Legacy

Legacy

The Whomping Willow was sad.

Every year the glowing lights would spill out across the grounds once more, welcoming the hordes of students. The discordant tones of many nattering voices would fill the air, until one couldn't distinguish between trembling, seasick first-years or over-confident seventh-years. The professors, some just barely returned from their own travels, would scarcely have time to remark on each other's well-rested mien before it turned, all too soon, to long-suffering torment.

And the Willow would wait, idly sharpening its branches.

It had long divined that it was the topic of frequent professorial warnings. Therefore, it knew that it was only a matter of days before students new and old began flittering about the grounds like so many optimistic bluebirds. The Willow would thus appear especially innocent as the students wandered witlessly near. It would wait for the inevitable dares to approach its seemingly silent majesty. It would listen for the over-loud, "Well, it doesn't look so tough to me!" remark. It would then watch with interest the flurry of activity as the hapless students were carted back to the castle.

It thought it had been waiting a little too long, these days.

Was it just that the summers were getting longer as the years passed? It was not a young Willow, having been magically enhanced to be full-grown many years ago. Perhaps it was just a natural effect of age, this feeling that nothing was ever going to change again, that boredom had become its lot in life. Seamless days with nothing to do but practice new tactics against unwary birds and the occasional lost bowtruckle rather lost their attraction after awhile. It could always scatter new seedlings, and it really should; its branches were over-laden and more than ready to drop their burden. Yet the Willow kept holding onto them, as if hesitant to introduce its children into a territory where something indefinable had, in truth, changed.

Surely someone should be back at the castle by now?

The caretaker with that noxious feline, for instance. It would have liked to wave its seedlings in the caretaker's gloomy face before dropping them disdainfully to the ground; Whomping Willows would root and sprout the moment they touched the earth, and the caretaker with much cursing always had to pull every last one of them up. But there was no caretaker stumping along, and no disgustingly affectionate cat gamboling about his legs. No grumbling heard from the moment the caretaker opened the doors of Hogwarts. No hint of a whisker in the lengthening grass.

Nor was there the half-giant that lived in the smoky hut. He was usually never gone very long anyway, as he seemed to have formed an unhealthy attachment to the place. But there was no childlike giant now. No crotchety, imported animals tumbled out of his doorway, where the door now hung crazily ajar; no lugubrious howls split the night from the ever-disillusioned Fang. No large form blocked the light from his doorway as he showered beaming admiration on the tree; the tree had long suspected that the half-giant would have preferred it to be a ferocious, cuddly beast rather than a twisted monster to keep a safe, respectful distance from.

Well, the tree could certainly exist without their fumbling attentions. Without anyone's, for that matter.

Although...not that it ever wanted it, or expected it, or thought about it, of course...but surely that old wizard with the snowy-white beard and ancient eyes would have come down to greet it by now. Never a year had passed without the tree seeing him stride down from the castle, his robes never catching on the brambles leading up to the tree, his footsteps as silent as if walking on air. If the tree could have stood a respectful distance from that old man, it would have; it was never quite easy in his presence. The wizard had been known to call it "Old Softy" and pat its trunk. And, oddly, thank it for its presence.

The tree wondered why it was suddenly remembering that disturbance last term. Surely all of that...fuss...hadn't meant something out of the ordinary. It had watched the phoenix fly so many times before...

And yet...

Where were the flying lessons to intervene in, to teach oblivious first-years that brooms shouldn't be made out of wood?

Where was the yearly challenge from the Ford Anglia, headlights glowing snidely from the Forest?

What had become of that cat-like fluff of orange fur, pretending to be so helpful, or that disdainful white owl, which always zoomed just close enough to skim jauntily out of reach?

Even the perplexed toad, that only knew it didn't want to be here, wherever here was for it at the moment, would have been welcome. And the tree would have even apologized for its reflexive movement right afterwards, should the toad prove not as nimble as it had in the past.

Well, the tree sniggered to itself, forgetting for a moment its situation; its apology would have been implied.

By now it would have welcomed a visit from that twitchy young man, now grown up, who used to appear before the full moon. Not very good company, especially as he would basely shut off its defenses before the Willow could get a sweep in edgewise. Even worse company when three laughing shadows began carrying him off into the night, returning at a ghastly hour, but at least a presence. At least a person.

Though, come to think of it, Hogwarts hadn't lacked for unholy miscreants in its recent years. The Willow could have stood a little less excitement the year almost all of those shadows had come back again, joined by the fools who had introduced that car.

The Willow shook itself resentfully. A flurry of seeds dripped off from its gnarled branches, but the tree scarcely noticed.

What had happened to Hogwarts?

What had happened to the music and laughter that used to spiral across the night? To the romantic sixth and seventh years seeking shadows in the Astronomy Tower? To the warmth of the old man's presence that filtered down even to the Willow's roots, even when the old wizard was simply pacing in his office?

Who was going to be there?

And then the tree knew. The doors of Hogwarts, always gaping wide for any intransigent, had never seemed more closed. That was what the phoenix's lament and its wild, desperate flight were for. It had been saying goodbye. And everyone and everything had taken it at its word, and left.

The tree was unaccustomed to feeling anything so appallingly futile as loneliness, and more, to feeling sad about it. It absently watched more seedlings cascade eagerly through the air, burrowing into the ground. There was no one here to drag up its children now.

Well, it might as well add to the imbalance; it would at least be something to do to while away the centuries ahead.

Soon the grounds around Hogwarts were covered with young Whomping Willows.

Fin.