It is lonely in the dark.
It always is. Few roam these halls; fewer still care to talk. And why should they care? There is nothing for them to hear. It is not the same for me.
The water drips from the ceiling. It is a steady, constant pulsing sound. It drives you crazy to listen to it, but even crazier when you try to count it. In muggle cartoons, there is this pirate who fears the oscillating swing of a pendulum. James and I used to laugh at him, but now I know how he feels. Drip…… Drip…… Drip……
It is silent in the dark.
For most.
For those who live in this cursed strip of land, the dark is the loudest part of life. They… We live in a world full of screams, of voices striving to be heard. Most plead their innocence. I do not, for I know that none would listen. Now, my name is only credited with the foul deeds of late. No longer are the tales of hope awarded to me, not even my years as an Auror can save me from this malefaction. 'Blackest of Black' – that is what the paper called me.
Ratiocination only plunges me deeper into my guilt. Logically, the evidence is against me. Thirteen dead, and I the only wizard in sight? Certainly I am guilty. No judge, jury, or Wizengamot found me so. It was not a judicial action – I would wonder if justice still exists in Crouch's state of martial law. Yet it is still the law, and this law has jurisdiction everywhere, with no boundaries to block it. Sixteen dead – certainly guilty.
Am I? I would respond in the negative.
I did not kill them. But… …did I? Even I doubt myself.
It is painful in the dark.
Painful, because you know something lurks there, and you are forced to wait with your nerves on fire for it to come. Painful, because when it comes out, you realize that the only thing hiding there is you, or at least, your past. It is this knowledge which makes you walk the thin line between sense and madness. It is knowing you did this, only you, yes you. All this makes you vacillate between the horrific reality and the blissful insanity. And it is this that makes you docile in the dark; that makes you submit and willing to sell your soul to escape from it. And in the end, you it is still your past, belongs to you, follows you. You are still guilty….. and it is still your past.
It is dreadful in the dark.
It is dread that clenches your heart as you hear the ominous swish of musky robes. It is dread that fills your soul as your nose senses the first whiffs of the stagnant stench of rotting flesh. It is dread that stalks your mind as you hear the creak of bone rubbing on bone, and as you see the barest flash of moonlight on an osseous surface before the hand is withdrawn. It is dread, because there is nothing you can do to halt the rising sea of fear and terror.
But mostly, it is lonely in the dark. For it is in the dark where you are left with only the barest snatches at sanity, the briefest glimpse of glory, and the fleetest thought of friends. It is in the dark where all you have is your past, all of its pitfalls, all of its terror, and all of its misery. Yet…
It is in the dark where you find what may be a solution, what is perhaps the answer. It is where you realize that your truest companion is a black dog who lessens the fear and dread. It is where you find that the shattered tile by the door looks like a stag in the moonlight. It is where you find that the same small lantern also lends the brick the color of a wolf.
It is in the dark where you discover that you are not guilty of what they condemned you for. Of broken fidelity and betrayed loyalty-not likely. Of misplaced trust-probably. Of foolishness-definitely. But of murder-no.
So, in a way, it is the dark that lights the flame.