Deaths call
By: Shelby Yanzer,


Vanished, the snake ready to strike.
A burst of flame in from the five statues.
“ Look out” he shouted.
Jet of green light and snake had struck.
Swooped opened,
the jet of green light burst into flames.
Fell to the floor flightless.
The snake sinking it’s fangs into him,
Vanished in a wisp of dark smoke.
A few seconds only as dark,
Shimmering and indistinct upon the plinth.
Struggling he was gone, water fell with a crash.
Master sure it was over, decide to flee.
For the first time frightened.
The hall was quite empty, sobbing,
still trapped feebly on the floor.
Then, he was dead, pain beyond imagining.
He was gone.


Red eyes that did not know end,
They were bound by pain, and there was no escape.
“**** me now” blinded and dying, every part,
Screaming for release, “if death is nothing”,
Let the pain stop, Let him **** us, end it.
As the creature was lying face down on the floor,
There were voices, through the hall,
More voices then there should have been,
Opened his eyes, now lay flat on his back,
He could not hold his head,
The floor reflected the emerald green flames,
From all the fireplaces along the wall,
Pulled himself back to his feet,
He was there, spun around, he could hear footsteps.
Death came running to join them.
Death was surging into the room,
She had slid over its surface, lay sprawled on the floor,
And then she ran at him although he dodged,
He sprinted back up the room and was safe,
Momentarily frozen by death,
In spite to watch for a moment.


Suspended in mid-air, what looked like objects flew,
Like rolls of film, what would happen.
He was sure it would not be anything good,
He darted, already caught by his outstretched hands.
The thin ribbons were spinning around,
He tugged and tore at them, tight against him.
Trying to sever the eyes, they would not break,
Thrashing against his bonds,
Immobilized, a jet of red light flew from death,
Hit her in the face, now sideways unconscious,
The oncoming death.
But nothing happened,
death shot at him missing him by inches.
Two left fighting, death shot silver streams of like like arrows



In the same slow voice, she was both foreign,
confused at him and muttered,
Resort to crude sign language. Turning back flustered.
Pleasure for violence, anxious now, death and bad omens.
Didn’t understand, did not answer, writing her last note,
Silence, loss to understand, fury in her eyes now.
Your awful, struggling, ringing to understand.
Tears in her eyes, her answer was no,
And he had tried to act as though he had not heard deaths call.

The gusts of wind rustle through his dark hair as he rides his broomstick
In the search of the golden snitch – In the search of the ferrety golden snitch.
And in his mind whizzes past an image – at lightning speed, very swiftly,
As his expert eyes go after the small shiny metallic ball.

The Nimbus 2000 he once owned has now been replaced with another
In the attempt to make him quicker – In the attempt to make him quicker.
His eyes look like his mother Lily’s – His father James was a Seeker,
This is an analogy of a natural case of heredity in Harry.

The old broomstick Nimbus 2000 he owned was broken into pieces
In his third year at the school of magic – In his third year at Hogwarts.
Dementors attacked him – in the Quidditch pitch during a match,
And he fell several feet below from air before Dumbledore saved him.

And so did Harry Potter yell!