Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine. The poem "Dejection: An Ode" belongs to Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
A/N: This is a revision of When the Black Veil Flutters in its entirety. The revised version is completed on Oct 30, 2011.
When the Black Veil Flutters
Prologue: "'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep." [1]
Candles burnt and wept in the windowless chamber where history was engraved on every stone. Wax red as pigeon blood dripped onto the floor and dried, adorning the stone floor with drops of opaque rubies. The flame in the fireplace crackled, throwing an ever writhing light upon the visage of a boy sitting cross-legged inside a magic circle made from chalk. Before him spread an assortment of items like mementos from a shrine for the departed, which, in a way, was precisely what it was.
A dagger stripped completely of adornment lay on one side. A bottle containing a crimson potion stood at the other end, encapsulating a blood sacrifice. Beside the bottle was a glossy black quill taken from a raven whose wings were clipped. At the centre was a silver pocket watch tarnished by age, its lid open to tell the time. An elder-wood wand lay prostrate directly before the boy. Nevertheless, those conflicted grey eyes of the boy's cast not a glance at the objects on the floor; instead, they roamed through the pages of the book in his hand.
An ancient book bound by black leather it was, its yellow pages threatened to fall away at the seam. The text was written in a gracefully neat hand bespoke of great intellect, yet the subject matter discussed was far more unsettling: the dead and the Underworld, folklore and tradition surrounding death, and the Veil that separates this world from the next. Nowhere could the name of the author be found in the book. Whether the anonymity had been a deliberate decision on the part of the author or otherwise might remain a mystery forevermore.
Once he had confirmed every necessary step for the Evocation ritual, he snapped the book shut and put it aside. Trapped in circumstances beyond the reach of his family and associates, he, Draco Malfoy, was about to seek counsel from the dead.
He checked the time; the hour had arrived. Taking several meditative breaths to ease the knot in his stomach, he closed the lid of the pocket watch and placed his hand over it. Beneath his palm, he could feel the intricate carving of the family coat of arms on the lid, a pride, in particular, of the grandfather he had never met but whose blood coursed through his veins.
Reaching deep inside his soul for that intangible connection with the previous patriarch of the family, he inhaled. Holding his breath, he took the dagger and made a cut on his thumb. When he slowly exhaled, he dripped several drops of blood into the bottle, along with it a fragment of his being. As soon as the blood touched the surface of the liquid, the potion sizzled and darkened into carmine.
With ceremony he put down the dagger, took out a strip of parchment from his robe, and picked up the quill. Ignoring the prickling on his thumb - for he must not heal the wound until the ritual was finished - he drew another long breath and dipped the quill into the potion. With care he wrote the name of his grandfather on the parchment at the same time as he exhaled. The elegantly cursive text glared out as though the parchment bled out the name of its own accord.
Gingerly he dabbled his forefinger into the potion while fighting off the shudder trailing down his spine. Dead, beady eyes haunted his vision, and with some effort he shook them away. He could not risk losing his concentration, for failure meant a fate worse than death. Biting his lower lip, he drew a symbol on the ground just above the pocket watch and placed the parchment atop the symbol.
At last, he took his wand, aimed at the parchment, and recited the incantation he had memorised by heart. As the final syllable escaped his lips, flame shot out from the parchment and engulfed it, leaving behind ashes at the wake. Before Draco's very eyes, a shadow of a bird rose from the ashes like a phoenix, flapped its wings, and took off into darkness. The message had been sent.
Heaving a sigh of relief, he adjusted his breathing and took in slow, meditative breaths. His eyes, however, could not resist casting a glance at the book he had found by chance amongst his father's collection. While he had never taken an interest in the study of the dead before, the book had ignited his curiosity. When he discovered the instructions for the Evocation ritual hidden amidst a forest of theoretical jargon, he decided on a whim to take the book with him to Hogwarts.
Although he did not believe in fate, a part of his psyche quivered at the sense of inevitability overshadowing this little self-indulgence of his. Driven to the edge of his wit by desperation, he had seized the knowledge in the book as his lifeline and staked his soul on this day when the Veil between this world and the next was at its thinnest.
As his mind drifted away into further reminiscence, something tugged at the invisible thread he had cast out into the shadow. Startled, he surveyed the room, finding nothing out of place. Nevertheless, the tug against the strand of his magic did not cease; something was moving just beyond the reach of his consciousness. Barely a heartbeat later, a gust of wind lashed out and extinguished every flame in the chamber, plunging the room into darkness. His heartbeat racing in apprehension, Draco dared not risk breaking his concentration to light the candles.
An unsettling shudder coursed through every inch of his skin when he felt a presence lurking in the dark, clutching the other end of his thread. A breeze liken to a breath or a sigh fluttered his hair; phantom hands that could have been wings grazed his cheeks. Every one of his senses was screaming for him to get away, yet he found himself unable to move, unable to think beyond dreading for what he might have unwittingly unleashed. Like a serpent the very rope he had cast into the shadow coiled around his body, his mind, his soul; he was caught.
A chill brushed against his lips like a ghost of a kiss and flowed into him before he even had time to gasp. Reality slipped out of his grasp like sand in a revolving hourglass; his world disintegrated into nothing more than a hazy dream from once upon a summer day. As a shroud of fog descended over his eyes, blinding him, he felt himself falling backward into a sea of feathers.
The castle of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was constructed by the minds and craft of countless witches and wizards for many blood-soaked centuries before it reincarnated into its present form. The Gryffindor tower, for one, had existed in every alteration of the design from the very beginning. Its final form, however, resembled less of an integral pillar of the castle and more of a man's dream to reach for the far end of the sky.
In the common-room devoid of young witches and wizards but one, a single candlelight flickered on the stone sill, illuminating the face of a boy sitting by the open window. Before him was a plain white plate, upon which stood four short candles. With a simple tap of his wand, the boy lit each candle in turn until all four burnt brilliantly into the melancholic night, four candles for four departed souls: Lily Potter, James Potter, Cedric Diggory and Sirius Black.
An autumnal draught drifted into the room, caressing the boy's cheeks, yet the boy hardly felt the touch. The quartet of flame wavered, casting shadow over his face and concealing the creases on his brow. Weary, he laid his head on the sill and stared at the white tear-drops sliding down the length of the candles. Neither the warmth from the flame nor the pleasant smell of melting wax could console his spirit.
There was little point in lighting candles for the departed when they knew nothing about it, the boy - Harry Potter - reasoned. Nonetheless, he would rather sit here like a fool than toss and turn in bed, wrestling with the ever elusive pixy named Sleep.
The gaping hole left behind by the passing of his godfather, Sirius Black, did not hurt as much anymore. A near numbness had settled itself in the hollow, though occasions would arise when hearing the name brought a dull pang in his chest. His two best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, trod lightly whenever the subject pertaining to Sirius came up in a conversation; at other times, they avoided mentioning the name altogether as if it was a curse.
The normalcy of life at Hogwarts frightened Harry at times, for he knew all too well that beyond these secure castle walls, the war continued to wage and the order of the world continued to crumble. Disappearance, murder and destruction dominated the reports in the Daily Prophet with a frequency that had become eerily regular. Many students had opted not to return to Hogwarts, for their parents feared the castle would become a battlefield. Nonetheless, Harry could think of no other place safer than Hogwarts under the guidance of its esteemed headmaster, Albus Dumbledore.
Cold stone dug uncomfortably against his cheek. Heaving a sigh, Harry shifted his position and rested his head on his arm instead. As he squinted at the writhing flame, he pondered about the headmaster; something akin to guilt crept into his stomach. Many months had passed since he broke down before Dumbledore after the disastrous event at the Ministry; he had at last found it in himself to converse amiably with the headmaster. The thoughtful side of him knew the blame did not fall entirely on Dumbledore, but the notion did little to lessen the weight.
Mesmerised by the dancing candlelight, he felt his eyelids grow heavy. Tender heat fluttered against his cheek like the touch of a beloved, lulling him to temporary oblivion. Gradually sliding his eyes shut, he allowed his mind to take flight and carry him back to a happier time that was no more than distant memory-
A long, narrow corridor extended before him. Bleak stone walls stared blankly at him from both sides; floor and ceiling oppressed with perfect nonchalance; claustrophobic darkness stretched beyond infinity behind him. The walls appeared to be slowly closing in on him, yet fear did not invade his heart as he walked on, for he knew with certainty that he must press onwards.
At the end of the corridor stood an archway, over which hung a black veil that, at first glance, looked all too familiar. Nonetheless, he soon realised it was not the one that had haunted his waking days and sleepless nights. Not a wear or tear marred the smooth, shimmering fabric, not a single thread stuck out of place. With an oddly dignified elegance the veil fluttered as if it was floating on water. Soft whispers, like the rustling of dry leaves, seeped through the fabric and into his ear, teasing, tingling, tormenting.
Never had he felt such rash impulse as now to yield to the domineering urge that was clawing for his heart. Anxious as a wolf yearning for a taste of a prey, he longed to grab the veil and pull it aside, to see for himself the forbidden mystery hidden within. Licking his dry lips in anticipation, he reached for the veil. Yet, before his fingertip grazed the tip of the fabric, a human hand as white as bones grasped the veil from the other side. As he watched in morbid fascination, the grotesquely thin hand paused for a beat in deliberation, and then with tantalising slowness, pulled the veil aside-
A spiteful cool breeze slapped Harry's nape like a pair of wings, jolting him awake. Shivering, he opened his eyes and raised his head. Moist darkness cloaked the common-room; the candlelight had died a swift death. Somewhere in the shadow of the woods beyond Harry's reach, a raven cried out in harsh foreboding.
To be continued...
1. From Samuel Taylor Coleridge's poem, "Dejection: An Ode".
A/N: The revision might look different from the original, but the plot stays more or less the same. I have added several details here and there. The Evocation ritual ends up being more elaborate than the original. Below is part of the author's note I'd written in the original story.
Elder is associated with death and rebirth, as well as the Underworld. In the Celtic calendar, the Elder month runs from 25 November to 22 December. It is said that the Elder month contains the darkest days of the year.
This story is one of my entries to the 30_kisses challenge, and it is meant to be a semi-tribute to Gothic literature. I dare not proclaim it a full tribute, for I am hardly on par with all those great masters and mistresses of Gothic literature.