Spellbind

30. Lunatic Love, I Have

Niyla POV:

I walked mechanically to my dormitory, and I noticed immediately that the castle seemed empty. Everyone must be at Hogsmeade or outside, strolling around the grounds. I chewed over my conversation with Dumbledore and began to wonder again if there was an underlying point to it. — If he cunningly stirred it to his will. Could he truly believe I was capable of becoming my generation's most powerful witch? — As Voldemort was after him. Or just simply needs me to believe I could be? If it is the latter; why is that?...

Does he assume that just because I have experienced love, I won't end up as some insane monster, who wouldn't think twice about killing people...at killing children? Was that the point of the past half hour? Did he call me into his office because he genuinely wanted to check how I was doing? Or was there something he covertly gained from our conversation? Does he want me to consider the possibility of honing some power, that may be linked to my dire-wolf? Should I consider it? If it were to help delay Professor Trelawney's prophecy...

Last year was when Harry was shown Trelawney's prediction: "...Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not...and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives..." After being shown in Dumbledore's office, by his Pensieve — a magical item used to store and show a person's memory — Harry and I discussed it. And now I often can't help but feel our lives are only ever, leading to witness whether Voldemort will be vanquished or not. And then...I don't know what anyone should expect...Because it would take a reasonably long time to locate his scattered followers, should he fall once more. Peace, after another War, would probably not be seen for some time.

I wonder how much darker a soul could get during another decade long war. Could a person's mind survive that kind of hell, not once but twice? Would it last that long the second time around? I shuddered with fear at the idea. What would it take to keep it from dragging out that long? What weakness could Voldemort have that could be used against him? — Everyone has at least one....

I started to visualize everyone I knew with glossy, but dull-looking eyes. Even ones I didn't know. Twice as many dead, just because Voldemort is somehow crueler than before. Sets of familiar eyes flickered as an obstruction over my own, while I walked through the castle. Lifeless. — Even the ones I didn't know. I was lost in a nightmarish daydream of some evil dimension, where no one makes it. — No amount of love was able to keep anyone alive. But maybe in that world Voldemort was defeated...But in the end, it wouldn't be a life one would care to keep. What would be the point, if everyone was lost in battle?

I shook my head so harshly, it hurt my neck. And I reached out mentally to find George. I imagined I could feel him even with the distance between us. I inhaled, almost completely content.

Apart from the alive-paintings — that were everywhere throughout the castle — there was not a single person in the entrance hall when I entered, to make my way to the dungeons.

My common room was eerily empty, and as I approached my dormitory I didn't hear the normal loud chatter of the other four girls I shared a room with. When I reached the door it was ajar, I pushed it open and flinched to a stop. I wasn't alone.

I walked slowly to Draco, he was sitting on my four-poster bed. I didn't question why he was in my dorm, — in a girl's dormitory. I only sat next to him, my eyes falling on the piece of paper he had been holding; it was a photograph.

Taken by me during my second year at Hogwarts, with a camera owned by a first-year at the time named Colin Creevey. It was of George and Harry on their broomsticks during Quidditch practice. — The year before I stopped playing the game. It was one of the few photos I had of them. Fred could be seen waving in the distance, hovering on his broom by the goalposts.