It is nighttime, and I am awake.
I close my eyes and focus: breathe deeply, breathe slowly, breath rhythmically. If I act like I am asleep, maybe I will fall asleep. Maybe I can entice sleep to me.
Here sleep, sleep, sleep. . . .
Smile to myself. That’s not going to work. Close my eyes. Again. Slow breath in. Slow breath out. Relax. . . .
This isn’t working.
I stare through the darkness at the velvet draperies of the four poster bed. They hold the warmth in and create a drowsy nest smelling of tansy and lavender. Perfect for sleeping. The only problem is me. I’m wide awake and restless.
My feet swing out of my nest of down and drop to the cold floor. Pause. Did anyone hear? I glance around the room. No. All around me my dorm-mates slumber, oblivious.
Maybe a snack would help.
I pad down the steps to the common room. In the faint light of the still-warm embers of the fire comfortable chairs loom, their strange shadows wavering on the walls, scratched and marred tables glowering in the background. Someone’s Transfiguration book lies abandoned, almost forlorn, on the floor.
Through door, and down to the floors below. Cold stone stairs on my bare feet and cool air on my skin.
I pause and listen for a moment. Sometimes the caretaker cuts my wandering short. Sometimes I have to scurry back to the tower, or hide, barely breathing, among the draperies, or in the dark of a corner, heart in my throat and the thrill of almost being caught pounding in my chest. But not tonight. Tonight it is as if I own the whole castle.
‘Round the corner, pause, listen. No movement, no sound. I tickle the fruit in the painting. Giggles.
Shhhhh!
As if the fruit will listen to me. I laugh at myself, soundlessly.
I slip into the kitchen. The fire is banked and the light is dim, but no matter; I know this room well enough. If I don’t look at the fire, my eyes won’t need to adjust.
Cookies and milk. Left out for me? Perhaps. I nibble and sip.
I’m still awake, though.
A walk would help. A walk always helps. . . .
Back into the halls. I pause and listen again. Is that the caretaker? Or worse, Peeves? I hold my breath. But luck is with me, and the sound recedes into the distance. I head the other way, towards Gregory the Smarmy.
The secret passage is narrow and cramped. It winds down, through who knows what parts of the castle, through the very hill, perhaps, because I emerge below the face of the cliffs, beside the lake. It’s hidden in shadow; you would never be able to see it, unless you knew it was there.
All is still. The water laps quietly on the shore and the moon shines full and round and expectant. We are old friends, the moon and I. She has watched my nighttime wanderings for years now, and kept my confidence. There is a path to her across the waters, shining and silver. But I don’t think I will take that path. Not tonight.
I shake off the thought. I’m wide awake, even more awake here in the fresh night air than I was before. Eyes closed, I transform.
No, not into a wolf, what are you thinking? A fox, that’s me: sly and slight and swift. I lope down the path to Hogsmeade, towards the woods on the edge of the grounds. I know now where I need to go tonight of all nights.
Leaves rustle across the lake in the Forbidden Forest. Spring has dressed the forest once more, and the trees are newly budded. The path along the lake is damp and edged with grass that precise shade of tender green that almost hurts your eyes with its fragility.
There are so many more sounds that come to my ears, keenly tuned to that inner hum that humans miss. I can hear the slight breathing of squirrels sleeping in their nests, slender after the winter. There is a rumour of noise as the centaurs shift, watching the stars, forever restless, barely more than ghosts or shadows drifting through the trees. In the far distance, I can hear the purr of an automobile motor, and smell the faint metallic smell of the rogue Ford Anglia, still rumbling around after all these years. It’s deep in the forest, faint to my fox ears.
A fluffle of rabbits suddenly stop their own night pursuits to swivel their ears in my direction. I must smell well fed, though, for they don’t pause long.
On and on, through the darkness. I own the night. I run swiftly, joyfully, feeling the play of muscles under my skin. Cool air sleeks the fur to my face and chest. I feel like I could run forever. I laugh, fox silent.
As I approach the hill where the Shrieking Shack used to stand, I stop. Transform back into a boy. My feet are still bare and the rough path hurts, a little bit. I walk up the hill to the monument.
And there it is: my destination this night. It stands still and calm in the moonlight, an obsidian wall on the hill with names carved into its face and flowers at its feet.
The bright whiteness of the full moon night makes the stone look like there are depths untold behind it. Every rock and every flower casts a shadow sharp enough to cut. White light, strange light; it casts its own glamour on the night scene. If I listened hard enough I would hear the music the stars make on their dance across the heavens.
I walk down the length of the wall, reading words of sorrow and pride: people lost, with only their names left to remember them by.
Colin Creevey
Fred Weasley
Winky
Severus Snape
And there they are, waiting for me, as always.
Nymphadora Tonks Lupin
Remus John Lupin
My fingers trace the names.
My mother was a Metamorphmagus and my father was a werewolf. And that makes me. . . an orphan.
My parents. Heroes. As I sit on the waiting bench, I wonder what would have happened if they hadn’t been quite so heroic. Or if they had managed to dodge the curses that killed them just a little better.
My whole life would be different. Instead of being raised by Gran, with stories and tales of those we both lost, I would have had two parents, and maybe brothers and sisters. I have a good imagination, but I can’t quite imagine what that would have been like.
Better? Worse?
Different.
We sit for awhile, my parents and I. The moon is setting, and its time for me to be on my way. I lean my forehead against their names and close my eyes. This is as close as we will ever be. I can imagine their voices and almost see their faces.
Then I turn and walk down the hill. My eyes sting but it’s just the breeze freshening, just the dust in the wind.
Fox fleet I run back to the castle. I am tired now. My bed is ahead, warm and cosy. I can almost feel the softness of the sheets and the gentle arms of sleep welcoming me.
Retracing my steps, fox sly, fox quiet, I transform into a school boy once again at the shadow that masks the secret passage. Up the narrow passage and through the corridors and flights of steps, vigilantly listening, but again, luck is with me this May night. The second of May, the day they died.
As I whisper the answer to the question, the door opens and I step inside the common room. It is still dim and calm. Still empty.
I climb the stairs to my dorm and slip into bed, pulling the curtains around me. My sleepy cat yawns and stretches, then curls against my side as I close my eyes. This time I don’t have to trick sleep; it comes on its own and as I sink into its depths I feel at peace.
It is nighttime and I am asleep at last.