Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine. The poem "The Raven" belongs to Edgar Allan Poe.
A/N: This is the second portion of Part II, revised.
When the Black Veil Flutters
Part II: On the Spinning Carousel, Continued.
The facade of a house loomed over him, the sole survivor of what was once a magnificent mansion. The roof had caved in and floors given way to pressure and decay; one could see the murky grey sky peeking out from broken windows. Before him, a tattered black veil concealed the entrance to the house. Behind him, a path carpeted with red poppies hovered above an abyss of infinite night. Above him, the sky splintered like a mirror.
As he looked up, a piece of the sky fell off and whistled past him into the abyss. Wheeling around, he looked over the ledge at the glittering fragment slowly being devoured by the dark; and yet, there was no sound to signal its landing. After letting out a breath, he surveyed his surroundings, somehow knowing what he would behold.
There were three ways to escape this desolation. He could jump into the abyss and become a lost soul for eternity; he could follow the scarlet path and return to wherever he ought to be; or he could walk through the veil to the other side and forfeit his life.
When he turned to the veil, which seemed more frayed than before, he saw a hand white as ice reaching out from the other side. The skin glowed with such deathly pallor that it could only belong to the dead, and yet, he found himself unable to avert his gaze. Fascinated by its ghastliness, he felt compelled, even obligated, to take the hand, as though such was his birthright.
After a pause that could have been a lifetime, he reached out and curled his fingers around the hand. The skin beneath his palm was cold and clammy, the hand unmoving as if it truly belonged to a corpse. While he watched in unwholesome wonder, blood trickled down the arm attached to the hand and stained his. As crimson joined their hands in an irrevocable bond, he felt long fingers tighten around his wrist.
He could not tell if he was trying to pull the hand to this side or if the hand was trying to pull him to the other side. When the landing he was standing on crumbled away, he fell into the abyss, clutching still the hand that was in turn clutching his. An inhuman cry that might or might not be his reached his ear, but that seemed insignificant when the abyss caught him and swallowed him whole.
The sound of rain splashing against the window stirred Harry from his dream-like vision. Tilting his head to the side, he saw a blur of light and three human shadows moving across the pale curtain. Hushed voices engaged in what sounded like a heated argument. As he watched the shadow play being unfolded, he wondered where he was. The smell of disinfectant provided the clue: he was in the hospital wing.
At length, the muttering ceased, and two sets of footsteps led away to the direction of the door. When the door creaked shut, the light grew dim as if signalling the end of the stage play. Harry sat up quietly and reached for his glasses by the pillow. As soon as the world came into focus, the curtain surrounding his bed was pulled aside. Madam Pomfrey came in, bearing a glass of potion in her hand.
"Good, you are awake." Without ceremony Pomfrey thrust the glass into Harry's hand. "Drink this. It will calm your nerves."
"Nothing is wrong with my nerves," Harry muttered under his breath. Nevertheless, Pomfrey's stern glare made him think twice about protesting further. In several swallows he finished the glass of potion, which tasted like wormwood. "How is Professor Dumbledore?"
"He'll be fine in two weeks, as long as he doesn't move around." Pomfrey fussed with the pillows as if emphasising what a troublesome patient the headmaster of Hogwarts made. "Honestly, he's not a lad anymore."
"How is," Harry paused to lick his dry lips, "Malfoy?"
A shadow passed across the matron's countenance. "We don't know yet. Considering what happened, it would be best if we take him to the hospital." Pomfrey plucked the glass out of Harry's hand. "Sleep. You can worry about the rest later. If you need anything, I'll be in my office." With that she withdrew from Harry's bedside and left.
Harry took her advice and lay down on the bed; nonetheless, sleep eluded him. With nothing but his thoughts and the pitter-patter of rain as his companions, he had never felt more alone. The hollow in his heart was torn wide open by phantom claws. Had he not spoken to Pomfrey, he could have pretended Sirius had not returned to his side, had not returned and then left him once more.
Heat stung his eyes; the ceiling seemed distorted as though the world was submerged in the lowest depth of the sea. As the first teardrop fell, he removed his glasses and pressed the back of his hand against his eyes. He made no attempt to wipe the tears away, for he was alone. Curled up on his side like a child, he pulled the blanket over himself and cried as if he had never cried before.
The October downpour mellowed into November drizzle as Harry, exhausted in spirit, drifted in and out of sleep. When he woke from the restless slumber, he found the day barely breaking. Straining his ear, he heard nothing stir in the hospital wing. Quietly he pulled on his school uniform, grabbed his wand from the nightstand, and slipped out of the cocoon that had shielded him, however temporarily, from the rest of the world. There was something he wanted to do.
At the far end of the ward, candlelight illuminated the off-white screen that barricaded one of the beds. Harry could not tell whether it was Dumbledore or Draco sleeping behind the canvas. Driven by curiosity, he approached the screen. He was about to peek in when a voice came through from the other side, "Good morning, Harry. Why don't you come over here so that we can talk?"
At once relieved and disappointed to hear Dumbledore's voice, Harry came around the screen. Propped up by several pillows, Dumbledore was playing chess by himself. The wrinkles on his face deepened like barks of an ancient tree, yet his smile remained genial. Bashful, Harry wondered if the headmaster heard him cry last night.
"Good morning, Professor Dumbledore." Harry sat down on the chair by Dumbledore's bedside. "I thought Madam Pomfrey would insist that you get more rest."
"A man of my age does not require as much sleep as a young man such as yourself," Dumbledore remarked. Absently he moved one of the pieces on the chessboard; Harry noted the chess set was not the wizard kind. "There are questions you wish to ask me."
Folding his hands together, Harry leant forward and uttered the first thing that came to his mind, "How is Malfoy?"
Azure eyes flickered for a second before resuming their placid expression. "He has been transferred to St Mungo's. How the possession, combined with the violent departure of the spirits, would affect him is still unknown. Unfortunately, we do not know the extent of his condition until he wakes. There is also a likelihood that he will not wake."
Sucking in a sharp breath, Harry could not think, could not speak, could not even exhale. Without his conscious knowledge, he gripped his hands so tightly that his nails left crescent marks on the back of his hands. "That man - Augustus Grindelwald - didn't use the Killing curse on him, did he?"
"No, it was not the Killing curse, but beyond that I cannot tell." Dumbledore abandoned the game and rested his bony hands on the blanket. "I have a notion that it might be connected to the pact Sirius had mentioned. However..."
"We won't know the details until we ask Malfoy." Harry finished the train of thought for the headmaster, who nodded. After taking a deep breath, he loosened his hands and stared at the row of empty beds beyond Dumbledore's. "What kind of man was Augustus Grindelwald?"
A shadow descended over Dumbledore's brow, but Harry did not see it. "He was an eccentric but talented man. His thirst for knowledge knew no bound, as did his brilliance. As you can tell, Augustus and I were friends. We attended Hogwarts together, and we conducted research together. In the end, however, we parted ways."
The headmaster's next remark was spoken in such a low voice that Harry thought it might have been the wind whistling past an open window. "Who would have thought love can so utterly destroy a man?"
Puzzled, Harry turned to Dumbledore, who had regained his composure. "His whimsical way was the main reason his actions appeared unpredictable," Dumbledore continued. "Nevertheless, beneath a facade of uncontrollable impulses, he always had a motive in sight. Nothing about him was arbitrary."
A chill trailed down Harry's spine and reminded him of his brief but cryptic conversation with Grindelwald. "Am I his target?"
For a disconcerting moment, Dumbledore's eyes sharpened. When the headmaster spoke again, however, his tone was mild. "He placed a mark on you to inform me of his presence, that's all. I apologise for not informing you sooner."
"No, it's fine. I'm glad to know that's all it is." Harry dismissed the apology despite the growing trepidation in his mind. After a pause, he leant back against the chair. "That man said Abraxas Malfoy granted me the Malfoy Blessing. Does that mean anything to you?"
"I must once more ask for your forgiveness, for I am not at liberty to say. It falls to those of the Malfoy bloodline to explain to you its meaning. Therefore, I fear you must ask either Draco or Lucius. To ease your misgivings, I shall say this: the Blessing might help you when the situation grows dire."
However well-meaning Dumbledore's reassurance was, it did not comfort Harry, for he could not imagine asking either Draco or Lucius Malfoy for an explanation. Although he chose to believe Abraxas Malfoy, he wanted to know more about this man. "Can Abraxas Malfoy be trusted?"
Dumbledore cradled his chin. "Let me put it this way. Abraxas was a proud man who served no one but himself. It was known among certain circles that he was displeased when Lucius decided to support Lord Voldemort."
"Despite the whole pureblood business?" Harry challenged.
"I presume his foresight had warned him of the carnage that ensued. Abraxas might be a ruthless man, but he preferred intrigue over bloodshed. More likely still, he despised Voldemort."
Harry took his time to digest the information. The monotonous murmur of rain trickled in through an open window. Traces of last night's battle had probably been washed away; what was left behind was an interlocking series of riddles only one person could solve.
There is something about this pupil of yours that you evidently have no knowledge of, Grindelwald's remark echoed in Harry's mind. Unable to resist, Harry stole a glance at Dumbledore, who was contemplating the pieces on the chessboard. Was Grindelwald merely trying to infuriate Dumbledore? Or did he truly mean what he said? If so, what was Grindelwald referring to?
"If you have other places to go to," Dumbledore said suddenly, which gave Harry a start, "I shall ensure Madam Pomfrey will not hold it against you."
It took Harry some time to gather his thought and remember why he got up at such an ungodly hour in the first place. "Thanks, Professor," Harry said. "I hope you will get well soon." Dumbledore smiled at him before returning to the solitary game. Quietly Harry left the hospital wing and closed the door behind him.
Hogwarts before dawn was exceptionally serene; Harry encountered neither the living nor the dead. As he made his descent down the worn stone steps, the lofty ceiling amplified the sound of his footfall. The alternating pattern of grey-hued walls and paned windows ought to be a familiar scenery, yet something seemed different about these corridors he had passed through everyday; perhaps he was the one who had changed.
Beyond the moss-covered archway leading to open grounds, drizzle enveloped the field and distant hills. The blue hour before daybreak lent the cloudy sky an ambiguous shade of cerulean. After taking in the refreshing cool air, Harry strolled across the field to a lonely corner, where the Whomping Willow stood dormant like an automaton suspended in motion.
With a pang, he remembered it was at this very spot that he encountered a certain Animagus in the guise of the Grim. No other place would do but here. Steeling his mind, he whipped out his wand and took a step forward. The limbs of the sentient tree began to stir, but the young wizard was prepared. Agile as a cat, he dodged the tree's attack and slid to the base of the tree. When he touched a certain knot, the tree fell silent in an instant.
Harry let out a breath and sat down against the trunk. After a pause, he conjured a piece of plank to him and, using his wand, carved out his godfather's name on the plank, followed by the year of death and Harry's own initials. Had he known what year Sirius was born in, he would have inscribed the year of birth as well. He had always thought that he would have ample of time to learn more about his godfather, but now he had lost his chance.
Biting his lip, Harry erected the marker on the ground beside the tree. As though answering his prayer, the limbs of the willow swayed slightly against the gentle breeze. The Whomping Willow would guard the marker for as long as the plank survived the elements and other natural predators.
Light drizzle had turned into heavy rain, soaking his clothes and beating against his body. The hole left behind by Sirius' departure would never entirely disappear; nevertheless, Harry knew he would be able to bear the loss a little better from now on. With some effort, he tore himself away from the empty grave and made his way back to the castle.
When he at last returned to the hospital wing, he found Ron and Hermione pacing to and fro in counterpoint to each other in front of the closed double doors. His despondent spirit lifted by the sight of his two best friends, Harry walked up to them with a sheepish smile on his face.
As soon as Hermione caught sight of Harry, she bounced forward and exclaimed, "Harry, what happened to you? You look like you'd rolled down the hill and then fallen into the lake!" She pulled out her wand and started casting spell after spell on him.
"It's more like he fell off the broom and took a dive in the lake with the Giant Squid," Ron commented before patting Harry on the back. "Bloody hell, you are wet as a dog." The good-natured smile on his face spoke volume of how glad he was to see Harry looking no worse than before, though the remark earned him a glare from Hermione.
"I appreciate the imagery," Harry said wryly as he felt Hermione's charm spreading warmth across his body. "Let's hope I'm not smelling like one." When Ron grinned broadly and Hermione smiled, he knew he had returned home at last.
Over early breakfast in the kitchen, Ron and Hermione told Harry what happened after he left with Draco. Hermione, surmising that something had happened to him when he did not return, went to Dumbledore and told him what happened. Dumbledore then asked McGonagall and Snape to keep the students in the Great Hall, and the headmaster himself headed out to the grounds. When Harry's Patronus charged into the Great Hall, McGonagall and Snape went out to help. Needless to say, the student body was in an uproar.
Cupping a mug of warm tea, Harry listened to his friends' narration, but he found his thought slowly drifting away. As he cast a glance at the long, empty tables positioned in the same manner as their siblings upstairs, he wondered if Draco Malfoy was dreaming of black wings and black veil.
November languished on while rumours continued to fly in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardary; nevertheless, no wild theories ever came close to the truth. Those who knew the truth chose to maintain their silence. Gradually, life at Hogwarts returned to its normalcy, peace at times punctured by unease over the unrest beyond the ivory tower.
The weather grew cold as days turned to weeks, yet Draco Malfoy remained deep in his slumber, dreaming of what no one could tell. Some at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries whispered that he might have already fallen beyond anyone's help.
Icy drizzle fell upon the unsuspecting city one late November morning. A raven, far from its habitat, landed on the window-sill outside a certain room at St Mungo's and looked in through the glass, its impregnable black eyes reflecting the silhouette of a young man lying unconscious in bed. Crooking its head to one side, the raven croaked. Woken by the sound, Draco opened his eyes.
Turning his groggy eyes towards the raven outside the window, Draco stared at the creature for such a long time that one would think he had fallen asleep once more. Nevertheless, the daze in his eyes gradually faded as though whatever the raven was communicating to him had brought him back to reality. Slowly he struggled to get up. He had been lying in bed for too long that his body refused to respond, yet he persisted, his arms shaking as he pushed himself to a sitting position. All this time, the raven watched him in silence.
At length, Draco licked his parched lips and recited a certain verse he knew by heart. "What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore meant in croaking 'Nevermore.'" When the raven cried out mockingly in response, Draco smiled a conspiring smile as though he was sharing an inside joke with the animal. [1]
To be continued...
[1] From Edgar Allan Poe's poem, "The Raven".
A/N: A more introspective chapter. This is the only chapter where I have added a new scene to the revision. It gives Harry a more complete closure regarding Sirius' passing. In the very first draft of this story, the initial intent was just that. When I edited and revised the draft, however, the story took a turn towards Gothic horror instead.
