Slipping
His eyes were hard as porphyry With looking on cruel lands His voice came slipping over me Like terrible silver hands
- Dorothy Parker, "A Well-Worn Tale"
The Present
The young man was walking slowly down the hall, lingering at times while his grey eyes clouded over in thought. Once the cloudburst ceased, he would resume his drugged pace. His shoes made hushed clicks upon the stone floor as he went along, the sound a comfort to him among the draped silence in the corridor. He occasionally passed a portrait or still life hanging dead on the wall. The pictures were completely still, as if someone had put a petrificus upon them all. Not even their eyes moved to follow his progress. This worried him immensely.
He had tried, in the beginning, to speak with a couple of the inhabitants. They all stared blankly ahead, oil faces stock-still. Not one of them made a sound. Even Sir Cadogan, who had been moved from his place in the North Tower after upsetting a milkmaid and a hunting party a few paintings down, was sitting like a tiny Buddhist statue underneath his tree. He supposed this was what Muggle art looked like and he shivered, not liking it one bit.
The heavy wool cloak he wore over his robes was beginning to fray in several places, and smell besides from the dank water he had fallen into several days prior. He had not seen a house-elf in days and had no concept of the word "mildew." He was tired of wearing a torn and offensively- odored cloak, but as the heat had mysteriously disappeared along with so many other things he had always taken for granted inside the castle, he had decided that warm and malodorous was preferable to cold and unscented. The air around him held too much of those qualities as it were.
He looked up from tracing the progress of his boots upon the ground to notice that he was coming to a fork in the corridor. This was not his wing of the castle; Ravenclaws lived here. He was not familiar with its twists and turns, and came to a stop as he quietly pulled a slender piece of wood from his belt. The smooth, cool wand felt reassuring in his clammy palm. Pushing his pale hair out of his eyes, he began to move forward once again.
Once again, he came to a terse halt. His chest tensed and he felt that familiar frigid current of energy pour from his heart into his extremities. His arms ached with the strain of it against his veins. His breathing ebbed to a barely audible intake and exhalation of air through his nose; the inside of his mouth was like parchment. In his ears was the horrible sound of jagged movement along the corridor leading off to his right.
The noise was so slight that he had to endeavor to hear it. He was surprised he had heard it at all to begin with, but thankful that he had; he now knew to ready himself. It was confusing to him, though: clop- scrape, clop-scrape, clop-scrape. Slowly, slowly, like winter fighting its way past the warmth of a lingering fall, the clop-scrape was making its way towards the junction. Ragged breathing accompanied the being, and the boy thought for a brief moment that it could be another person. Another student perhaps, or even a professor!
He shook his head lightly and looked downward; Stupid, he thought. Everyone who was still left in the castle was accounted for, and most of them were currently gathered raggedly in the Great Hall, some still in shock, others gone half-crazy from being cooped up for so long. It had been weeks since anyone else had been seen. Dumbledore, that old bat, had disappeared long ago, before any of the events had taken place. Professors Sinistra and Trelawney had fled at the first sign of trouble, as had most of the others, including their recently acquired Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, who turned out to be almost as useful as that prat Gilderoy Lockhart. McGonagall had been killed in a blast of brilliant green light before the Gryffindors' disbelieving eyes. Professors Flitwick and Sprout had been fighting off Death Eaters the best they knew how, Flitwick aiming useless charms at them and Sprout dodging curses while shouting frantically at the students to get away. The two professors had lasted about seven minutes before they, too, were cut down.
Hagrid, the oaf of a groundskeeper, knew no useful spells or countercurses, and had survived only due to the genetic defense mechanism that lay latent in his thick, half-giant skin. Some students had now witnessed this phenomenon twice, being present both during the attack and at Umbridge's foolish attempt to capture Hagrid from his hut last year. The groundskeeper presently spent most of his time watching over the remaining students as best he knew how. They often caught him weeping in a corner, head buried in his hands, large body shaking like a boulder during an earthquake.
Filch had been felled while trying to rescue Mrs. Norris, which Draco saw as very fitting. The man wouldn't have wanted to live without that disturbing little feline anyway. Madams Pomfrey and Pince were still out of commission after being hit by curses that not even the Slytherin seventh- years had heard of. No one even knew why the Death Eaters would have bothered to curse a librarian anyway. She would have been as much use to the students as Hagrid was. Snape, the boy's head of house, had not been seen or heard from in three weeks, nor had the Boy Who Lived.
Hogwarts' student body had been reduced to a quivering mass of frightened children, about half of whom had been picked off by refracted or poorly aimed curses during the initial siege. The Death Eaters had then retreated as quickly as they had stormed the castle, hastily scurrying away like cockroaches scuttling from the light. Afterwards, the castle had become as quiet as a tomb. One could go deaf straining to hear some sign of life from the vacant hallways and classrooms. The remaining students had grouped together in the Great Hall; they clung to one other as if they would drown.
Some of the students had disappeared mysteriously later on, after embarking on intrepid quests to figure some way out of the castle. The few who returned from these missions reported that they could see nothing at all through any of the windows of the castle, and that when any doors to the outside were opened, a vast nothingness stretched out in front of them. One Muggle-born student had kept repeating in a droning voice the phrase, "And darkness was upon the face of the earth" ad nauseum since he had returned. The void almost drove them mad at the sight of it: no time, no sound, no sight, no existence seemed capable from beyond the doors. Those foolish few who had attempted to venture into it instantly disappeared.
Harry Potter had disappeared on one such mission. He and his best friend, Ron, had set out into the castle a week after the Death Eaters had vanished. Ron later claimed that he and Harry had only split up for a brief second before he realized that Harry was gone. Ron and their other best friend, Hermione, had combed the castle for days but never found any trace of him. They both were adamant that Harry would never try anything as stupid as going through one of the outer doors. Some of the other students thought otherwise.
One of those other students was this one, who was presently trying to stop his heart from seizing up in his breast. His rational mind was telling him that there was no reason why there should be a sound of any kind coming from the hall beyond him. He must be imagining things. Everyone else was currently gathered in the Great Hall, having lost most of their strength of mind and body by now. The only reason he was out here at all was that he was stubborn, accustomed to getting what he wanted, and what he wanted more than anything at this point was a way out.
The sound was still there. Cautiously, oh so cautiously, he inched his way closer and closer to the sharp corner of the stone wall. His wand was held level with his abdomen, his arm reared back and held taut as if ready to strike. His other arm was cocked in front of his body in a mostly useless but instinctively protective fashion. The clop-scrape continued unabated, louder and closer with each passing moment. He looked down at his wand in his trembling hand and was suddenly ashamed of himself. The cold rush of fear winding its way through his body disappeared. He looked up again, with clear eyes and a clearer mind. This is no way for a Malfoy to act, he thought with annoyance and a welling spring of determination. He breathed deep the cold, tasteless air, jutted his chin, and charged the corner.
His eyes were hard as porphyry With looking on cruel lands His voice came slipping over me Like terrible silver hands
- Dorothy Parker, "A Well-Worn Tale"
The Present
The young man was walking slowly down the hall, lingering at times while his grey eyes clouded over in thought. Once the cloudburst ceased, he would resume his drugged pace. His shoes made hushed clicks upon the stone floor as he went along, the sound a comfort to him among the draped silence in the corridor. He occasionally passed a portrait or still life hanging dead on the wall. The pictures were completely still, as if someone had put a petrificus upon them all. Not even their eyes moved to follow his progress. This worried him immensely.
He had tried, in the beginning, to speak with a couple of the inhabitants. They all stared blankly ahead, oil faces stock-still. Not one of them made a sound. Even Sir Cadogan, who had been moved from his place in the North Tower after upsetting a milkmaid and a hunting party a few paintings down, was sitting like a tiny Buddhist statue underneath his tree. He supposed this was what Muggle art looked like and he shivered, not liking it one bit.
The heavy wool cloak he wore over his robes was beginning to fray in several places, and smell besides from the dank water he had fallen into several days prior. He had not seen a house-elf in days and had no concept of the word "mildew." He was tired of wearing a torn and offensively- odored cloak, but as the heat had mysteriously disappeared along with so many other things he had always taken for granted inside the castle, he had decided that warm and malodorous was preferable to cold and unscented. The air around him held too much of those qualities as it were.
He looked up from tracing the progress of his boots upon the ground to notice that he was coming to a fork in the corridor. This was not his wing of the castle; Ravenclaws lived here. He was not familiar with its twists and turns, and came to a stop as he quietly pulled a slender piece of wood from his belt. The smooth, cool wand felt reassuring in his clammy palm. Pushing his pale hair out of his eyes, he began to move forward once again.
Once again, he came to a terse halt. His chest tensed and he felt that familiar frigid current of energy pour from his heart into his extremities. His arms ached with the strain of it against his veins. His breathing ebbed to a barely audible intake and exhalation of air through his nose; the inside of his mouth was like parchment. In his ears was the horrible sound of jagged movement along the corridor leading off to his right.
The noise was so slight that he had to endeavor to hear it. He was surprised he had heard it at all to begin with, but thankful that he had; he now knew to ready himself. It was confusing to him, though: clop- scrape, clop-scrape, clop-scrape. Slowly, slowly, like winter fighting its way past the warmth of a lingering fall, the clop-scrape was making its way towards the junction. Ragged breathing accompanied the being, and the boy thought for a brief moment that it could be another person. Another student perhaps, or even a professor!
He shook his head lightly and looked downward; Stupid, he thought. Everyone who was still left in the castle was accounted for, and most of them were currently gathered raggedly in the Great Hall, some still in shock, others gone half-crazy from being cooped up for so long. It had been weeks since anyone else had been seen. Dumbledore, that old bat, had disappeared long ago, before any of the events had taken place. Professors Sinistra and Trelawney had fled at the first sign of trouble, as had most of the others, including their recently acquired Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, who turned out to be almost as useful as that prat Gilderoy Lockhart. McGonagall had been killed in a blast of brilliant green light before the Gryffindors' disbelieving eyes. Professors Flitwick and Sprout had been fighting off Death Eaters the best they knew how, Flitwick aiming useless charms at them and Sprout dodging curses while shouting frantically at the students to get away. The two professors had lasted about seven minutes before they, too, were cut down.
Hagrid, the oaf of a groundskeeper, knew no useful spells or countercurses, and had survived only due to the genetic defense mechanism that lay latent in his thick, half-giant skin. Some students had now witnessed this phenomenon twice, being present both during the attack and at Umbridge's foolish attempt to capture Hagrid from his hut last year. The groundskeeper presently spent most of his time watching over the remaining students as best he knew how. They often caught him weeping in a corner, head buried in his hands, large body shaking like a boulder during an earthquake.
Filch had been felled while trying to rescue Mrs. Norris, which Draco saw as very fitting. The man wouldn't have wanted to live without that disturbing little feline anyway. Madams Pomfrey and Pince were still out of commission after being hit by curses that not even the Slytherin seventh- years had heard of. No one even knew why the Death Eaters would have bothered to curse a librarian anyway. She would have been as much use to the students as Hagrid was. Snape, the boy's head of house, had not been seen or heard from in three weeks, nor had the Boy Who Lived.
Hogwarts' student body had been reduced to a quivering mass of frightened children, about half of whom had been picked off by refracted or poorly aimed curses during the initial siege. The Death Eaters had then retreated as quickly as they had stormed the castle, hastily scurrying away like cockroaches scuttling from the light. Afterwards, the castle had become as quiet as a tomb. One could go deaf straining to hear some sign of life from the vacant hallways and classrooms. The remaining students had grouped together in the Great Hall; they clung to one other as if they would drown.
Some of the students had disappeared mysteriously later on, after embarking on intrepid quests to figure some way out of the castle. The few who returned from these missions reported that they could see nothing at all through any of the windows of the castle, and that when any doors to the outside were opened, a vast nothingness stretched out in front of them. One Muggle-born student had kept repeating in a droning voice the phrase, "And darkness was upon the face of the earth" ad nauseum since he had returned. The void almost drove them mad at the sight of it: no time, no sound, no sight, no existence seemed capable from beyond the doors. Those foolish few who had attempted to venture into it instantly disappeared.
Harry Potter had disappeared on one such mission. He and his best friend, Ron, had set out into the castle a week after the Death Eaters had vanished. Ron later claimed that he and Harry had only split up for a brief second before he realized that Harry was gone. Ron and their other best friend, Hermione, had combed the castle for days but never found any trace of him. They both were adamant that Harry would never try anything as stupid as going through one of the outer doors. Some of the other students thought otherwise.
One of those other students was this one, who was presently trying to stop his heart from seizing up in his breast. His rational mind was telling him that there was no reason why there should be a sound of any kind coming from the hall beyond him. He must be imagining things. Everyone else was currently gathered in the Great Hall, having lost most of their strength of mind and body by now. The only reason he was out here at all was that he was stubborn, accustomed to getting what he wanted, and what he wanted more than anything at this point was a way out.
The sound was still there. Cautiously, oh so cautiously, he inched his way closer and closer to the sharp corner of the stone wall. His wand was held level with his abdomen, his arm reared back and held taut as if ready to strike. His other arm was cocked in front of his body in a mostly useless but instinctively protective fashion. The clop-scrape continued unabated, louder and closer with each passing moment. He looked down at his wand in his trembling hand and was suddenly ashamed of himself. The cold rush of fear winding its way through his body disappeared. He looked up again, with clear eyes and a clearer mind. This is no way for a Malfoy to act, he thought with annoyance and a welling spring of determination. He breathed deep the cold, tasteless air, jutted his chin, and charged the corner.
