wandered the corridors of Hogwarts alone. She was crying, spilling tears of sorrow onto the cold stone floor. In every surrounding portrait that was illuminated by her wand-light she saw her mother smiling down on her. 

'I'm sorry, Mum,' she whispered incoherently. 'I'm sorry.' Eventually, she couldn't bear to look anymore. 'Nox.' The light on the tip of her wand was distinguished.

 Orsay sighed, contemplating on returning to Hufflepuff common room and attempting to get some sleep. But she never would. Now that her mother was gone, sleep wouldn't come, and she feared that if it did, it would be polluted with nightmares of her mother blaming her for what had happened.

 Orsay pushed her arm out, feeling for the wall through the unending blackness. Her hand touched a portrait. 

'Ahhh! Who's there?!' a voice shrieked. Orsay snatched back her hand. 

'I'm sorry,' she whispered to the portrait, 'go back to sleep.' She listened closely, holding back her tears, until she heard the low rumble of snoring. The portrait was asleep. 

Orsay closed her eyes tight. She could feel the tiredness trying to take her, but she wouldn't let it. Sleep would make everything real. It would mark the end of the tragic day. It would make the deed done. Orsay slipped a phial from her robes, unscrewing the top. After a small pop, she raised it to her lips. She had grown used to the electrifying odour. If energy had a smell she was sure it would smell like this. Orsay drank, the liquid flowing through every part of her body, awakening her senses.

 Since her mother had died six days ago, Orsay had been smuggling the potion from Professor Snape's dungeons. She knew the consequences would be great if she was to get caught, but if she was to make a decision between detentions for a month and sleep, there was an obvious choice. 

At first she had hated the acrid taste of the potion, along with the smell, but it had become something like a drug to her. 

She shook off the burst of vigour that came with every shot of the potion, the tiredness that had threatened to overcome her now lost. For a few minutes, Orsay forgot about her mother, too awake to feel any kind of pensiveness. 

This was another reason she liked the potion, it helped her to block things out. But not forever. The sorrow always returned. And it would be worse, as if it had been piling up and waiting for her.

 Orsay turned the corner and, though the tears were still there, her mouth was almost forming some kind of smile. Almost. But then the sorrow hit her again, like a great big wall smacking her with the weight of the world behind it. But it wasn't the only thing that hit her. She saw something... Something at the end of the corridor. A large blurry shadow. Great, she thought, that's probably Filch. But the shadow did not move. Not. In. The. Slightest.  

'Lumos,' she whispered, barely audible. A light appeared once more on the tip of her wand. But the light was weaker, almost dark. 

'Wh-who's there?' she mumbled, not even hearing herself speak. She cleared her throat and tried again. 'Who's there?' But there was no reply, and certainly no movement from the shadow. Orsay wondered if it was just a statue, if she was making a fuss over nothing. But then she felt a breathtaking agony dominate her. She tried to scream, but nothing came. The pain was unbelievable; it sent her into a spasm of torment. She felt like every part of her body was on fire. Her eyesight began to darken, her wand-light already dead. She made another attempt to scream, maybe that would let some of the excruciating pain out, but nothing escaped her. Not a sound.  

The surrounding darkness closed in on her and she fell to her knees. The energy that Orsay had gained from the potion was gone completely and she realised that these were her last moments.

 Orsay Westwall let go of all feeling and joined her deceased mother in eternal sleep.