The Sound of the Gion Shoja bells echos the impermanence of all things; the color of the sala flowers reveals the truth that the prosperous must decline. The proud do not endure, they are like a dream on a spring night; the mighy fall at last, they are as dust before the wind. (The Tale of the Heike, translated by Helen Craig McCullough)
KreimhildThe quill pen rustled in protest, while stabbing the yellowish parchment again and again, permeating black lines onto its flesh.
For a moment, Kreimhild stopped writing, looking carefully upon her handiwork; then she sighed, tossing aback a strand of bright hair. Although nearly a full hour had passed since she settled down in the corner of the Slytherin common room, she hadn't come near to complete her treatise in potions. Sometimes she felt as if the parchment itself is struggling against her, taking every effort to prevent her from completing her task: writing a full description about the qualities of the black nightshade's leaves.
"Five hundred lines!" she grumbled, leaning back in her chair and gazing lengthily at her surroundings, which were flickering in a greenish light.
"Ridiculous, simply ridiculous" she though angrily. She, who easily managed to get an "Outstanding" in her potions OWL'S last year, was supposed to remember better than anyone every quality to be found in the black leaves used to concoct the Berserker's Wine, and why are they so hazardous, as Professor Snape had strongly emphasized in his chastising voice. But her thoughts galloped around like wild horses, deserting her homework far behind.
"It's all due to that accursed clatter around," she murmured, an exasperated look upon her face. "Why can't they just shut their blithering mouths for a while, all those idle, dim-witted fools lurking around?"
But, as annoying as it was, this wasn't the only reason for her difficulties, and Kreimhild knew it well. Many things had troubled her mind besides the bitter muttering around of the Slytherin students. No one in the common room was thrilled, saying the least, to leave their shady shelter and climb up the stairs to attend the great hall; there, they were supposed to stand in bent heads at the grand-opening of the memorial ceremony of Harry Potter and the fallen members of the Order of the Phoenix. A ceremony that was about to be performed exactly as it was at the previous year, and in every tenth of November of the last twenty-five years.
As for Kreimhild herself, she was not fond of the event any more than her fellow Slytherins. Since banished from her fatherland to Hogwarts, she took part twice in those ceremonies, each one worse then its former. She resented the very concept of standing there with her head bent, pretending not to notice all the frowning and glowering glances shot upon her and her fellows from every possible direction. Slytherin students were seldom popular at Hogwarts, but the Potter-memorial week and the following Triumph holiday were certainly the worst.
Her thoughts carried her further, far away from the bitter common room and her unfinished homework. Although the common room lacked any windows or hatches onto the open air, Kreimhild knew well that a storm is raging outside. When closing her eyes, she could feel the blows of the roaring wind, casting wet braches upon the castle's grey walls, the heavy raindrops dripping and leaking on the ancient stones, and the lightnings: Thor's glowing lances, tearing the deep-grey heavens apart.
"The storm flows in our veins, we members of the Balzigen-Kruazea dynasty," her father told her since her early childhood. Kreimhild could still remember his tall figure, standing, hands folded by the window, dominating the east-Prussian forest - an endless, ancient wilderness, looming onto the horizon, shrouded with fogy-green aura. Count Hyldrick was fond of opening the higher window to its fullness, yielding the drafty air to dishevel his silvered hair. Kreimhild remembered heavy raindrops dripping from his thick mustache, while he was strictly cleansing the long shiny blade of his beloved Westenwut.
As for Kreimhild, she as well adored the stormy autumn, caring with it the memories of her father and the only true home she ever had. But there were also more practical reasons: Autumn meant that many months shall pass till July, when she will be forced to spend two long months in Wales, in that luxurious and accursed beach house, where her mother lived along with Roy Fletcher: that loathsome fellow her mother insisted calling "my spouse".
Kreimhild resented it all: the flashy summer house along with his ornate private shoreline, with no single oak to be found. Most of all, she resented Fletcher's smirk that welcomed her every summer, as she climbed reluctantly through the marble stairs, an "I've seen the Grim" look upon her face.
"Oh, how you've grown a' made yourself gorgeous!" he used to gargle, lifting himself from his layer with a loud rustle of his scrabbled Bermuda breeches. "More stunning you become each year, ma'little fairy princess! Me and mama missed you so much…"
In the year she spent at Hogwarts, she had managed to hear again and again those Harry Potter tales: It seemed that that the local folk never got tired of hearing and telling about the famous boy who was forced to spend every summer with especially nasty muggle aunt and uncle, treating him as if he was some kind of a freak. Sometimes, Kreimhild had found herself wandering whose fate was better. Surely Roy Fletcher hadn't even dreamt about having a kid, not mention a fat squealer who would try to abuse her; moreover, she herself could be granted almost everything her heart desired… if just she was to humiliate herself for pleading. But to see that Fletcher guy embracing her mother… Kreimhild preferred to spend a week in a broom cupboard.
'Me and mama… I wish you'll stamp straight into a hornet's nest, you hypocrite liar,'she thought for the umpteenth time. Mother, or "she who betrayed father's memory", as she named her in her leave, was following her spouse into the entrance hall. Kreimhild just stood there, frozen as an icicle until eventually forcing herself to stammer a distantgreeting, then wait patiently to the very moment in which they will leave her alone.
'Little fairy princess, oh am I?' she used to grin sinisterly to herself 'So maybe in those Babyish books of the Grimm brothers, which only a pathetic squib such as your ugly self can call "legends"'
Somehow she managed to suppress her desires and prevented herself from looking straight into his eyes and explain in a menacing whisper how does a real Teutonic legend sounds like… especially what can happen to an ignoble scum who dares to send his hand to touch a Valkirie. The thought about Roy Fletcher skewered upon an ebony tree was so delightful… but at the meantime she kept it for herself.
Finally, she managed to shake herself free of her thoughts, reminding herself that the time is running out.
"He did it on purpose," she thought, forcing herself to scribble another line upon her parchment; only professor snape was capable of assigning them a double amount of homework, precisely in a week on which half their time will be devoted to ceremonies and resembling events. But the Grey-haired professor seemed determined, shaking his greasy forelock scornfully while cutting off any attempt of arguing.
"Most regrettably, Miligen," he mentioned in a chastising tone "The learning material you will have to encompass this year are not affected by this… Potter festival and, unbelievably, not even in those notably important individuals that will take part in it this year" he added, eyeing Sylvia Malfoy sarcastically. "But since you are all so talented, especially those of you who won the prefect budge, I have no doubt that you will all easily fulfill those… little tasks I gave you."
Saying this, he lifted his beg and departed swiftly, granting Draco Malfoy's daughter with a last sinister look.
Sighing, she kept writing, making every effort to ignore the couple of students who talked beside her. So far, Professor Snape has not found any cause of making a misery out of her life, or grant her any special treatment; Kreimhild was eager not to supply him with any: This accursed English school was bad enough either way. Unfortunately, one of the noisy couple that had settled beside her, a tan and bald fifth-year lad, leaning close in a bothering manner, grumbling ceaselessly and complaining; Paulous Redflare was dripping sweat every time he was exasperated, a frequent situation indeed. Harry potter's memorial day never cheered him, but things were definitely worse this year.
"'Wish the grim takes them all, I say" he growled. In the greenish common room's lighting, the sweat-beads upon his forehead looked like dozens of twisting snakes. "All that lousy mudblood festival".
Lowering his tone, he cautiously gazed over his surroundings. Kreimhild swallowed a scornful grin, pretending to be completely occupied with her parchment. Twenty-five years after the annihilation of the dark lord, having such a conversation too loudly was unclever, even in the depths of the Slytherin's common room.
"five, five whole hours it can take, all that shit, but the worst is that blood-traitor's filthy lecture" agreed his interlocutor, returning at last to day's topic – the intended lecture of the most disputable repentant in England.
"Great Lucious is probably turning in his grave 'cause that shithead son of his; a piece of a lousy crybaby, coward, ass-licker…"
Kreimhild shrugged indifferently.
'As if their glorious Lucious was much of a better thing' she grinned bitterly 'like father like son, doesn't it
In her years at Hogwarts, she managed to hear, several times, about Darco's surrender and repentant, or as others preferred to whisper: surrender and betrayal. That coward, an eighteen years old youngster then, was captured by the phoenix aurers several weeks before the final battle. Very soon, such was said, he begun "singing" in his investigations, rating out whatever he knew about names, plots and hideouts of his fellow death-eaters. After the last battle, in which they were slain nearly to their last, he maid a great deal from his so-called repentant, claiming before everyone who would listen that his deeds were maid out of true illumination about the fault and evil in his previous ways; but the way he went and volunteered to make a speech in his old rival's memorial was more then enough for quite a few people to flew off the handle.
"Shame his papa hadn't the time to get him, 'for he fell, that ratty little scum" growled Paulus, thudding the back of his armchair with his thickened fist, or better yet" he added, an atrocious grimace signing upon his lips "maybe we can get him ourselves, ya know, a sack over the head in one dark night, and a Cruciatus curse before tossing his carcass to those big cute spiders in the forbidden forest - But a Silancio first that he won't scream, It's quiet a fun - Someone with a Crucio but can't even scream, eh?"
Kreimhild hided her face in the parchment to prevent herself from laughing. Since she first met Paulus, there was not a single week in which he had not mumbled about "getting" someone: Once, it was professor Stein whom he wagged about, after she caught him biting a first-year student from her house, therefore she fined twenty points from Slytherin; In another occasion, it was some mudblood or blood-traitor with whom Paulus quarreled in a queue to a shop in Hogsmead; And of course and above all, he wagged day and night about 'getting' Professor Grainger, because she is a stinking mudblood daring to soil the headmaster's throne, and his most hated figure in general.
'Such a feeble dung lump he is' she thought. 'He will mumble and wag for hours and hours, but as always, his mighty deeds will sum up to a nightly sneaking to the Hoghead tavern, there he'll get drunk along with tramps and those bully friends of his'. Her father, out of his own good reasons, had always memorized her that a wizard who honors himself will never bark pointless threats: he thinks it over and over before he is determined to strike - and then he does so: silent as a shadow and swift as a lightning.Once a fortnight, at least, Paulus would stumble, dim-eyed, into a classroom, all-wrapped with hang-over and with no homework done: an eternal cause for teacher to decrease points form house Slytherin. He himself, in contrast, saw it in an entirely different manner:
"Those lousy prof'ies always seek the pure-blooded" he murmured furiously after each time "Everybody knows: that shithead excuse for a headmasters told them to act so"
"It's a wonder to me, why they are still keeping this troll at school" she asked herself for the umpteenth time.
"Shhhhhhh…" whispered his interlocutor, lifting his chin anxiously. "There she comes, the trait…Malfoy's daughter"
Kreimhild kept writing, not even bothering to avert her eyes.
"I will more then enough of her in the evening, after the ceremony" she pondered, while the exasperated murmur beside her calms down at once. Hence she came to Hogwarts, she was forced to share a room with Sylvia, and perpetually pretend that they are good friends. Since she won the prefect badge last year, she become as sevenfold lofty… and dangerous.
"So sorry I am to interrupt your conversation, good pals of mine" said Sylvia in a soft but icy tone. Without looking, Kreimhild could feel the menacing quiet smile upon the prefect's face. "Time to go out into the great hall, as I'm sure you all remember well"
Kreimhild concealed a smirk, when Paulus and his mate rose in a marvelous meekness, keeping their eyes low on the floor. Draco could spout over and over that he saw the light, make speeches in Potter's memorial and shading crocodile-tears in an amount fairly enough to drown Aragog - But anyone at Slytherin knew, that it in defiantly not a clever thing to be caught wagging toomuch near his own daughter.
"Worry not, dear friend" said Kreimhild, folding her parchment while feigning a smile "None of us can forget such a magnificent day"
as for herself, she was willing to give away a hundred galleons, only to figure out how can professor Hermionie Granger could force herself to attend such a hypocrite spouting such as Malfoy's - not to mention smiling in a mock acceptance, instead of rising up and strike a punch in the middle of his pointy face.
"And one thing more, guys" added Sylvia, granting Paulus Redflare a sinister smile "Please; make every effort to… behave yourselves. We don't wish to lose any more points, don't we?"
Granting Sylvia no more attention, Kreimhild rose up and strode through the common room, facing into the exit hole and the stony staircase beyond; the bleary torchlight flickered upon her gloomy face, granting them with a reddish aura, and fairly revealing her high-shaped features and her long flaxen hair; her eyes were grey: grey as the steel which the ancient teutons used to drive the Romans back from the holy fatherland, as her father mentioned proudly – grey as steal, and sharp like the blade that decapitated Proconsul Varus.
In the dining room of her father's castle in east-Prussia, there was a huge painting of the Battle in the Tautenburg Forest; Kreimhild could well-remember the shapes fierce Teutonic warriors, waving bloodstained axes while slaughtering the terrified legionnaires. In the midst, the ancient artist drew A valkyrie, both fierce and magnificent, a bloodstained longsword in her right, and the head of a Roman centurion held by his hair in her left.
But her father, Count Hildric von Balzigen-Krauzea hadn't fell in a battle against aurers, sent by the United European Wizarding Confederation, a short time before Kreimhild reached twelve; Else, he would surely be proud that his own daughter, as coming nigh of age, had resembled more and more to the ancient valkyrie from his beloved painting. It was for good reasons, that Hildric's dynasty was proud of being the most ancient bloodline in the wizarding families in Germany; Its roots, so it was said, reached the forgotten eras, and the blood of Asgard still flew in their veins.
Such thoughts passing her mind, she left the stairs behind and mingled in swarm of students crowding and pushing their way towards the grand hall; but a light hand touch upon her shoulder made her stop.
"Ten galleons for your thoughts, cousin dear" said a well-known and unloved voice. Quickly, she twirled back, giving him the usual poisonous smirk she kept especially for Griffindors.
"hmm.. What may I be thinking of?" she retorted, her eyes gazing at him contemptibly "how about: why is this nuisance keeps trying to stain me with his hoofs? Hadn't I made it clear to him, that he is not welcomed in my surroundings?"
Godric Von Hoth, her only cousin and a sixth year Griffindor student, did not exhibited much of an affront, if he suffered any: as well as he was find immune to yelling and admonition, in times she still hoped to remind him some of the duties and behavior fitting who that ancient Teutonic blood flowing in his veins. Instead, he smirked - the same smugly, the Griffindore way he always used to flew her out of handle.
"My beloved Kreimhild, kind and good tempered as always," he grinned, ignoring the numerous eyes glaring them from all directions. As for me, I was just trying to send my regards: you are still my cousin, you know"
Kreimhild sneered, making an effort to conceal a shiver.
"But Gordric!" she retorted "after all those mighty efforts I've made to forget this… regretful fact, you come and spoil them all?"
Then, she frowned, capable no longer to subdue her fury.
"What a pity that you had not bothered to remember this little fact, before putting our dynasty to shame, not to mention spitting upon my fathers memory, through befriending with his murderer's son. So" she summed, braking off and ferociously removing his hand "If you came to try tempting me to some picnic by the lake, or to introduce me to some new cuddle-mudblood of yours, begone. I have better tasks to spend my time with"
With those words spouting from her lips, she went away, head held high, fighting an urge to glance over her shoulder and examine the expression under his accursed golden hair; maybe, for once, she managed to wipe that stupid smile from his lips, making him taste a pinch from the pain he caused her. Biting her lips, she brutally oppressed her misgiving. Verily, Godric was her only kinsman but her mother, but his deeds where beyond forgiveness.
'what a glorious cousin I got, truly a piece of work he is' she bitterly grumbled 'groveling daily before a bunch of scums… all those lowlifes which are sure that we must endlessly apologize about our mare existence; Those who think, that an ancient surname is a disgrace, not an honor'
Kreimhild hated them by all means - all this lot who had conquered Hogwarts with their Muggle manners and nauseating fashions, their dissonant muggle-music… and worse; all those "modern era" wizards who openly scorned ancient traditions, waving day and night in the name of their beloved Potter, to keep the ancient families sheepish and ever-apologizing.
'And worst of all – Pitie Loobuma. How can Godric look his own image at the mirror, after associating with the filthy murderer's son?"
"In Merlin's Sake, What happened to you, Kerry?" gasped Lyn Summerfell, A bespectacled Slytherin student who was her regular partner in the potions lesson. Lyn, who just parted from the crowd, seemed to miss the scene which ended just now.
"The nasty blood-traitor scum that has happened" she snapped, struggling to contain her fury; Lyn nodded mirthlessly.
Kreimhild sighed, slowly wiping the moisture around her eyes.
"Pull yourself together, fool" she mumbled to herself "Unless you wish to brake into tears, and add your a nice show to that Potter Festival" swearing not to grant the Griffindors that pleasure, she lifted her chin in mock indifferent arrogance, straightening her steps toward the great doors.
But then, while still struggling against the crackling fury inside, she felt a faint sound, echoing far from beyond - far above the streaming crowd. It was a bell, gloomily thudding out of a towerhead, his echo dropping softly between Hogwarte's magnificent oil-paintings and ancient suits of armor.
"Tronnnnnngggggg…."
Kreimhild halted at once, glancing towards the arches above; in her surroundings few students slowed their pace, listening momentarily to the distant echo. Kreimhild alone kept standing, as if her legs were petrified. For a long while, she could not move or even speak, completely transfixed to the shivering echo.
"Donnnnnngggggg……"
Somehow, she found herself pondering about the ancient book that was granted to her father by an old Japanese wizard, who had stayed a week under their rafter, when she was eight years old. A magnificent epic tale, who opened in the echoing voices of the grand Gion shoja bells. Kreimhild adored that book, reading over and over about its solemn and horrific battles, and all heroic deeds of ancient samurai, ended in tragic agony.
A large bunch of Ravenclaw students passed near; Kreimhild could well recognize two of them: Rowen La-Fleur and Ronald Ross, two of ravenclaw's chasers, seemed as they notices neither the bell, nor her presence, not to mention the odd expression on her face. They both seemed to be completely submerged in one of their perpetual arguments, in which they seemed to conduct since their first year in Hogwarts.
"But Rowena, you haven't managed to refute my claim, that the ministry is smartly hiding the exploitation…"
"Tronnnnngggg… Donnnnngggggg…"
The Ravanclaws had passed, their figures swallowed in the general clatter. The spells teacher and head of house Ravenclaw, Professor Stein had slowed her pace, glancing her in scrutiny, then turned to rebuke a pair of noisy first-year students, how tried in vain to fling chalks on Peeves who whirled around, laughing and teasing them loudly. But Kreimhild paid them no attention: her whole entity transfixed to the bell, as all world is shrouded by his echoes, and all over sounds submerged, as if to the depths of a murky lake.
"Donnnggggg, Tronnnnggggg… Donnnggggggggg……."
A last echo, fainter and softer then his predecessors, faded slowly upon the stone walls, reminding her the crack of thin ice upon a late-winter lake.
"What could be the meaning of it?" she wondered, thinking again about the ancient Heike. Then, she shook herself free, and wiped her forearm. Whatever it was, it must wait till the end of the ceremony: the loud voices emerging from the grand hall hinted that the speeches should start at any moment.
"You better hurry" she siged "You cannot afford missing the show, don't you?"
A silent echo mumbled softly beyond her back, then died out and faded to nil.