Down the River Styx
The astronomy tower affords the best view of the sleeping castle and the lands around. The Forbidden Forest is an inland sea of ink, boiling as the leaves rustle and writhe. A round face, as pale and beautiful as any of Earth, rises slowly in the sky to cast shadows on the sweeping lawns below.
I might creep back to the warmth and mellow darkness of the dormitory and the cave of my bed with curtains drawn. Or I might not.
And day comes—a new day, of course.
It ignites hope in some people, I hear, to think that this day has never been lived before, that its very sunlight is fresh and bursting with potential. I am not one of them.
I watch dawn from the quidditch pitch. Champagne golds and fluffy pinks and even greens on the underbellies of clouds—and it's the same sunrise I've seen for the last sixteen years.
Soon enough, the glistening dew will dry and the sun will climb higher and higher until the day just grows tired and ebbs and fades exactly the same way it did a million years ago.
This isn't a new day. It's still yesterday, still the Stone Age, and the river Styx still runs deep.
Sometimes I can almost feel the Nordic wolf's heavy breath tickling the back of my neck.
* * *
I am carefully situated at lunch, copying Potions homework with one hand, eating with the other and not really concentrating on either, because Potter has just entered the hall.
I think someone once said, 'There is a fine line between love and hate'. I would like to spit in their face, smash that smug proverb back down their spiteful throat and cut out their tongue.
But then, I never could face the truth.
He runs a hand through his hair and it stands on end. On its own, I suppose, defying the laws of probability, but Potter seems to have a penchant for that.
I look up. There's something prickling up my backbone, feral ridges rising. My heart is heavy, it pounds against the hollow cavity of my chest.
I can feel Olympus looming nearer, and Zeus is readying the thunderbolt.
Because those eyes are venom-green, and they are pointed straight at me, and they are burning their way into my head.
* * *
I am atop the astronomy tower. The wind blows cold, but Orion hunts with Sirus. Are the pickings good? They do not answer.
But suddenly the world turns again, because Potter has come up through the trap door. And again, as he grabs me, and lips as warm as blood meet mine. Fingers sharp as claws tear my sleeves and breath hot as noon seems to condense on my face.
I am blinded—struck—split—and spinning out of control—
And he pulls away, through the trap door and his feet echo down the hall.
Indeed the Earth must have shattered as Zeus hurled his last thunderbolt. It clove me in two, and now I shall float down the River Styx.
It is grey and cold, hard and rough.
Oh—that's just the stones.