The ceiling stands high, eaves cradled in vines. Moonlight filters through the broken tiles, icy beams distorting shadows, enveloping the area in an ethereal glow. Darkness rots the wooden floor, moss tainting the stone walls an earthy green. The hangings on the wall – once the brightest crimson, trimmed with gold – now, fallen, rotting, the crimson faded and moulded to the darkest shade of drying blood.
There is a taste of darkness, of suffering… of loss… Something took place here… long ago. An event which left none alive to alert the world of its passing. An event which stained the floorboards black, which tore the windows from their frames. Shaking this place to the foundations on which it stands.
Ivy grows here now. Creeping over grey stone, blackened wood… burgundy drapes…. And there is magic - it can be felt - the very air intones it. Magic which preserves the floors, the walls, the roof. Which keeps the draperies limply hanging, slows the assault of nature's elements.
You can hear them – when the moon is bright – you can hear them laughing, chatting, chanting spells and shouting curses. You can hear them scream. Shrieks of anguish, heard as an echo through time… the air stirs in empathy, the hangings silent in bitter reminiscence.
Tables stood here once. Tables laden with food, golden cutlery and goblets dressing each place, while their occupants gossiped and shouted. But those tables were broken. They stood as the last defence – when the high gates had fallen, encircling walls defeated. When the forest betrayed them and the school-turned-fortress was breached – the tables stood. Children – taking the roles of warriors as they watched their protectors fall – crouched behind the age-old wooden barricades (that weeks before they had sat at dining happily) and waited for the end. The tables were broken, destroyed with all that remained of the fighters. Now both remembered only by the wasted, crumbling shell that was once their home.
There were ghosts here once – ghosts of lords, of ladies, knights and monks. Even children. Yes – there were many ghosts. Those too cowardly to take the full effects of death lingered on. But they do so no longer. Even those that are dead do not wish to walk among these ruins, these memories.
Dreams were made here, beneath the high ceiling, within these walls. And dreams were broken. Shattered beyond repair. A world in turmoil was silenced. The floor is burnt, the walls bleeding. Tears of broken souls were not enough to cleanse these wounds. And now, when all who wept have passed, sorrow soaks forgotten graves.
Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc belongs to JKR