Under the Shadow

The unthinkable has happened - Lord Voldemort has won. We saw on that fateful day when Hogwarts burnt down, what the Death Eaters were up to. But we have averted our eyes, not wanting to see those dreadful scenes, and we couldn't bear it, because there is a tiny part in all of us which accepts it. We have heard their slogans and had to read some of them in moderated form in the Daily Prophet; but we have blocked our ears, because we thought that they were not so quite wrong at all, that the Muggles and Mudbloods really were becoming a pest, growing in numbers every day. And a lawful wizard of ancient lineage and pure blood should have nothing to fear from the Death Eaters - they were no more than a little nuisance, a foot-note in history. When the moment came when we couldn't justify any more, we shut up as well, because it was too late to raise our voices. We crouched down in the hope that the storm would leave us undamaged in its wake. When it was gone, the clouds would disappear as well, letting the sun shine again upon the world. A short, cleansing thunderstorm, no more.

No. We've been quite wrong. We can feel it here especially strong, at this windswept place on the heather-covered fells. There, in front of us, the ruins of Hogwarts do rise, the blackened walls covered with ivy. No one has been here since that day twenty years before, when the high towers fell under the crackling flames, walls becoming brittle by the immense heat. Uncontrolled spells that were released from doors and staircases and paintings destroyed those parts that weren't caught by the fire. Time has fortunately left its trace, and the former horrors seem to pale, stones now overgrown with faint, light green. Sometimes you would call it even idyllic when the clouds tear open in the night and pale moonlight shines through the open roof of the Great Hall on the last standing pillars. We shan't be fooled: the moments are rare when the ever-clouded sky rips open, the sun and moon have lost their power, and the light of the stars has faded so much, that they can't be seen any more. The Land has been changed, and Hogwarts has become a place of swirling shadow.

The ghosts haunting these walls don't own the jovial friendliness of Headless Nick; their pains are deep, and their moaning is piercing right through your heart. And the thing that has risen from the library when the firestorm raged through the Restricted Section is too horrible that it can be described any closer: a manifestation of madness, lurking in the shadows of dark corners. Outside in the grounds the Forbidden Forest became Wandering Forest, lead by the Whomping Willow, restlessly moving about. The trees are restive and nervous, so you have to be careful not to disturb them. The only place they don't dare to go are the Quidditch grounds, not without reason, because it is now home for a big group of mountain trolls and ogres, hunting animals in the nearby hills.

So what has lead us to that place of dread and dark memory, to that hill where the ruins rise like a silent memorial above the Land? It must be something of importance that lives in this old building, although looking bleak and forlorn. Let's sit down by the lake, which was the entrance to Hogwarts for the first-years in a long-forgotten time and from where most of them caught their first glance of the famous school. Let's be careful and wait until the grey sky deepens into black at night's threshold. Suddenly we hear an unsettling hooting scaring us out from the deepening shadows. Has Hogwarts itself felt our presence, trying to drive us away? It definitely came from the ruins.

Once more, closer now. The hooting is mingled with strange croaking sounds. A rustling of leaves high above our heads, a flying creature moving through the trees.

Then, finally, a bright, white ball full with life flies out of the darkening trees and settles before us on a bough; it musters us with sharp eyes, seemingly awaiting an action. The great snowy owl jerks its head back and forth, and then it hoots again, the same sound that scared us before. Where does this owl come from, we're asking ourselves, what has lead it to this place? Owls have become rare these days, there are no owleries left and danger fills the sky the same as the land. However, this is a magical owl, we can feel that, and even a Muggle would notice the small letter tied to its leg.

What is written on this letter, who has written it? We only can surmise that its origin will be found in Hogwarts, but we don't know the owner of this owl. Then suddenly a memory hits us when we think about a name for this bird, which has come to our life so unexpected. Maybe ... Hedwig? It's a good name, a proud name, a name rousing thoughts of hope.

A last time the owl looks at us, than she spreads her wings and takes flight. Leaving Hogwarts, fateful place of a darkened past. We wish her well, giving her a short prayer on her way to the South, so she will be guided safely through all the dangers of the Land lying under the shadow of Lord Voldemort, to the one person for whom the message is meant.

The owl swoops down from the heights of the Grampian Mountains to the coast, crossing the gentle rolling hills of Strathmore. Fast, purposeful, watchful. Far beneath a group of centaurs are moving along a deserted road; the cars of Muggle times are gone. It is remarkable, too, that all the lights of the night, the streetlamps and the electric lights of the Muggle houses, don't exist any more. Only some patches of flickering flames are left, spreaded over the dark country. These are fireplaces, offering only little defence against the creatures that are roaming the darkness now for many years.

Centaurs can see well in darkness, and they are masters of bow-shooting. So the snowy owl rises higher until finally reaching the North Sea coast. No pausing, no rest. She has a letter to deliver, and that has ever been of utter importance, when an owl has been in a wizard's service. The black waves of Firth of Forth are rolling beneath her; now she has to fly a long stretch over open water. The path further west between Glasgow and Edinburgh is much too dangerous now, since the Dementors have spread in the streets of the bigger cities, having grown in numbers. A lot of food to be found, Muggles hastening in panic around during the Great War, when the magical creatures advanced into the Muggle world. Now the cities are nearly deserted and the Dementors have become less again, but not completely gone. They dissipated back into the buildings and places from where they arose. This is the origin of the Dementors: when we are hurt, when we come to places filled with fear, then this place collects all the negative energy until it finally materializes in the form of a Dementor; it becomes conscious and is free to leave its birthplace.

One would think that an owl has no Dementors to fear, being an animal with an animal's mind. This is wrong, and most wizards and witches don't know about it either. Rarely they earnestly try to communicate with their owls. Most of them will never understand the owl's tongue, but owls are more profound as it might look at first view. There's no spell that forces them to deliver letters fast and without error across the land, and for every wizard it's quite natural that they do it, never seeing how extraordinary it is, because he doesn't know that normal Muggle animals can't do these things. The owls are magical creatures with their own minds and dreams and fears, and so they attract Dementors like every other sentient creature. And this special owl ... she has seen more things than many human beings..

This is the reason why the great white owl stays away from the bigger Muggle settlements and dares instead to fly thirty miles across the open sea into a moonless and stormy night. At Dunbar she hits the mainland again, continuing her flight into the South along the Northumberland coast, with the first traces of a grey dawn appearing on the eastern horizon. Nearly one day without feeding now, and the way around the Newcastle area costs a lot of strength when three Dementors rise from the ruined docks to chase her for a while. She manages to escape, knowing that she is not a normal post owl, not delivering a love letter or a reminder from the Ministry as owls have done in former days - no, she carries a message with her that will decide about world's fate.

Finally the snowy owl reaches the rocky coast of North Yorkshire, where a small village sits upon the cliffs. Steps that are hewn into the steep slope lead down to a shingle beach, and a hooded figure walks along the sea-side. It's a woman, and she is collecting sea-shells and kelp, putting them into a little basket in her left hand. This is the person who has lead the owl all the way from Hogwarts, a lighthouse in the night, guiding a ship into safe harbour.

Now it all will be well, it's done, the owl thinks, flying into the early morning light to her target person on the beach, when sharp talons thrust into her back. So near, so close. Her vigilance has finally dropped by the exhausting journey, and so she didn't saw the small group of skuas, great scavenging gulls of the North, that followed her. Of course it is unusual, that these predators attack a grown owl, usually hunting small and weak sea-birds. The vehemence and cunning behind that attack let us believe that this didn't happen by chance, that a dark power we all know and fear is guiding this attack. We should have looked regularly behind us; then we would have seen these birds following us since Newcastle. However, our mind was focused on fulfilling this order, looking forward, and now our failure meets its fate. A sharp beak thrusts into the left eye of the owl, she tumbles in the air, and then she begins to fall, while fighting another skua that is attacking her from below. Blood flows from the wounds, dripping on the stones of the beach, screams and hoarse croaks fill the air. The ball of brown feathers, talons, black evil eyes, sometimes flashing with shiny white inside, falls down, further and further, and finally hitting the ground just before the hooded person.

For one moment the woman seems to be perplexed, and a bit scared, too. She has to realize, what she is seeing, just before her eyes. Then she draws back her hood and we see her face: middle-aged, light brown, wavy hair with some grey inside. In her youth it would have been a deep maroon, but now it has been bleached by the sun. With a flick of the hand she draws her wand, aims at the first skua and calls "Ignatio!". The bird explodes in a small fiery ball, leaving only a few feathers behind. The other skuas that have survived the fight with the owl are trying to flee, but one after another is taken out of the sky by a well targeted spell.

Then the attention of the woman turns to the severely wounded owl. Blood seeps from many wounds, leaving red rivulets on the shiny white feathers. Her face is half destroyed, and where once has been an eye, now only a bloody hole remains. But if you have the gift to feel such things, then you can see in the other eye of the bird something like triumph and glory: the assignment is fulfilled, and the person for whom the message was meant, has been found.

The woman aims now with her wand at the owl and tries a healing spell. But the energy seems to dissipate at once in the sandy ground. The wounds are too severe. When the owl breathes her last, the woman bows over her, and when looking at her closer, something seems to tighten around her throat, so she has to gulp. "Hedwig? Is it you, Hedwig?" Yes, owls delivered messages and letters. So it has been in former day, before it all collapsed. Then this owl would surely have ...? Yes. She sees the small torn scroll, miraculously not destroyed completely, at one of the bird's legs. With shaking hands she unwraps it, wiping away some of the dirt and the blood.

And she begins to read, and she cries loudly, the parchment slipping out of her hands, then she takes it again, her eyes following the letters, the flowing script. She understands at once, what this message wants of her.

What is really spooky is indeed the script and the signature at the end. She can't remember, she can't explain. She can't deny as well that the signature on this parchment is her very own.

And once more she reads the message:

"Dear Hermione ..."