Chapter 7: Hall of Memories

Viktor is not sure if his vision had been a mere dream. Would it have scared him less, if it was?

The wind howled as it meandered its way around the cavernous hall. A carpet lay across the entire length of it, moth-eaten and singed. Its edges curled frayed and rotting. From the odd patches of colour on its surface, Viktor assumed that it used to have a vibrant weave, but long years of people trampling over it has faded its design into mere browns and greys.

Outside were the voices of children happily playing in the spring sun. He turned to it, wanting to escape from the emptiness of the long corridor he was in, only to find the wooden door barred. He tugged and pushed and pulled, slammed his hands and shouted his voice raw. But not an inch did the door move. They're on the other side, he thought. They should hear me!

He wondered at how weak he had become, how thin and high his voice had turned. I'm a child again. His hands were smaller, softer. Gone were the callouses from years and years of Quidditch training. He was beardless, as well, and somehow he resented that the most. He had sported a beard to make himself look stronger. Now I am weak again.

Sobbing, he turned from the door to face the only other option he had. Snot dripped from his nose, and he wiped it timidly with the back of his hand, the sticky liquid smearing across his hairless arm. Gingerly he walked forward, the carpet muffling his footsteps. He was strangely thankful for that. There is something terrible in the walls. And he did not want to wake it.

An arch leading to a room opened to his right, and as he passed it he peeked inside. Grass stretched from the doorway to the far, far end of the room. He had no idea where it ended. It grew on every inch of the floor, bristling and swaying as the wind swept over it. A smile crept on his lips and he wanted to step into the wide grassland, to curl his toes in the soft soil and to soak his cold body in the warm sun. But something urged him onwards and he had to walk away, dismayed.

The next door was to his left. This one was closed. From behind it, he heard bangs and sizzles. It creaked and shook every time the ruckus echoed from within. The smell of smoke and something putrid wafted from the space between the door and the floor, seeped from the gaps around the hinges and the walls. Wary, he did not approach it and moved forward farther. The noise had almost died down to a murmur when another door rose to his left. It looked the same as the one before and Viktor began to wonder if he had been going in circles.

There was a click and the door knob turned. He jumped as a man and a woman walked out. Tired and old, their faces were gaunt, the skin barely clinging to the bones underneath. It shocked him, but what unsettled him the most were their eyes. The whites of their eyes glow in stark contrast to the greyness of their face. Like saucers against the crevices of their jagged faces, they were wide with fear and confusion. There was a malevolence in them that he deeply disliked, and a part of him wanted to lash out at them. Soon they were gone in the shadows, and he lost the chance to scream at them. Something creaked, and his head jolted towards the sound. Before the door closed, he saw, in the shortest of glimpses, a young boy, barely ten years old. The door closed with a click, and Viktor moved on.

It seemed like many years, and he thought the hall unending. The wind still howled all around him, sweeping his hair across his forehead, blowing his collar upright against his nape. No door appeared, so he marched forward vigilantly. I am strong again. His strides grew wider every step he took, and the ceiling sloped down towards him. He could almost reach it now if he stretched his arms. I am myself again.

Another door appeared, this time to his right. It was worn and rickety, barely hanging on the rusting hinges. The wind blew it open as he passed, and inside he saw a jungle of old wardrobes, faded paintings and empty frames, and mouldy rolls of rugs and linen. An attic. In the middle of it all, under a flickering dome of light emanating from a lamp, sat a boy, much younger than the one he had glimpsed earlier. He was poring over an open book in his lap. Viktor stepped towards him, his hand reaching out to the doorknob. "Hey," he almost called out, when suddenly there was a muffled thud from his left.

Turning, he saw another door a few paces from where he stood. The corridor ended abruptly to this one final door, and Viktor was confused why he had not noticed it before. He pushed and shoved, all muscle and strength, and felt the heavy doors part slowly. Grunting, he leant with one leg outstretched behind him, the carpet pooling around his foot as he mustered all his power. The door opened enough to let him through. The wind almost seemed to screech as it suddenly found the narrow passage. He sidled through the gap and found himself staring down at a crying child. He imagined he very much looked the same when he was the one sobbing in front of the door at the beginning of the corridor. But for one difference.

This boy has a wand.

"Viktor!" A hand on his shoulder jolted him awake. He woke with his hands grasping for something, reaching out into the empty air. Cedric soothed him with a cold cup of water to his lips. He hadn't realised how parched he was and he drank the cool water eagerly. The pain in his stomach shot through him like a hundred dull knives sinking into his flesh. It took all he can not to choke on the water in his mouth. With a groan, his nails dug deep into Cedric's hand. He waited with bated breath as the pain died down.

His head swam and often he felt as if his entire body was suddenly on fire, then drenched in ice, then set afire again. Snatches of the visions he just had floated in his mind, but they were too flimsy to hold onto for much too long. It wasn't the dream he wanted to have. It was the woman he had hoped to see again when he slept.

"You have a fever," Cedric whispered. Or was it only in his head, and Cedric had really shouted? The younger man was covered in soot. Strands of hair stuck to his forehead, sweat glistened in beads on his neck. He was fussing over him like a mother to a child, drying the fever sweats that clung to his skin and piling blankets to stifle the chills that made his teeth rattle. He is kind.

How long have I slept? He was looking for something, he remembered now. Something important. There was a soft clink and Cedric held a jar to his eyes.

"How did you know we'll find this here?" The grey eyes were made of steel again, guarded, suspicious. He liked them better when they were poring over his face.

"Find vot?" His voice asked.

"Floo Powder."

He is crazy, as well. "This is a muggle house, Cedric."

"Fuck," cursed Cedric. "Alright, we need to get you out of here." He felt an arm shoved under his shoulder blades. His own was flung across Cedric's neck. As he sat up, a pain lanced through his side and he threw up. Bitter bile lingered in his mouth and he spat. His legs were sacks of cloth filled with mush, dragged under him by the man beside him.

"Scourgify."

The fire burnt bright, yellow wisps dancing with scarlet petals. It soothed his pains, eased the cold. But it was cut short, for it turned green and his refuge became dread. Morsmordre…!

"No!" He heard himself say. He tried to squirm, but he was too weak. The fire was around them. Emerald swords bit his feet and crawled to his waist. "No!"

"Madam Rosmerta, Three Broomsticks."

The green snakes slithered up to his neck, enveloping him in a cold haze of smoke and light. Maĭka! There was a flurry of bright and dark, and Viktor knew no more.