Author's Note: This is my first fan fiction story, and I hope that you will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it. I own neither the Harry Potter characters nor universe, for they are the creation of the wonderful J.K. Rowling.
Harry Potter and the Final Enigma Prologue
Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet,
Over the splendour and speed of thy feet;
For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers,
Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night.
- First Chorus from Atalanta in Calydon, by Algernon Charles Swinburne
She trudges forward in the midnight gloom.
It hangs like a shroud, clinging to the fairness of her alabaster skin. Her feathery eyelashes, frail like the first snow of a bitter winter, flutter and close in the slightest of motions.
It is cold.
She sighs, subtle and distant as the tinkering of silver bells in some obscure cathedral. Her breath escapes, misty in the frosty air, a zephyr over the wasted lands, blending with the susurrations among the naked trees into the bewitching melody of the night.
Her name is Helen Ariana Puzzle.
And she is running.
Running from her past, from her future, from everything she ever is, was and will be. Running from the darkness that festers within her, threatening, at any moment, to consume her and vanquish her very soul.
And, of course, the darkness that is the dark hounds of the Dark Lord, their urgent, heated breath but a whisper away.
One sound and it may be the end.
Fleet-footed as always, her agile feet carries her through the grass. But they are getting weary, for Helen is but only human.
Or so she has always thought.
A low, rugged growl causes her to freeze in her tracks. The hounds, a twisted mockery of the loyal canine species, loom before her, their slit eyes smouldering like coals, staring right into her startled orbs.
Helen does not move.
She knows that trying to run would only encourage their sadistic nature and bring them to greater heights of deadly hostility. Fast as she is, she knows only too well that once angered, these beasts can outrun any man.
She does not scream. Nor blink nor flinch, even as the first hound lunges, its eyes burning with bloodlust, fangs metallic in the moonlight.
Her willowy body stands firm even in the face of such certain death; for she is too proud, too stubborn, to back down to such threats.
But in her heart is the slightest quaver of fear.
There she stands, a spectre in the moonlight. Her silver hair a glorious crown, a shimmering waterfall down her back. Her emerald eyes, feverish and bright, looking straight into the jaws of death.
Helen feels a sudden jolt, and a burning feeling spreads from her heart throughout her body. She closes her eyes, fighting the pain, and grabs onto the little hint of fear, of humanity in her heart.
She will not give in! She will survive!
A single tear slips out from beneath her lids, but it is not so much one of fear; instead, it is the simple manifestation of her deep determination, the cry of her fragile human soul.
The gentle moonlight that bathed her slender frame now glows with a new strength, enriched by the purity of that single teardrop. It lashes out.
The hounds fall, yelping, into the snow. Those that can still move limp back into the darkness of the woods, away from her glowing figure. Those that cannot, lie still, dark imprints on the virgin snow.
Helen opens her eyes in confusion, not comprehending what has just happened. She turns slowly, gazing behind her into the vast, monochrome landscape, as if expecting someone, something, a hero, a saviour, an explanation.
But there are none around her.
She collapses onto her knees and sobs.
Shimmering crystal tears. For the past, for the future, for the broken bodies of the fallen hounds.
True, they pursued her; but is it, after all, their fault? Perhaps, but only in the same way that a brave soldier fighting in a war is made to shed innocent blood in order to save his own. All the world is a stage, and all the men and women merely players. What roles we are placed in are beyond our control.
And Helen understands this better than any other.
These hounds, these creatures of the night, are no guiltier than she.
The light surrounding her softens and ebbs, stretching out towards the fallen bodies. The very same light that struck them down now encompasses them like amniotic fluid, nurturing and nourishing.
Suddenly, an eye twitches, a tail flicks ever so slightly; and before she knows it, the fallen hounds are fallen no more. They are alive, well and truly alive, whining at her feet like timid pups seeking their mother. The murderous flames that haunted their fiery eyes, extinguished.
They nudge her up and back upon the beaten forest path. The path to the light.
She understands.
And so, with but one last lingering look at the darkness she is leaving behind, Helen continues her journey.
so it begins.