Chapter Four: A Visitor
It was a soul-devouring sound--the sound of silence. The absence of any and all noise. Some would say you could have heard a pin drop: others, an eyelash. Not even the mesmerizing flames of the ceiling candles flickered. Nor did the sweet liquids filling the numerous goblets ripple. No one's hair swayed with the air currents that flowed regularly through the vast room; in fact, even the gentle winds remained still. If anyone was breathing, no one could tell. It was as if everyone was trapped in a Muggle photograph; it was a ghostly painting.
All heads were turned toward the entrance. Hundreds of eyes stared blankly. No one blinked. Their faces registered no other emotion but shock. Everyone stood fixated in their seats; no one knew what to do. They weren't even thinking. The only person who seemed to be alive was Albus Dumbledore. After setting down his goblet he rose from his chair. They had a visitor.
She was hurt, that was obvious. Blood trickled steadily and silently from her side, brow, and mouth. Her silver white hair was mangled and matted to her face--her filthy, dirt-laden face. Her clothes hung loosely around her body, most of them ripped to shreds. She looked old, too old for her age. One hand grasped her left side, where the skin was ripped open and withered back to reveal what could only be the muscles of her torn abdomen. The other hand helped her worn body ease its way to the ground. She did this most ungracefully, which—for those who knew her—was completely out of character. Her powerful legs fell out from under her and she hit the floor with a dull and painful thud. By this time a few students had been recalled to life and stood up, but did not cease their gawking. The woman raised her weary head to the front of the room, oblivious to her surroundings. She parted her cracked lips and whispered something barely audible to those around her. It was a name. A name she had dreamt about, and loved—perhaps still loved, though she wasn't quite sure, for it had been so long. Too long. It was a name she had shattered. Her vision was swiftly parting with her brilliant emerald eyes, where great bags hung under the crusted jewels. Despite her quandary she could still make out the rough outline of a dark figure. Unlike those around him, he still sat, frozen, like a statue—a cold, hard, stone, phlegmatic statue. Everything that had happened in the past hour, in the past eighteen years, was obliterated from his memory. That part of his life was completely razed in that one horrific moment. There were absolutely no emotions residing in his rigid body. It was just them again. But then the feelings came rushing back--love, respect, admiration, betrayal, frustration, anger, confusion--he couldn't rid his mind of the latter. Caelan's words came floating into his conscious.
"It's obvious she's not coming back."
It was obvious that she was.
The woman's head dropped heavily upon the marble floor of the hall. Her luminous eyes lost their radiance and rolled into the back of her head. The rasping breath that had interrupted her sweet voice diminished rapidly. Her hand left her side, and her fingers curled open—motionless, and lifeless. Her chest rose at a slower and slower pace until it finally stopped. The blood flow from her wounds ceased, and she took her last breath as all life floated out of her body.
The emerald that hung from the man's neck dulled in its glow, and eventually returned to its dormant state. There was no power left in it, no life flowing through, no light shining in the darkness that was his soul.
"Severus," she had said.
The man still remained motionless--even after Albus and the rest of the staff jumped from their seats and ran to her limp body. The noise started up again, but Severus did not hear it. He had lost all of his senses. His eyes were colder and emptier than they had ever been. His head pounded, as did his heart—stabbed and broken. However this organ was no longer in his chest—it had fallen through his body and was now lying on the floor. He could not take control of his muscles in order to pick it up and dust it off, so he let it sit by his feet. Eighteen years. Eighteen years since they had seen or spoken to each other, and now she was here.
But she was dead.
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NOTE: This is short, and I apologize. But hey, I need to create tension, right? PLEASE REVIEW!
