Capítulo 214: A ghost in the walls
The wind howled like a beast in agony as a figure traversed the surface of the bridge leading straight to Hogwarts. Rain lashed against his cloak, soaking it through. Lightning illuminated the way ahead for brief moments before plunging him back into darkness, allowing him to meld into the shadows once more. The storm had become his ally, providing cover for his clandestine visit.
As the wide figure of the cloaked man approached the gates, he felt a sense of trepidation. This was not the first time he had appeared a Hogwarts, but the awe and majesty of the castle before him never ceased to strike at him, reducing the man to a simple mumbling child. But the danger of his visit this time was high, for there was no invitation. Especially now, when the storm was so intense that even the castle's protective charms might falter.
Suddenly, the gates opened, creaking loudly as they briefly drowned out the sound of thunder. Several teachers were observing the lonesome bridge, showered by unceasing rain, washing away any dirt that may have sullied its appearance. But they failed to notice the figure who ambled past them, so close that he felt their steamy breath against his exposed nose. Neither did they hear his feet as they slapped against the cold rock. The only sound was the rain beating against the cobblestones. The storm had silenced the castle. A storm nobody had realised—was man-made.
There was no trace of hurry in the figure's movements as they expertly traversed the open land. The rain had turned the grounds into a quagmire, but wherever the figure travelled, the earth would freeze solid. An act that would've stunned anyone present. He was almost at the door when a bolt of lightning struck a nearby tree, illuminating the area with an eerie blue light. The cloaked man watched as someone moved in the shadows, shuffling across the glossy wet floor with rushed steps. A long cloak lagged behind like a blackened wedding dress. Flowing locks of hair were dragged along like a flag caught in the wind.
It was a man the intruder had seen many times. Snape. As the potion's professor glided across the courtyard, seemingly floating across the floor, he too failed to notice the figure strut past him, leaving a fleeting gaze full of derision to accompany the professor on his journey.
A statue—two statues—a row of statues, all twisted into a grotesque shape by the lightning's brilliance decorated the foyer leading to his destination. They all held giant swords, guarding the castle with pharaonic patience. But they too failed to notice him.
Appearing before a door accompanied by the chilling wind, the figure didn't slow down, as if the physical structure didn't exist, the man phased right through the wooden obstruction. Greeted instead by a blast of cold air. The castle was just as gloomy and foreboding as he remembered, with its dark corridors and shadowy corners that danced with the dim flicker of flames atop time-worn pedestals. The storm had added an extra layer of menace, making everything seem more ominous.
Silence clung to its walls, ears pressed to its cold surface, waiting—patiently. For what—no one knew. Yet he could sense the magic that permeated everything, the energy that flowed through the stones and walls. Smiling to himself, the feeling of having breached the enemy's defences delighted the intruder.
But that sentiment was fleeting, for his purpose was left unfinished. Experienced in his movements, the ghostly apparition of the man travelled soundlessly across the empty halls. The harsh moonlight barely managed to tag the shadow as it flitted about.
Its final trajectory revealed itself—the Gryffindor homeroom. Before him sat the fat lady, the obnoxious woman he had no patience to deal with—not today at least. Rapidly, he surreptitiously sunk into the painting, reappearing on the other side as the warm air carrying the subtle scent of smoke from the fire assaulted his nose.
The man remained motionless, taking in the remanent chatter from the students who had lingered hours prior. Their immature voices echoed in his ears so vividly that he felt like he was really there. Fingers traced the seams of the couch as the cloaked figure continued to listen patiently. Waiting—for the voice he was looking for.
And finally, he reached that corner closest to the fire, a place you could sink into and evaporate from the memory of your fellow peers. A mystical effect he had only now come to understand. His knowledgeable eyes took in the sequence of magical energy inlaid into the leathered seat. fascinated by the simplicity of the charm. Evidently, a successful experiment conducted by a student. He dated the charm to be at least a century old, based on the mistakes made and the magical residue his impossibly sensitive senses picked up on.
But his attention was once more fleeting, currently listening with rapt attention to the voice he had not heard in weeks. But it had changed, even if by a minuscule amount—to him, it was as evident as thunder on a clear summer's day. For nobody had spent as much time with this person as he had.
A voice he had grown very fond of. His eyes drifted towards the arched window, the moon's beautiful countenance illuminating the young face beneath the hood. "She's still awake," he mumbled, knowing her too well to believe otherwise.
Nevertheless, unhurried he still was, taking the time to appreciate the curvatures of the staircase, the wobble of the fifth step that had caused him to stumble frightfully once before—now expertly handled. The slightly elevated stone slab that had bothered him to no end, which he thought ruined the aesthetic. That stone slab slid back into place with such ease that it appeared illusory. A satisfied grunt escaped from beneath the hood in response.
Estado de energía semanal
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