Gilded, brass bells hung from the spire of the church in Godric’s Hollow. Large and reddish-golden, the bells seemed almost too large for the open spire that stood precariously in the face of the wind. The bells stood against time and against fate, having sat atop the spire for nearly five centuries, unwilling and unable to bow down to the wiles of nature. They stood there, symbols of a bygone era of carriages and mercenaries in which electricity and modern comforts had no place. The bells and the church which housed them, seemed out of place, for their striking features held no resemblance to the whitewashed, concrete houses that surrounded them. If anything, they seemed out of place and removed, an everyday reminder of the past, for in a way, their age had made them the keepers of many lost and forgotten secrets.

Slowly, a lone boy walked up the steps that led to the bells, his hand catching the twisted rail as he progressed in slow, heavy footsteps that resonated throughout the building. Before entering the threshold, he paused as if in thought and sighed, his breathe carrying through the air and out into the countryside. It dissipated slowly, mixing in with the surrounding air, as if it wanted to lose itself from the prying eyes of those that might be watching. Yet, as the air once again became still, the secrets that that sigh had held became just another bundle of mysteries that only the bell had bore witness to.

The boy grasped the rope that swung out from under the leftmost bell. Its rough surface cracked his parched hands. Valiantly, he swung the rope forward in one fluid motion, breaking the silence that sung in the air. His hands slipped as he contacted with the bell, causing a muffled, almost sorrowful cry to emerge from the bell’s open mouth.

Boom.

The bell rung out over the countryside, and far in the distance, a slight shimmer could be detected on the top of the outermost hill. For a moment, it seemed as if a rotting mansion stood there, creaking in the wind, but all too soon and all too late, its scintillating image seemed to have disappeared, for it had become just another mystery that only the bell remembered. Perhaps, the bell remembered the old home; perhaps, the bell’s stirring cry had been able to call back a building that had once been shrouded; perhaps, the bell had been able to rouse the house from its perpetual hiding. And as the bell rang out its sonorous melody, the house still seemed to be there, hiding the story of some dark mystery or another that had occurred behind its closed doors. The bell still remembered what had happened; it still remembered how, on that night, the resilient and powerful shrieking that had emitted from that house had overwhelmed its own lingering tone. All that the bell had caught of that fateful and heated conversation were the words, uttered in a voice too soft, but forever haunting and melodious, “I love you.”

The bell had never again rung at midnight.

Boom.

The boy stepped back and released the rope, watching it swing back and forth, in a messy oval. He could feel the reverberations pound through the air, making their presence known. This time, the centre bell had produced a funeral song that stood as a testament to the many deaths that had occurred, inevitably throughout the generations. The boy stood back and the corners of his mouth scrunched up into a shallow frown as he wondered what the bell was trying to tell him. He wondered why the bells were so sad today, wondered why the bells wanted to ring such a sorrowful message on such a bright, sunny day; he wondered, but he never would know.

Many miles away, the last remnants of the funeral song reached the ears of a dark-haired and green-eyed male. He stood at the front of a large congregation that was marching to who knew where. All of them had eyes of steel locked in their complexion; each of them brandished nothing more than themselves. The man at the front hesitantly looked over his shoulder at the crowd he was leading. He looked almost as if he was about to say something, but a thousand piercing looks turned his square face back to the foreground. Almost instinctively, the man pulled out a worn, yet stately piece of wood and held it up high, for all to see. His arms visibly quaked from some unknown pressure, and sweat lined his forehead. For some reason, the pealing that he had heard resonated in his mind; the sound mirrored his own thoughts very closely, too closely for the man to disregard what he was doing and the dire consequences that his actions held. Throughout his life, he had known hardship upon hardship, but never before had he done something so incomparably risky and dangerous. The man was leading the thousand on their very own funeral march. And there was no turning back.

Together, the bell and the man spoke of death.

Boom.

The boy released the final rope that hung from underneath the rightmost bell and stepped towards the stairs, but stopped, suddenly, as a weeping, heart-wrenching moan escaped into the air, piercing the town with its intensity. It was unlike the last, for the passion far surpassed that of a funeral. At a funeral, the letting go was already done; here, it was just about to happen. And, in a way, the many nuances of the sound touched the hearts of all those that heard the dreaded tone, for, all of them, in some way or another, had experienced that smothering agony sometime in their lives. Even the children, as small and docile as ever, heard and understood the hidden pain; its depth pierced even the innocent. A lone tear threatened to escape the eyes of the boy who rang the bells; quickly, he wiped it away as the heart-rending wail faded into the distance, its poignancy, forever to stay with the beholders. Once again, his mind wandered, curious as always about his secretive and telling bell.

That same brown-haired and green-eyed man heard the last peal and his heart gasped for the faithful. Together, they had seemed so sure and formidable, and he knew, inside of him, that they were, for this battle had been won. Yet, even so, he and his people could not rejoice, for a battle did not decide a war, especially one as monumental as the one he was fighting, and already, a single victory had cost them so much. They had won, but at what price?

The movements of the once agitated survivors was now slow and sluggish, so draining had been the battle and the sorrow. All of them could look around and identify, if not a brother or a sister, a friend, who would never see the sunset ever again. A common mentor lay dead, sprawled over an oak’s tree roots. Another had died propped up against an evergreen. Still, others lay around, having succumbed to their last slumber. They had rest; they had peace. But the ones that remained still had to fight and carry on, with no respite. All they had gained from the victory was one more burden to carry.

As they heard the bell’s peal, together, they cried out in unspeakable anguish.

The boy shook himself as his mind gradually recovered from the melodies he had rung that day. Today, the songs had been distressing in their meaning and in their lost tales, yet what the bells wanted to tell him and tell the world each and every day was different. Often, the bells seemed to ring out in remembrance of the lost and the forgotten. At other times, they seemed to be speaking to a certain someone or group of people out there, who would hear the voice and understand it. As the boy descended from his high perch, he wished whoever it was out there that had heard the bells and cherished them the best of luck.

A strong gust of wind suddenly blew through the air, almost knocking him over. As he straightened up, he heard the faint tingling of the bells, and he couldn’t help but believe that the bells wanted to help those that it had been speaking to, too.