Week 11: Daydreams
I rarely indulge in daydreams, but there is one scene in my life I have often re-written to my satisfaction.
***
"Harry?" The Mudblood's voice is soft, barely above a whisper. I hold my breath, not daring to make a sound, and thrust one arm outward to keep the others back.
"What?" Potter snarls.
"I... I don't think Sirius is here."
He's come looking for Black. The Dark Lord always knows. After all this time, I don't know why that should surprise me, but it never fails to do so.
Silence except for the sound of their footsteps drawing nearer. There must be half a dozen of them, and there is no doubt they are but children. No attempt at stealth. They may as well be preceded by a brass band. Then: "Harry?"
"What?"
Dolohov stirs, and I wave him off. We will not make the same mistakes they have made. Surprise remains our most formidable weapon.
"Have you seen this?"
"What?" Potter says again, and this time there is an edge of eagerness to his voice.
"It's - it's got your name on."
My heart rate quickens. There is no doubt that the prize we seek is nearly within our grasp.
"My name?"
"What is it?" The other boy's voice quivers, and I can imagine the look of surprise and trepidation that must be on his face. "What's your name doing down here? I'm not here. None of the rest of us are here."
"Harry, I don't think you should touch it." The girl again. I close my eyes for just a moment, damning her meddling soul straight to her muggle hell.
"Why not? It's something to do with me, isn't it?"
"Don't, Harry." Another boy's voice. Potter seems to have emptied Hogwarts in his ill-advised attempt to rescue his godfather.
"It's got my name on."
I peer cautiously around the corner, holding my breath. Potter's fingers close around the prophecy, and I want to sing as he slowly lifts it from its place on the shelf. He stares at it for a few seconds, his curious expression lit by its soft glow, then brushes some of the dust from its surface.
My mind whirs as I watch. Such an auspicious moment should be accompanied by the ringing of church bells, or the sound of a choir of angels. Anything but this crushing press of silence. And yet, it seems appropriate, somehow, that this reverent atmosphere should be the setting for the last moments of Potter's life. This is the way the world ends; not with a bang, but a whimper.
"Very good, Potter," I say, and my voice sounds very loud in the stillness. I don't even try to mask the triumph I am feeling, but allow it to drip from my every word. "Now turn around, nice and slowly, and give that to me."
Potter hesitates. A flick of my finger, our pre-arranged signal, and Crabbe, Jugson and Rabastan close ranks behind the group of teenagers. Before they can turn and raise their wands, jets of red light fill the air, and all but Potter fall to the ground. He looks around wildly, his fingers tightening around both wand and prophecy.
"To me, Potter," I say again, advancing with my hand outstretched.
"Where's Sirius?" The boy's eyes are wide and terrified. He takes a step backward as I move toward him; his final mistake. Crabbe locks his meaty fingers around Potter's forearms and drags him back against his chest.
"Your race is run, Potter," I breathe. "Give me the prophecy."
One last attempt at defiance as he lets the small spun-glass ball drop from his fingers. An easily anticipated move. My Accio reverses its course, and it falls into my hand with a muted smack.
The last thing I see as I Apparate away to my Lord is a blinding flash of green light.
***
A/N: Some dialogue taken directly from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
***
"Harry?" The Mudblood's voice is soft, barely above a whisper. I hold my breath, not daring to make a sound, and thrust one arm outward to keep the others back.
"What?" Potter snarls.
"I... I don't think Sirius is here."
He's come looking for Black. The Dark Lord always knows. After all this time, I don't know why that should surprise me, but it never fails to do so.
Silence except for the sound of their footsteps drawing nearer. There must be half a dozen of them, and there is no doubt they are but children. No attempt at stealth. They may as well be preceded by a brass band. Then: "Harry?"
"What?"
Dolohov stirs, and I wave him off. We will not make the same mistakes they have made. Surprise remains our most formidable weapon.
"Have you seen this?"
"What?" Potter says again, and this time there is an edge of eagerness to his voice.
"It's - it's got your name on."
My heart rate quickens. There is no doubt that the prize we seek is nearly within our grasp.
"My name?"
"What is it?" The other boy's voice quivers, and I can imagine the look of surprise and trepidation that must be on his face. "What's your name doing down here? I'm not here. None of the rest of us are here."
"Harry, I don't think you should touch it." The girl again. I close my eyes for just a moment, damning her meddling soul straight to her muggle hell.
"Why not? It's something to do with me, isn't it?"
"Don't, Harry." Another boy's voice. Potter seems to have emptied Hogwarts in his ill-advised attempt to rescue his godfather.
"It's got my name on."
I peer cautiously around the corner, holding my breath. Potter's fingers close around the prophecy, and I want to sing as he slowly lifts it from its place on the shelf. He stares at it for a few seconds, his curious expression lit by its soft glow, then brushes some of the dust from its surface.
My mind whirs as I watch. Such an auspicious moment should be accompanied by the ringing of church bells, or the sound of a choir of angels. Anything but this crushing press of silence. And yet, it seems appropriate, somehow, that this reverent atmosphere should be the setting for the last moments of Potter's life. This is the way the world ends; not with a bang, but a whimper.
"Very good, Potter," I say, and my voice sounds very loud in the stillness. I don't even try to mask the triumph I am feeling, but allow it to drip from my every word. "Now turn around, nice and slowly, and give that to me."
Potter hesitates. A flick of my finger, our pre-arranged signal, and Crabbe, Jugson and Rabastan close ranks behind the group of teenagers. Before they can turn and raise their wands, jets of red light fill the air, and all but Potter fall to the ground. He looks around wildly, his fingers tightening around both wand and prophecy.
"To me, Potter," I say again, advancing with my hand outstretched.
"Where's Sirius?" The boy's eyes are wide and terrified. He takes a step backward as I move toward him; his final mistake. Crabbe locks his meaty fingers around Potter's forearms and drags him back against his chest.
"Your race is run, Potter," I breathe. "Give me the prophecy."
One last attempt at defiance as he lets the small spun-glass ball drop from his fingers. An easily anticipated move. My Accio reverses its course, and it falls into my hand with a muted smack.
The last thing I see as I Apparate away to my Lord is a blinding flash of green light.
***
A/N: Some dialogue taken directly from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.