Disclaimer: Not mine.
Journey of a Friend
On early summer mornings, when the orange sun still has yet to appear from beyond the horizon, cool fog hangs delicately over the rolling hills. Like fine lace it blankets the soft green grass with sparkling dewdrops, extending over smooth, cerulean lakes with the effect of an ethereal mist. From these serene vapors first emerges the muffled thud of a door closing. There is a pause, followed by the sound of slow, heavy footsteps traveling over velvet grounds. A figure is soon seen materializing from the mist- at first shadowy, indistinguishable shape; but the continuous approach of the benighted silhouette gradually reveals a large man weighted down with a mournful air and some invisible burden up his shoulders. Even the sizeable dog remaining faithfully at his side appears conscious of his master's reserve. The man's long dark beard is full of snarls, his clothes are in dire need of washing, and his slow ascent of the hill is hampered by far more than its incline. His steps, directed towards the great stone castle at the knoll's crest, beat as steadily upon the ground as a drummer upon his instrument. As the man climbs higher, the presence of the castle rises from the fog, a majestic structure both inviting and protective. Only the lowest floors are visible, as the turrets remain lost among the low-lying clouds. Every window remains as dark as the western skyline- there is no trace of even a single flickering candle.
Finally he reaches castle's wooden doors, both vast and impressive in their size and purpose. Slowly the man extends a shaking hand- then stops, overtaken by some timidity, or possibly reverence. Just as abruptly, he is released from this frozen state, and thrusts himself through the entryway as if to reject any lingering opportunity to turn back. With newfound resolve he presses on through halls once familiar, past classrooms once well-known. The man moves with a mechanical speed up staircases in surroundings previously comfortable, in a place once considered home. What would strike the man as most foreign in his later recollections of this day was the quiet and stillness. Never before had he experienced such a silence, such an utter absence of noise and motion and life, as he did on that summer morning.
The man turns one last corner, and with a rapid reduction in velocity he approaches an archway protected by stone creatures whose security was, for a while, unnecessary. Passing by these guardians, the man sets foot on a spiral staircase, which instantly sprung to life. Up and up he rises as gracefully as an angel ascending into the heavens. Arriving at the top of the stairs, the man steps carefully onto a smooth marble floor, where he faces an ornate entryway with a griffin doorknocker. Gently turning the brass handle, he pushes open the door to reveal a room bathed in the pale purple light of the approaching dawn. Just like the rest of the castle, the man has never known this cherished room to be so quiet, nor so empty. Objects once familiar to the quarters- whirling silver machines, relics of mysterious pasts and unknown significances, even a simple bowl of sweet lemon drops- are gone, leaving the office devoid of character, missing the spirit of its former inhabitant.
However, this room is not the man's final destination. He has already been in this office in recent days; in fact, it is he who has removed most of the items that are now so missed. Instead of stopping in this empty shell of a space, he struggles across the stone floor, carpeted richly in red, towards an inconspicuous entry in a dim corner. The only separation here is a splendid tapestry portraying many scenes. In the center an old tree is so expertly woven that is emerald green leaves seem to wave laughingly in a gentle breeze. The tapestry is drawn to the side, and the man steps into simple living quarters. Here he stops, for no one has entered this room since its past occupant last left. Everything is neat and orderly- kitchen, living area, bedroom- yet there is an abundance of belongings unprecedented in the office. Boxes of letters, odd keepsakes, and shelves full of books all set in there places radiating a kind of magic both knowledgeable and personal.
The man does not move from the doorway- he has no need. He has found what he has come for. As the room blurs, a single glistening tear falls into his tangled beard. Letting the tapestry fall back into place, he leaves behind correspondences with Moony and Padfoot, with Prongs and his red-headed sweetheart, with countless heroes both here and gone. He leaves behind a strange watch with no numbers, and only two good pairs of socks. But the man leaves behind much more as he taps the drapery with a pink umbrella, turning embroidered clothes into a mural upon a solid wall. He leaves behind the echoes of a devoted savior, and treasured memories of a true friend.