Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling wrote a series based on Harry Potter. She did not write this.
I took a deep breath as I entered the main hall - the smell of aged wood paneling, the feel of polished granite beneath my feet, a stillness in the silence of the space. Where I stood on the threshold was a place for new beginnings, a place for endings - where sun and moon would cease their endless chase to ponder the purpose of that never-ending cycle. A step forward - whether toward freedom or captivity I knew not, but what chains I had would be been broken - it would be new freedom and new captivity from here and I doubt I can say which is better or preferred.
What are the benefits of strength, the possession of knowledge, the capacity for growth if they are without purpose. It is a grey, grey world - where blue skies are only seen by those who dream, green grass is beyond all but those who feel, and any warmth at all is rare for any man and rarer still for those who know some measure of the truth. But it is not a colorless world - that grey canvas is swathed in red and black, fire and darkness - blackened streets steeped in innocent blood, filling the air with the stench of death.
It was war. It is war. It will always be war. The strong do not suffer the weak, the knowledgeable cannot suffer the ignorant, and the new will not abide the old. Those who dream and those who feel hear the steady beat of drums, they watch as the world withers and decays even as the sun bows to the night in the light of a red sunset. Purpose keeps those whose heart beats unto its own rhythm - they hide the grass and skies from those with dripping hands and shadowed eyes.
I dreamt last night of the sunrise and rain - darkness and fire banished in a moment. The suddenness of their absence roused me, gasping for air as I tried to forget - lose myself in the drums.
I could not forget. Every shadow seemed to loom and press heavily on my chest, each drop of blood shed became a flood and I was drowning in it. My eyes were open and I had to run - I saw the door, opening it without hesitation because some weak, addled fool had raised Death and left it to raze the living and though there could be no escape perhaps some reprieve could be found.
I shut the door quickly behind me, making good use of the bolt to put just a little more distance between myself and the horror of the outside world. The room was dark and cold, dusty with disuse, the wooden floor creaking with age, but light filtering in from a narrow archway. Cautiously, I gathered my composure and took a deep breath as I stepped through.
Books lined the walls, not on shelves but stacked in towers on and among crates and boxes filled with what was likely still more musty volumes. Light shone from a grand window overlooking a staircase on the other side of the hall. As I took in my new surroundings the silence was broken ruthlessly by the sound of a voice behind me.
"Curious."