Disclaimer: You know, of course, the JK Rowling is the genius behind Hogwarts. I'm just imagining it from the Muggle prespective.

THE VALLEY OF UNREST

Thomas was tired of tramping through the mountains. Therese and the others were getting tired of waiting for him to catch up. It had been a mistake to agree to this adventure outing. They should have known better than ask and he should have known better than to agree. He would much rather spend his free weekend working on his latest pastel landscape.

His feet hurt, his back ached and he was hungry. Therese had said that the meadow with the amazing view she wanted to share was "just a bit further on." Thomas had long ago given up understanding her definition of "just a bit." She'd said it about every phase of their hike; sometimes it meant a dozen meters but other times it meant another thirty minutes of arduous hiking.

Besides the ability to rest and eat, Thomas was anxious to reach the promised lea because it marked the turn-around point in their trek. His pack would be lighter for having eaten the food he carried and it would be downhill most of the way back. His heart soared when he heard Therese's call that she could see their destination.

Thomas caught his breath as he reached the top of the ridge they had been following and looked down upon an immense valley. A broad lake filled much of the bowl between the mountains; its dark surface mirrored the dazzling sun of mid-day. The north end of the basin, however, was taken up with the moldering remains of a highland castle. The crumbling walls outlined a fortress that must have been quite impressive in its day. The green grass and wildflowers of early summer crept now between the fallen stones but no creature moved among the ruins.

The scene fit perfectly with the image painted by the words of Edgar Allan Poe. "The Valley of Unrest" was one of Thomas' favorites:

Once it smiled a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sunlight lazily lay.

There was no taste to the sandwich Thomas mechanically consumed. All of his attention was riveted on the valley below. Therese had been right—it was a perfect subject for his art. There was something mystical about this sheltered dell that would be a welcome challenge to his skill with paint and canvas.

"Earth to Thomas," Therese laughingly called, finally getting his attention by a hand on his shoulder. "We're going to go on just a bit so you can draw. We'll be back in about an hour. Okay?"

"Sure," he agreed with a smile then turned back to the scene he planned to put on paper.

He pondered the best lighting to capture the eldritch nature of the place then laughed at the enormity of the task. He now understood what Therese had meant when she said he had to be here to "feel" the place before he could think about painting it. How could he possibly paint anything that conveyed the sensation of being watched by the vacant valley?

The valley wasn't actually vacant. Thomas could see a tiny village nestled at the foot of the mountains on the far side of the lake. He had already decided to leave out that end of the valley from today's drawing. Perhaps Therese would lend him her binoculars for a closer look. He could swear he saw chimney smoke coming from several of the far-off buildings in spite of the fact that the day was rather warm. If the village was as quaint as the smoke suggested, it could make another marvelous subject.

Only the lightest of breezes ruffled the smooth drawing paper that Thomas had pulled from his pack yet the trees bordering the site of the ancient ruin swayed as if there were a much stronger wind. The waters of the lake rippled also out of proportion to the mild zephyr that barely cooled his brow. The vale seemed restless in its desolation; distressed by its emptiness. Poe's poetry continued to haunt his thoughts:

Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless-
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides!

A flash of scarlet and gold on the near side of the lake startled him. Thinking it a bird that might interest Therese, he turned back to call her over but she was already over the ridge. Looking back to the spot, there was nothing to see anyway.

Carefully removing a medium grade charcoal stick from the box that now lay on the grass beside him, Thomas wrapped most of it in foil to keep his fingers as clean as possible. A muffled roar like that of a football crowd rose from the valley floor. He was puzzled by the unexpected sound and strained his eyes again at the village. It hadn't seemed the type to host a football match large enough for the sound to travel so far. He wished he had thought to bring his own binoculars.

A long, lingering look at the spectacular valley was followed by a deep breath then the first stroke of black that would become the mountainous backdrop. Smudging the dry media with just the right pressure lent shadow to the imposing milieu. Dark lines outlined the forest that spilled down the slopes into the basin.

It was the lake and ruined fortress, however, that Thomas longed to capture. A much thicker stick was turned on its side to darken the surface of the water, tiny pricks of the eraser exposed the bright white paper beneath in imitation of the brilliant reflection of the sun. At last, using a bare sliver of charcoal, he outlined the contours of the sloping ground between the lake and the fallen stones.

At the outset, Thomas had intended to sketch enough of the scene to begin a painting when he got back to his flat. He considered bringing canvas and easel to this place but could not face the misery of a climb encumbered with the appropriate tools. The drawing was turning out to be a work on its own. Perhaps he would add a smidgen of color with pastels—a verdant green to creep between the stones, dots of purple, yellow and pink for the wildflowers that speckled the open ground.

Thomas was so intent on his drawing and his plans that he had not noticed the changing weather. The scrabbling return of one his companions broke the eerie silence that had enveloped him during his work. When he turned to face his friend, he was stunned to see the dark storm clouds streaked with lightening rushing toward them.

Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Uneasily, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye-
Over the lilies there that wave
And weep above a nameless grave!

"Sorry, mate. We've got to get off of this mountain in a hurry," Daniel warned as he gathered what was left of the meal the group had shared, stuffing it uncaringly into his pack. "The others stayed below the ridgeline while I came to get you," he added.

The urgency of Daniel's words began to infect Thomas. Charcoals were dumped somewhat haphazardly back into their box. Even as Thomas returned his gaze to the valley floor for a last look, the sun and clouds met in the sky. The captivating play of summer and ancient ruin was blotted out leaving the valley in peculiar shadows.

The moment in which Thomas considered a darker, shadowy painting cost him dearly. A bolt of lightening and peal of thunder heralded the arrival of the storm. Fat drops of rain sparkled in the flashing sky before falling on the paper still held in his lap, smudging the scene beyond recognition.

They wave: - from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep: - from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.

A/N: As always, thanks goes to Skool at BewitchedMind and ZHeRoTaN at The Sugar Quill. They encourage me to strive for my best.