the last verse ; harry potter [2]

thirteen ; the temple

It had to have been a dream.

Stepping into the church, taking in the familiar interiors, her mind almost numbed as if she had just fallen asleep and this was only an illusion.

This chapel, the Temple of Ambrosius, was only ever a dream world to her; the rainbow stain-glass windows that cast mingling splotches like blood and paint had only ever been an illusion to her. The unblemished oak benches reflecting the technicolor light from the windows were only ever something her mind created. This temple was not real; it had never been real. It had always lived in her head, nestled in a world she had created in dreams.

But it was here. The soft heat from the light streaming through the windows warmed her cheeks. She reached out, and her fingers grazed the solid oak of the nearest bench. All the way down the middle aisle, behind the oak altar, the same bearded man swathed in robes carved from marble stood grandly in the light, almost like a spotlight. She breathed the air, the real air, and it filled her lungs satisfyingly. This was real. This was real.

With every step she made, the sound against the cobbled floors echoed eerily. Her hands subconsciously played with the strap of her bag, her boots leaving damp prints in her wake.

"We don't get many visitors."

A voice, deep and calming, echoed through the chapel. Her body bristled and she readied herself to grab her wand from her jacket, but her eyes settled on a man standing in front of a door he had just come through.

She hadn't particularly expected any caretakers, but it seemed obvious that he was one: he was clothed in red Wizarding robes, the same red that stained the windows around them. He seemed perfectly relaxed, his demeanor friendly and warm, that of someone who was accustomed to leading and acquainting with people. What caught her eye, though, was not the Wizarding robes: against his dark-colored skin, his eyes gleamed an electric blue, the color of an electric spark between two active wires. They stood out like the dead garden peaking through the perfect snow outside: they seemed to almost glow against his dark skin as if they were colored with light instead of melanin.

The man swiftly walked to the opening of the aisle nearest to him and they faced each other, each at opposite ends.

"What brings you to the Temple?"

His voice, once again, echoed like a bass drum.

"I didn't know this was a place of Magic," she replied evenly. The robes, the almost vibrating electric current around the place, the odd connection to her dreams---this was a Wizarding chapel, disguised in the depths of the surrounding Muggle village.

Something in his eyes changed: what was once polite ease, his eyes now glowed with an apprehensive curiosity, one of someone who was normally paranoid and careful.

"We don't get many Magical folk around here anymore," he said. His voice changed, too---it grew more business-like, though it still maintained the air of kindness it had had before. "These are dark times. War is not a time for worship."

Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly, and she studied the large, marble statue of the bearded man.

"Worship of what?" she asked. "I hadn't had the impression the Wizarding world was much for organized religion."

"This is no religious church," he assured evenly. "Worship is not limited to gods. This, here, is the worship of greatness."

It was silent as she studied him, her stance strong and tall.

"'Greatness,'" she repeated lowly. She thought of her father. "Worshiping greatness often leads to dangerous things. War," she began, echoing his earlier words, "is not a time for worship. Especially the worship of something that breeds such darkness."