The Last Hour

It's about two thirty in the afternoon, but the darkness outside the Library windows belies the earliness of the hour. The reason for the failing light is simple; winter has engulfed the world, and the days are shorter now. The light fails quicker. The air blows colder.

But now there is another winter also. Another coldness, residing deep within the castle walls, pumping fear though the stone to the inhabitants like blood through veins. A lurking terror which stalks the halls as a beast, striking at will and unstoppably, thirsty for more and more. People move around in packs, nowadays, hoping for safety in numbers; even those not at risk. Because only a few truly are at risk.

The Muggle-born.

Sighing, you sit up and press your fingers behind your glasses, rubbing your tired eyes. You have been here for two hours now, studying the tiny print in the huge leather tomes lining the shelves, looking for something - anything - which may help defeat the beast, or even determine what it is. Because if you could...

No more pain.

No more running. And not just from the despicable creature. No more fleeing from shadow to shadow, trying not to be seen so as to avoid the taunts, keeping your head down so as to divert attention, running so as to avoid their scorn. You would be a hero, revered and loved by the rest of the school. You would have friends, who cared about you and wouldn't care about your glasses, those hateful symbols of your misery. So if you could just kill the beast...

At the pains in your stomach you look at your watch, and remember how you have missed lunch today. Nervously, you wonder if you should avoid it altogether, but you can't. You missed breakfast today already, and dinner last night, and you feel as hungry as the beast you wish to vanquish, physical pains twisting your stomach. You pause for a moment, unresolved, but then you leave for the Great Hall. No one should be down there at this time; you will be safe for the time being.

You set off, still nervous, jumping at every turn. You deliberately keep your wand out, for fear of the beast being on the hunt. You scurry down the long corridors, hesitating at each corner and listening so as to avoid being caught. But when you reach the second floor, your fears materialise before you, laughing at your pain.

The girl stands there, her weight on one leg, a hand on one hip, flanked by her minions. She allows her derisive stare to fall from your eyes, taking in your shabby robes and your trembling hands. Her gaze locks onto your wand, outstretched before you in one hand, pointing uselessly at her chest.

She laughs, and you see the gleam of malice sickeningly bright in her eyes.

"Was little Myrtle off to fight the Mudblood killer?" she hisses, voice contemptuous. "Was she going to find the chamber and duel with the thing? Was she going to be the saviour of the school?"

There are so many things, so many responses you should say, but they all refuse to be said. Every ounce of courage you possess swiftly drains away, leaving you clutching nothing but your fear. You feel the tears well up, and you hate them, hate yourself, hate your spots and your glasses and all the things about you that make you so hateful, so offensive to others, but most of all, you hate the girls standing in front of you. Flaunting their power over you like this, just because they can.

Somehow, you manage to look up. "No," you whisper, your voice sounding so frail and stupid. "I'm going to lunch-"

The answering laugh echoes around the corridor, filling the corners of the stonework and the corners of your mind.

"Lunch," the girl spits, vindictively watching your face. "Well, that explains it, then. Do you often take your wand to lunch with you? If you can't get enough to fill out that fat little arse of yours, do you magic yourself some more?"

Frantically, you start trying to tell yourself that it isn't true, the girl is just baiting you again, trying to get a rise, it isn't true, but as ever it's impossible. Each word cuts you to the quick, devastating you further, driving home your misery yet more. Feebly, you attempt again to clarify, because maybe she has just made a mistake? Maybe if you can just clarify, she'll understand, and see that you aren't doing anything wrong?

Maybe...

"It was in case of the monster," you mumble, your voice again all frail and asinine. "I know I can't really fight it but it makes me feel safe-"

"Safe?" the girl shrieks. "Safe? You're probably the safest person in Hogwarts, Myrtle - one look at your ugly little face with those glasses, Myrtle, and you'll have exorcised the monster for us!"

But this is too much. And this is the other thing you hate, your inability to cope with any comment on those despicable glasses, the bane of all but your very existence. You hate the familiar tears every time they are mentioned, and the weakness they are to you, and the way they make you seem like a nine year old. But they are an old wound to you, one unhealed and all too frequently disturbed; and to your twelve-year-old mind, the source of your anguish and pain. And this latest taunt, though small and juvenile, is just too much.

You turn and run. Run from the spiteful laughter chasing your heels, run from the torment, run from the torture you fear above death. You don't see clearly where you are running, your tears are falling and blurring your already failed vision, but your feet know their way, well schooled to this path. You reach the familiar panel of the door, flinging yourself against and through it, and you hurl yourself into the pitiful solace offered by this, your refuge; a toilet cubicle, a contemptuous, undignified place of ridicule, but your safe haven from the world.

And you cry.

You cry for the injustice of it all, for the hunger ravishing your empty stomach, for all the agony and pain and despair and torture and fear and misery and anguish. Your body is racked with your pain and sobbing. You feel desperate, as though you have reached a climax, a zenith, and you just can't take anymore. You cry for your humiliation, your hatred, your bitterness. You cry for your inadequacies. You cry for yourself.

And then you are screaming, screaming and pounding your useless fists on the narrow walls, screaming until your throat cracks and your breath is choked and still you are flooded with your agony. You feel imprisoned by it, as though you are trapped in your cage of torment while around you people happily live out their lives. You scream at the world that that doesn't want you, that hates you, that looks upon you with such revulsion and yet wont let you change just what it is that makes you so unacceptable. You scream at the world that doesn't care.

And then you stop, your breath gasping as though you are drowning in those emotions. You feel light-headed through lack of food, hunger pains, the effort of screaming and the run here. You lean against your wall, silent now except for your breathing, but still with the tears streaming down your cheeks. You long for comfort, of any kind, some sort of release from the chains of your misery. But it is hopeless; you know that none will be forthcoming.

And then a strange noise reaches your ears. A whisper, maybe, or a hiss; an odd, murmured sound, possibly a voice? but a language like none you've ever heard. It has a distinctive undertone to it, deep, as though the speaker is masculine, perhaps. Vaguely, you wonder why a boy would be in here.

But then suddenly, you are taken over by a rage, the like of which you've never known. Adrenaline pours itself into your blood, making you physically tremble with your wrath. This - this boy has come to your sanctuary, your one place of refuge where for a short time you can finally be alone, and away from them, and he has intruded...

Fury floods your veins, a fury that has been waiting within you for a long time. You seize the lock of the door, pulling the bolt back so hard it is half hanging off, the metal twisted and buckled, and you fling the door wide -

But your tirade, the product of years of pent-up agony, never comes. You see eyes, looking back at you unblinkingly, gazing calmly into your own, and suddenly, you are happy. The hatred and misery and pain harboured for so long are lifted away from your mind, leaving you blissful, filled with peace. The release you have yearned for, that you have whiled away the dark hours of the night longing to find is upon you at last. You are floating, floating away from your darkness. Finally, you are at peace.