The Dormant

Lifting his wand and pushing the door open, he stepped inside.

It was unusually cold, even for winter time. He stood agape, wondering at the blinding whiteness of the manor; marble stairs coiling around the main hall, a fountain of purest blue water in the center and a ceiling of violet blue sky shades with beautiful candelabrums of exquisite stones that shimmered brightly. With slow footsteps he made way down the pristine floor. It smelled fresh, of grass and dewdrops, as if he was standing outside on a meadow.

It gave all in all the appearance of a while lake and the heavens above: all inside the place he most dreaded since his final task was known to him, and only to himself.

Making his way, he lifted a huge red blood tapestry that unveiled a pair of wooden doors. Pulling the rings of the handlers, he stepped into a set of stairs that lead all the way down to what he presumed must be the manor dungeons. It was frightfully dark, all his demons feasting on it.

With his wand heavily lighted he went on, slow and trembling. The stairs widened and started to coil around, with wooden doors on the sides every now and then. He could not see the end of them as he glanced down. And the voices started.

It was the cries, heavy yowls and bestial sounds coming from every door as sweet promises of darkness, all of them resounding on Harry’s soul, widening his eyes to blackened pools of green and quickening his breath in fear. As silently and slowly as possible, he sat himself on the steps of the stairs and cuddled together as small as he could, clapping his hands on his hears, willing the sounds to go away.

Hadn’t Dumbledore given him something? The ancient wizard had given him a pendant, a round fiery jewel to hang in his neck, and told him it would carry enough light to face the darkness, when the time came. With trembling hands he grasped it on his palm.

It shined; it opened up as if a seed and brought light upon itself. Tiny sparks fluttered from it, whirling around, as if there were butterflies or fairies dancing around a camp fire, even if the gem this posses a distinct swirl that reminded him of a space nebula seen through the astronomy’s tower telescope.

Laughs filled his thoughts, memories coming to him. His first day at Hogwarts, the feeling of acceptance, the feeling of belonging, father and mother, Ron blushing while Hermione waves, Hagrid’s deep laugh, Fred and George fooling around, birthdays, Hedwig hooting, flying, gawking at the sky, the meadow of flowers behind the quidditch pitch, the Gryffindor common room, the Burrow, Dumbledore’s knowing smile, Sirius handsome face, Remus’s classes, Snape’s scowl that meant he was smiling inside, Neville blowing up a cauldron, mirrors, stars, laughs… thousand faces, places and things coming to him in sounds and precious moments that he often replayed before sleeping, huddled in his bed, for the sheer delight of it.

He understood then that this, more that anything, was what he was defending upon coming here. They all, those that remained, that which had not been torn away, would be if he failed. All his precious people, all those memories, all which he held dear would be no more. It would be destroyed, tainted, mocked… as if it never had the right to be at all.

He believed in happiness; the happiness of a first year muggle born discovering that there where truly no limits to the hearth’s magic; the happiness of a muggle upon living that same magic without the flashiness of it; the happiness of a wizard or witch upon being the guardian to this knowledge.

Harry swallowed hard and ran the rest of the way down the darkness.