ruins ; harry potter [1]

twenty four ; ashes, ashes

"Dumbledore, something's been happening to me."

Dumbledore's office seemed darker than it usually is. Light didn't seep through the frosted window, and something seemed cold. Unused. Dark.

He looked at her with his blackened fingers laced together in front of him. He was worried.

She stood in a large cathedral-like room, with arched ceilings and renaissance art lining the walls like wallpaper. She was alone, and it was almost as if the cathedral wanted her to know it. Like it wanted her to feel the loneliness, let it seep through her skin and cement in her bones.

"It's just these dreams I've been having. Dumbledore, I...it's like there's something in my head. I feel like I'm losing my mind."

She was whispering now. A tear rolled down her faced, and she angrily swiped it away.

"What are these dreams about?" Dumbledore asked. It was so quiet in the empty castle, but it wouldn't be for long. The students were on the train by now, merely a few hours away from arriving.

It was like the art was calling to her. It was like they had a rope around her neck, pulling her, forcing her to move with it or else it would kill her. She approached the art like it was made of fire. Standing a few feet away, she now noticed the way the paint was cracked and peeling from age, the colors faded and dull from exposure. It looked like it had been painted centuries ago. It lined all four walls, in one large canvas, paintings of people and blood and battle. For some reason, it made her sick to look at. There was something so sinister about it. So cruel.

"They're always different. Sometimes I'm looking at a clone of myself, one that's dark and evil. Sometimes, I'm in this...this church with the walls painted, depicting some war. The paint is old and so is the church. Sometimes, It's just flashes of images, like a snake and sword and this...crown."

Something flashed in Dumbledore's eyes, but she couldn't identify it.

"These paintings," he started delicately, "is there anything specific? Can you tell me anything about it?"

She approached the first wall, deep in the corner where she thought the painting started. She started slowly, running her hands across it as she walked the inner perimeter of the church; then, the more she saw, she began to run. Her nails dug into to paint, leaving gashes like claws so she couldn't see it. But she had to. She couldn't stop moving, she couldn't stop running, looking at this painting that made her want throw up in disgust, in terror. She didn't know how many times she circled the room, but all she could remember after passing an image was one thing. She could never remember the details, except for one thing that rang through her head like a church bell, over and over until she couldn't think of anything else.

"The Battle of Hogwarts."

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Patience was never one of Diana's strongest qualities. She was stubborn and energetic and the thought of wasting time on something so incredibly unimportant as waiting sickened her. She couldn't understand how people lived their lives in a constant, boring, permanent routine of waiting for things that will never happen. Waiting for the right job. Waiting for the right significant other. Waiting for something exciting to happen without making any effort to initiate it. She hated those people, and despised the thought of ever becoming one.

And now, she was waiting. She was sitting on a slightly rusted bench on the Platform of Hogsmeade Station. She could hear the train approaching before she could see it; the loud, deafening horn and the rattle of the tracks echoing in the nearly deserted station. She had seen Hagrid, waiting for the first years, and up at the Hogwarts gates there was Professor Flitwick waiting to check luggage. Hogwarts had upped their security by ten-fold. Some disapproved, but Diana knew that it was necessary.