Categories > Books > Harry Potter
A Dream, Was It?
Who can tell if it's dream or reality? Who can tell what's true and what's not? What if she can't? Quote between "*" from the movie "The Shining"
?Blocked
It's well over midnight and it's dark in the spacious study. Only the ancient mahogany desk is lit by a handful of candles, their faint, yellow light falls upon a bunch of sheets of parchment, scattered all over the desk. Some empty, some fully covered in a neat handwriting.
At the desk sits a young witch, in her early twenties. By the weak candlelight her features can't be distinguished, but those who know her, know she's beautiful. She's got shoulder-length, blond hair, greyish eyes, and a pretty, oval face. Now, as the clock strikes 2 am, she looks extremely tired as she absentmindedly chews on the end of her quill.
She's a writer. Not the Rita Skeeter type, mind you; writing lies, ruining lives with her Quick-Quote Quill, dipped in basilisk venom. Her writing brings pleasure to people. She writes fairy tales for young wizards. She writes only good stories. Heroic stories of good wizards performing great deeds, hopeful stories of bad wizards turning good; optimism is one of her returning elements. In our time, filled with so much pain and disdain, people need optimism and her stories.
Right now, this young and talented writer struggles with her quill. Words won't come easy; they refuse to form the sentences she has on her mind, the sentences won't fit together to reflect her ideas. With an exasperated sigh, she crosses the sheet of parchment in front of her with several thick lines and with a mental command sends it to the paper bin, now by half filled with similar waste. She reaches for the heavy crystal decanter and pours a glass of her favourite orange juice, kept cool by a simple Preserving charm and downs it in one gulp. Then, she takes a new, clean sheet from the pile on her left and goes back to work.
Having written two or three lines, she emits a loud, nervous snort and throws the quill in the opposite corner of the room. Resting her elbows on the desk, she places her cheeks in her palms and watches the shadows, cast by the flickering flames on the wall. Slowly, her heavy eyelids close and she falls asleep.
She stands somewhere, in a street, in an unknown town. The street lights cast eerie shadows on the broken pavement. Suddenly, a cold wind begins to blow and the street lights die, one by one. Then, they come to life again, and she discovers it's snowing. Only, the snowflakes are not white. Instead, they are dark, as if soot was falling from the skies. The streets are filled with eerie, cackling laughter, it echoes against the walls of the deserted houses, offices, supermarkets, and slowly multiplies in intensity. She stops her ears with her hands, so that the sound couldn't find its way under her skin and firmly closes her eyes.
When she opens them again, the scenery changes. She stands in a dark, long abandoned factory, among rusty machinery, conveyor belts, died long ago. Suddenly, the lights come alive and she has to blink several times with her eyes to let them adjust to the intense light. With a deep roar, the conveyor belts wake up and they begin to move, slowly, with a screech, metal against metal. Their pace quickens and with a shock she realizes the belts are not empty. Dead bodies lie there, some of the in a state of decomposition, some of them dead for what seems only mere minutes; the deep cuts on the mingled bodies still ooze blood. Then, from the corner of her eye, she sees movement and turns to that direction. A huge figure, possibly a man, runs towards her; his face covered with a mask, a buzzing chainsaw in his right hand. He cries something in his inarticulate voice; she cannot understand the words but she understands for sure she's got to run for dear life.
And she runs, every few paces looking back behind her shoulder. The man's still behind her, he seems to be gaining on her. Suddenly, a door opens up somewhere, inviting her to enter. With two more steps, she reaches the door and firmly closes it behind her.
*
A loud thump. Then, a second one. The door shakes, but still doesn't give in. A third thump, causing a bump to appear in the wood, just besides the door handle. After the fourth one, the wood breaks and a hole the size of a dessert plate appears. A man peeks into the room, where she's sitting on the floor, trembling, not knowing, what to do. Two insane eyes scan the interior and a mocking-sweet voice utters three words. "Here comes Johnny!"
The voice send shivers down her spine and she looks around, in desperate search for something she could use as a weapon. On the desk she finds a rusty pair of scissors and she holds them protectively in her right hand like a knife.
A blood-stained hand reaches into the room and grabs the doorknob. She raises the scissors and strikes down at the hand. The man emits an inhuman roar and pulls back his hand, trying to remove the scissors from the gaping wound. "This is it, now or never," she thinks as she slams the door wide open. She turns away from the man who tries to grab her and instinctively kicks him between his legs, causing him to collapse in pain.
*
And then, she runs again. She desperately searches for the exit but it's nowhere. She runs and runs, but feels she can't hold on much longer. Then, her legs give in, she trips, falls and lands on something heavy, hitting her head and knocking her out for a while.
Two eyes. Two red eyes, burning with hunger. A devilish smile, baring impeccable, beautiful teeth and two fangs. A mouth, drawing closer and closer. A piercing feeling on her neck. She wants to object, but she's too weak to move. Darkness encapsulates her again.
She wakes with a cry, in cold sweat, and for a moment she doesn't realize where she is. Then, her eyes recognize the familiar walls, the furniture of her study and she lets out a sigh. "You've been watching too many Muggle movies, Lee," she says reproachfully to herself. Slowly raising on her legs, she makes her way towards the bathroom. She lets the cold water run for a while before splashes some on her face. Raising her head, her eyes wander towards the mirror, to examine her face. She can't suppress a shriek.
On the glass of the mirror, letters begin to form, in an unstable handwriting of a small child. It looks like the letters are being drawn by small, sooty fingers. The text is short, 3 words altogether. When she understands their meanings, her legs give in and she slides against the wall, unconscious, on the floor.
"We are here."
At the desk sits a young witch, in her early twenties. By the weak candlelight her features can't be distinguished, but those who know her, know she's beautiful. She's got shoulder-length, blond hair, greyish eyes, and a pretty, oval face. Now, as the clock strikes 2 am, she looks extremely tired as she absentmindedly chews on the end of her quill.
She's a writer. Not the Rita Skeeter type, mind you; writing lies, ruining lives with her Quick-Quote Quill, dipped in basilisk venom. Her writing brings pleasure to people. She writes fairy tales for young wizards. She writes only good stories. Heroic stories of good wizards performing great deeds, hopeful stories of bad wizards turning good; optimism is one of her returning elements. In our time, filled with so much pain and disdain, people need optimism and her stories.
Right now, this young and talented writer struggles with her quill. Words won't come easy; they refuse to form the sentences she has on her mind, the sentences won't fit together to reflect her ideas. With an exasperated sigh, she crosses the sheet of parchment in front of her with several thick lines and with a mental command sends it to the paper bin, now by half filled with similar waste. She reaches for the heavy crystal decanter and pours a glass of her favourite orange juice, kept cool by a simple Preserving charm and downs it in one gulp. Then, she takes a new, clean sheet from the pile on her left and goes back to work.
Having written two or three lines, she emits a loud, nervous snort and throws the quill in the opposite corner of the room. Resting her elbows on the desk, she places her cheeks in her palms and watches the shadows, cast by the flickering flames on the wall. Slowly, her heavy eyelids close and she falls asleep.
She stands somewhere, in a street, in an unknown town. The street lights cast eerie shadows on the broken pavement. Suddenly, a cold wind begins to blow and the street lights die, one by one. Then, they come to life again, and she discovers it's snowing. Only, the snowflakes are not white. Instead, they are dark, as if soot was falling from the skies. The streets are filled with eerie, cackling laughter, it echoes against the walls of the deserted houses, offices, supermarkets, and slowly multiplies in intensity. She stops her ears with her hands, so that the sound couldn't find its way under her skin and firmly closes her eyes.
When she opens them again, the scenery changes. She stands in a dark, long abandoned factory, among rusty machinery, conveyor belts, died long ago. Suddenly, the lights come alive and she has to blink several times with her eyes to let them adjust to the intense light. With a deep roar, the conveyor belts wake up and they begin to move, slowly, with a screech, metal against metal. Their pace quickens and with a shock she realizes the belts are not empty. Dead bodies lie there, some of the in a state of decomposition, some of them dead for what seems only mere minutes; the deep cuts on the mingled bodies still ooze blood. Then, from the corner of her eye, she sees movement and turns to that direction. A huge figure, possibly a man, runs towards her; his face covered with a mask, a buzzing chainsaw in his right hand. He cries something in his inarticulate voice; she cannot understand the words but she understands for sure she's got to run for dear life.
And she runs, every few paces looking back behind her shoulder. The man's still behind her, he seems to be gaining on her. Suddenly, a door opens up somewhere, inviting her to enter. With two more steps, she reaches the door and firmly closes it behind her.
*
A loud thump. Then, a second one. The door shakes, but still doesn't give in. A third thump, causing a bump to appear in the wood, just besides the door handle. After the fourth one, the wood breaks and a hole the size of a dessert plate appears. A man peeks into the room, where she's sitting on the floor, trembling, not knowing, what to do. Two insane eyes scan the interior and a mocking-sweet voice utters three words. "Here comes Johnny!"
The voice send shivers down her spine and she looks around, in desperate search for something she could use as a weapon. On the desk she finds a rusty pair of scissors and she holds them protectively in her right hand like a knife.
A blood-stained hand reaches into the room and grabs the doorknob. She raises the scissors and strikes down at the hand. The man emits an inhuman roar and pulls back his hand, trying to remove the scissors from the gaping wound. "This is it, now or never," she thinks as she slams the door wide open. She turns away from the man who tries to grab her and instinctively kicks him between his legs, causing him to collapse in pain.
*
And then, she runs again. She desperately searches for the exit but it's nowhere. She runs and runs, but feels she can't hold on much longer. Then, her legs give in, she trips, falls and lands on something heavy, hitting her head and knocking her out for a while.
Two eyes. Two red eyes, burning with hunger. A devilish smile, baring impeccable, beautiful teeth and two fangs. A mouth, drawing closer and closer. A piercing feeling on her neck. She wants to object, but she's too weak to move. Darkness encapsulates her again.
She wakes with a cry, in cold sweat, and for a moment she doesn't realize where she is. Then, her eyes recognize the familiar walls, the furniture of her study and she lets out a sigh. "You've been watching too many Muggle movies, Lee," she says reproachfully to herself. Slowly raising on her legs, she makes her way towards the bathroom. She lets the cold water run for a while before splashes some on her face. Raising her head, her eyes wander towards the mirror, to examine her face. She can't suppress a shriek.
On the glass of the mirror, letters begin to form, in an unstable handwriting of a small child. It looks like the letters are being drawn by small, sooty fingers. The text is short, 3 words altogether. When she understands their meanings, her legs give in and she slides against the wall, unconscious, on the floor.
"We are here."
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