Underneath Giza, Egypt, 1997
The glyphs were smaller here, and more crowded. It was as if their creator had been running out of time and space, but still had much that needed to be written.
Harry moved his lighted wand a little closer to the wall.
“I’ve never seen any of these,” said Bill, doing the same. His jagged teeth glinted as he spoke.
“I don’t suppose anyone ever has.” Harry turned from the wall, and peered into the dark, narrow hall ahead of them. “We’d better go on.”
A silent moment passed.
“Bill?” said Harry.
“Harry, look at this.”
Bill’s clawed hand was pointing at a an unusually long glyph. It was in the shape of four interlocked lightning bolts. Harry bit his lip.
“We need to go on.”
The pair moved off. Bill walked ahead. Harry found himself staring at the back of the man’s head, and spotted a streak of the old red hair beneath the dark fur. It brought back the thoughts that Harry had carefully held at bay--somewhere, far above them, Ron was suspended between life, death, and living death. Hermione was probably still with him--a trembling but dry-eyed sentinel. Harry hoped Neville and the others had found them by now. Harry hoped they were all still alive.
He was jerked out of his guilt-filled reverie when Bill stopped. The hall had ended in a door-shaped opening. Nothing but blackness could be seen beyond. Bill tentatively extended one foot past it, and there was soft clunk as it touched something solid.
“Well, looks like there’s at least part of a staircase down there.” He glanced over his should at Harry, a faltering grin on his craggy face. He took one step into the darkness, and then another.
Harry followed. As soon as he entered, the light of his wand shrank into a quivering speck. He moved his feet slowly and carefully, relying on them and the sound of Bill ahead of him to keep himself from falling.
Bill ahead of him. That wasn’t right.
"Wait," said Harry. He felt as if his voice was engulfed by the darkness. "I should go first."
"No you shouldn't."
"Yes," said Harry. "Enough has happened to you and your family--"
"No," said Bill. A growl crept into his voice. "Harry, I'm not that important. You're the one who can't be replaced."
Harry was silent. They continued downwards. It seemed to him that the dusty, stuffy air was growing cooler and fresher the further they went. It couldn't be, but it was. Soon the darkness--the blackness--grew lighter too. A soft golden luster was slinking into it. Before long he could see Bill's silhouette once more.
The stairs leveled off, and they were in a hallway again. It was wider than any previous one they had been in, and its ceiling was higher. But there was something else that seized their attention.
The floor was covered with a golden smoke. At least, it seemed a little like smoke. It looked light, and curly wisps of it occasionally reared up and sank. It lapped against the walls, against the last step of the stairs, and against their feet.
Entranced, Harry found himself bending over and gently running the tip of his wand along its surface. When he pulled it up, strands of the smoke fell back down in swift rivulets. But as they fell, there was a translucent blue glimmer between them. Harry thought he saw glimpses of eyes, and faces, and people in it.
"Harry!" said Bill in a loud whisper. He was standing a few feet ahead with his back to Harry, just before a point where the hall curved to the left.
Harry straightened up. He blinked, feeling as if he'd woken from a blurry dream. He hurried over to Bill. He took a step past him, and saw what the man had been staring at.
The golden smoke seemed to be flowing out of a point in the wall some distance away. As it fell to the ground, the blue haze appeared in it. Harry could clearly see the images of people. But not all of them were staying there.
Beside the spout in the wall was a hunched figure in billowing black robes. A hood was drawn down over its face. From one sleeve came a hand with long, skeletal fingers. They reached into the blue, wrapped around one of the small figures--it seemed to be a young boy--and began to pull him out.
The robed figure paused. It tilted its head in Harry's direction.
"Good morning, Harry."
It was not an eerie, sinister voice as Harry would have imagined. It was decidedly human, and familiar. His heart thrummed against his ribs, as his apprehension bloomed into wonder and disbelief. He realized whose voice it was.
Note about where the heck I got the idea for this: The idea for this sketch thing (I don't think it really qualifies as a story) was something that cropped up in some cover art I photoshopped yesterday. Something I'd originally done to cover up empty space or unwanted parts of images turned out to feel like something on its own. Hence, this.
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