Harry adjusted his frames a touch, pushing the bridge across his nose into a slightly higher position. The information across his self-ensorcelled text vibrated once more, sending miniature shockwaves across the ink pattern like a seismic impact were at fault. The appearance felt akin to studying the strange recordings deep in the Restricted Section; unsettling, even for magic.
"Potter?" A strange voice interrupted his thoughts. One of the Prefects, what was his name? Perry? Peter? Percy? Yes, Percy – Weasley studied him carefully. "Are you all right?"
Touching the upper right frame of his glasses, Harry gave a cool nod. "Thank you for your concern. I am fine."
An eyebrow twitched, but the elder boy acquiesced to the silent request. "Very good. Curfew is in ten minutes; you should return to your Common Room."
Harry once more inclined his head, before taking a dignified pace back towards the dungeon. Fortunately, the Prefect only paused a few moments before continuing a different direction. Harry breathed in silent relief; the obfuscating runes painstakingly carved into soapstone would only last one more illegal entry, and he'd need to find Luna before returning.
Pushing his glasses back into position, Harry touched the filter rune cluster, and watched as the invisible text faded into sight once more. More runes, painted this time for maximum sensitivity, were scattered around the edges of his textbook cover. If held in a specific position, attuned to a unique magic signature, and observed through a special filter, they would reveal pulses of magic. Harry twisted the book slightly, watching for the pulse once more; it took experimentation, but he'd determined how to find direction: aim the book at the source, and the sine wave would reach its highest disturbance level.
The ink gave a timid shiver, forming a silent wave across the front of his book. Each step he took, every chance encounter with that pulse, made the wavering line throb a stronger wave. It looked like a heartbeat, but one where the ink faded over time. It would not outlast the night.
Slowly he took the steps further down, descending into the cold, stone bowels of Hogwarts. Some thought the Potions Dungeon to be the lowest portion available: he knew better. Sometimes, he'd wandered the halls when no one thought to look for him. Being ignored helped, being forgettable helped still more. Having access to a lifetime of training in both disciplines granted a mastery some Aurors would give their left leg to possess.
Harry shook that thought away. Some Aurors had.
The text led him deeper, around the stone walls that hadn't seen the light of day in centuries. A lumos spell illuminated his way, revealing tapestries that shifted in a chill breeze. He'd been down here before; there was a particularly amusing painting filled with food, stretched across an entire hallway. Sometimes, he'd seen the figures of other paintings enter the massive canvas, one fat woman in particular whom took pleasure in seizing pastries in a large bag before leaving. None of the figures lingered, however. He'd never figured out why – they visited each other's portraits for days at a time, why not congregate at a massive buffet?
Now, as before, he watched a paintbrush rise from its dusty resting place, and begin the outlines of what seemed to be a stuffed boar, complete with apple. It did that every few hours, creating more food at random times. The point that made it intriguing to him, however, was that whenever the paintbrush was in action, no figure entered the scene – no observers.
Harry's footsteps failed to echo as he hurried down the unoccupied hall, thankful to reach the far side before the second layer of darkened lacquer could be applied. The text pointed still lower, but seemed strongest when aimed at a long stretch of featureless wall. He retreated a few steps, then advanced, tilting the rune-covered surface at will. It maintained its high-vibration only when pointed at a unique segment, a particularly rough patch of dry stone.
Scanning it slowly, Harry became aware of how silent the hall felt. The faint ambient hum of distant activity had gone; only his own breathing sounded to his ears. The dull throb of a heartbeat seemed to be getting louder, distracting in the extreme. Harry shook his head, clearing it back to the problem at hand. Did the path end in a wall? Or did it hint at an artefact, perhaps the tarnished hooks hanging near the ceiling? It felt stupid, like something ancient mocked; he did not appreciate the emotion.
Puzzled, Harry leaned against the empty space, feeling its scratchy warmth emanate through his clothes. Confused, his thoughts turned analytical: here he was, deep in one of the oldest magical structures in history. There was a faint sense of terror in these older portions, possibly the residue left over from In ancient times, the best method for changing temperature was to shift it from place to place. The deeper levels held a surprising amount of cold; enough for a transfer charm to maintain the Kitchens iceboxes. It was a minor example of thermodynamics, energy conserved through – scratchy warmth?
He put a hand on the wall. He could see his hand touch the stone, watch fingers brush across a protruding lip, but the feeling was of coarse thread. His sense of unease began to grow – nothing in the levels above gave him this kind of discomfort. He could sense something wrong, malignancy studying him as he observed.
After thinking a moment, Harry began scrabbling his hand sideways, tracing an apparent seam that did not feel like stone. After a minute of searching, it caught the edge of a large cloth, pulling it away from the wall. From behind the cloth, he could see the hallway proper, as if through a thick bit of smoked glass. Yet further down the wall there was a place where the light was occluded; someone had painted a stone wall on the backside of a transparent cloth, hiding – something.
Faster now, Harry scooted behind the wall-hanging, and found an opening. Its cavernous maw rose above the ceiling – he was sure of it. But as his eyes rose, a vague sense of horror snapped his gaze back down, looking for the source by the floor. Some kind of repelling charm? But why wouldn't anyone want to look up?
Stairs descended at his feet, old stone that looked markedly older than the ancient stone of Hogwarts. Harry could make out faint etchings on each step, worn by rain and wind – whatever it was had been placed there before Hogwarts existed. Or perhaps this only reached Hogwarts at certain times? Some of the doors acted that way, it was a magic castle after all. But these stairs didn't feel like the rest of Hogwarts.
Harry checked his Occlumancy, testing his emotions. Nothing pushed on his barriers, but the stairs felt like the entrance to a scaffold, where the executioner waited. He was just about to leave, when his attention was attracted by a light in the low distance. Not the flickering, uncertain light from a candle, but the steady, sure flare of a magic-bound illumination.
Swallowing hard, Harry felt for the first step. It met his touch, cold and hard. Releasing his other foot to continue took an outright strain, the primitive portions of his brain fighting against the apparently suicidal wishes of their neighbors. Once the second foot touched, the tapestry snapped against the wall behind him, silent but final.
Twisting back, Harry pushed against the tapestry – only to touch solid stone. He could see into the hall beyond, but the fabric would not yield. Even leaning his full weight just made his shoulder ache.
Creepy. Very creepy. He pulled back, and looked down once more. Only now could he see the runes nearest the door partially covered in long, vertical scratches. Clawmarks spaced at remarkably human widths. The heartbeat in his ears increased.
It's just magic, he reassured himself. Someone has a weird sense of humor.
Somehow, the thought was not comforting.
[Indeterminate Time Later]
Stairs reached beyond his sight. The phantom light maintained its existence, but never seemed to grow larger. The path never doubled back, as he'd expected for any extended staircase. Behind, the open tapestry had long-since vanished from sight, the only light now coming from the soft emanations of his textbook's runes. Infrequently, a sparking light would flash along the wall, tracing figures he couldn't spot, never the same. But the light was enough for him to see the steps becoming less worn, their engravings gaining clarity.
Harry stopped to examine them, risking a soft lumos. Most of the runes appeared to be ancient futhark, winding around a core kelin structure – in a literal sense. The futhark runes moved very slowly; if watched they didn't appear to move at all. He tested himself, memorizing a rune cluster by his foot, looking away for a few seconds, then looking back. The same cluster did not move, yet occupied a space more than six inches away from his shoe. Inward shivers ran down his spine, despite the warm temperature.
A cool breeze, laden with a faint scent of decay, wafted up the stairs. He could make out a faint susurration, invisible voices just out of sight. Drawing more heavily upon Occlumancy, Harry double checked his map. The now-frantic line quivered a faded pulse, vibrantly active, but the ink bore less than half of its former intensity. Could such magic react to Intent as well?
Soft giggling met his ears. It mocked, taunting his crouched position.
Growling to himself, Harry pushed lower. Voices or no, he would find Luna. And get out. In that order.
Thus occupied, he almost didn't notice the stone walls gaining an almost damp feel, moss growing out of reach. The giggling returned at intermittent intervals, answers to a conversation he couldn't hear.
"Of course, silly. How else would we eat?" A voice murmured, hauntingly familiar.
Harry stopped short, craning to look in all directions at once. By now he was starting to feel like a dragon had been tap-dancing on his nerves.
"Hello?" he whispered. The sense didn't fade, but the light went out at the bottom of the stairs. The cold sensation increased.
Faster now, he went down the stairs. The sooner he reached the bottom, the sooner he could find a way out. Harry discovered he'd been holding his breath, and gasped in a deep breath. The sense of being observed returned, strengthening all the time.
Harry began to skip steps, taking them two at a time.
A silencing charm kept the sound from increasing; he was certain the pounding of his heart would be audible to the entire Great Hall, had he been there. But as he cast the magic, the fear returned stronger than ever. It wasn't the same clouded sense that shrouded dementors, no. This was the clean scent of imminent pain, a sharp scent of adrenaline one received moments before a leg broke, or some wild animal finished closing its teeth.
The light came back, brighter than before, and far nearer. Caught by surprise, Harry tried to slow down, but tripped. He fell, wand flying out of grasp. The silencing spell applied to his feet failed to obscure sound made from other body parts, leading to a grotesque thumping noise as his torso hit the stairs, then pure silence as his feet made contact. Unbidden, he bit back a cry every time his shoulder smashed into the stone.
Then there was a strange sensation of sliding. Harry found himself skidding across a mirror-smooth floor, wand clattering inches out of reach. A mighty lunge saw the wand back in his grasp, a quick arresto momentum stopping his careering path.
Panting, Harry made a mental check. Legs, intact. Arms: bruised but acceptable. Torso, likewise. Head – sore, but present.
A pair of bare feet came into his field of view. They were small, almost dainty, and seeming immune to the frigid ground. Harry could make out thousands of runes etched into the reflective stone. How had someone made the carvings, and yet managed to keep the surface ice-smooth?
The feet moved closer. A giggle emanated somewhere above Harry's head. Then a familiar voice, drifting like a spring breeze spoke. "Hello, Harry Potter. Did you come to see Squishy? He's a little shy though."
Harry lifted his gaze. Luna's silver eyes looked back, looking both peaceful and as if she were contemplating something just beyond his right ear. "Luna? I've been looking for you."
Faint eyebrows rose. "Why? I'm always with me."
Strained muscles groaned as Harry brought himself to a full sitting position. "Thank you. Now – Squishy?"
Luna giggled, the sound echoing across the mirrored ground. Harry could see the runes squirming in sync with her voice, the runes wriggling in patterns he couldn't understand. "Oh. Uncle Wilcox sent me a letter about him. Said he was lonely. I found this place, and Squishy decorated it. Dreary, isn't it? It needs sun colors. And pudding."
Harry slowly lifted his eyes beyond Luna. A massive ledge, made of pure black stones rose to chest height, glossy reflections of his face shining back his way. Above the ledge, he could barely make out a faint bulge where water came up to, but not over, the edge. Something gargantuan slipped into the water without a ripple, a glimpse driving him back to the ground in terror.
Luna poked his side. "Come on Harry. We should get going. Squishy's going home now, but he's seen you. We can visit him next week! Maybe he'll have pudding then?"
Shaking, Harry forced the fear down, driving it away. Keeping his back to the water table, he rose to his feet. A warm hand seized his own, comforting in the chill. "We'll see. I don't … want to crowd Squishy."
He felt glad as she led him away, a different path from which he entered. But one fact kept battering its way to the forefront of his mind. Harry tried to banish it, forget it as hard as he could – but it rose to the surface like a cork in a sea of sharks. Down below, he could see each reflection of his feet, the sole of his shoes coming up to meet the sole of his shoes. He could even make out the pale skin of his face, out of the corner of his eye. But to one side, despite the warmth of Luna's hand firm in his, he couldn't hold back a shiver.
Luna had no reflection.
Thanks The Twisted Mind of Ozzie!