Capítulo 129: Chapter 129: Wooden Door and Scattered Hay

Sherlock and Hilke halted abruptly. They had been steadily walking for approximately half an hour and estimated that they had traversed close to two kilometers. The distance across the whole of Hogsmeade fell short of their current journey, thus, it instantly informed them that they had crossed its borders. Sherlock, the Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, frowned at his dimly glowing wand. Its luminescent radius, which was initially about five meters, had now diminished to a mere two. Now faced with reduced visibility, Sherlock was sure this was not a malfunction of his spell. The charm to illuminate, once cast, remained steadfast unless actively cancelled by the wizard. So, the faltering light could not be ascribed to a weakening spell, but rather to environmental changes.

Hilke doused her wand's glow, gripping it upright, its tip skewed skywards. "Revelio," she whispered, her fingers uncoiling from the wand to let it tilt forward slightly. "Due south," she declared. Ahead, the darkness felt insurmountable, as though the end was forever out of reach. Sherlock hastily reviewed the geographical layout in his mind. Hogwarts was positioned southeast to Hogsmeade while the Hog's Head Inn was nestled in the northernmost part of the village. If they were moving south, they had surely left Hogsmeade by now, likely even stepping into the premises of Hogwarts. Their exact location—it could be underneath the Quidditch pitch or beneath the castle—remained unknown.

"We are on Hogwarts' ground, or rather underneath," Sherlock surmised, stroking his chin while surveying the surroundings. "But something is off about this passage." Hilke reclaimed her wand. "This is means that we're on the right trail. Hogwarts is our destination, so encountering hurdles suggests that 'it' is likely around here, or perhaps concealed in our vicinity." Her statement prompted Sherlock to pat the fabric sack cocooned in his robe pocket, its filled appearance assuring him.

"Well, as we are already here," Sherlock began, "can you enlighten me about the effectiveness of standard curses on this creature?" Hilke wasted no time in her elucidation. "Any normal curse will not work. Even the killing curse fails against it. It cannot be killed, nor brought close to it. Its only weakness is the Patronus Charm."

Sherlock's eyebrow ascended. "So it's a kind of a supercharged Dementor?"

"It might very well be considered that," she conceded. Unfazed, Sherlock flexed his wrist, readjusting his robe. "If it has a weakness, then there's nothing much to fear. You may not believe me, but the Patronus Charm happens to be my forte." He turned to appraise Hilke. "But what about you? Can you cast a Patronus with that stony expression?"

Ignoring his jest, Hilke lit her wand once more and marched onward. With an indifferent shrug, Sherlock followed behind her, thinking, "Maybe all German wizards are just this dull."

Another twenty minutes passed as they made their way forward in the increasing darkness. Their wands' brightness receded even further, providing a dismal visibility radius of less than a meter. Concurrently, the temperature lurched downward, as though winter had prematurely sprung on them. Although resilient to the cold, the eeriness of their surroundings sent chills down their spines. They could hear only the echo of their footsteps and the intermittent hush of their breaths, with any other audible traces seemingly swallowed by the darkness. The absolute silence was unsettling.

"How about some light conversation to lighten the mood?" Sherlock proposed, attempting to break the absolute stillness. Surprisingly, Hilke neither refrained from replying nor rejected the suggestion outright. Simply, she hummed affirmatively.

"You know keeping a profound silence like this suits you. I wouldn't be surprised if you could silently meditate for an entire day during divination."

"No one is accustomed to total silence from the beginning," she countered.

"I guess so. So when did you discover your talent for divination?" Sherlock inquired. "I've heard that such abilities are mostly hereditary." Hilke paused briefly before answering, "Seven."

"So you were acquainted with your divination ability before you even entered a magical school? Was there a seer amongst your realtives?"

"I've never attended a magic school," came Hilke's confounding reply.

Taken aback, Sherlock questioned, "You've never attended one? You're pulling my leg, right? I thought you were a Durmstrang alumni. And how did you even learn magic without going to school?"

"My mother was my tutor," Hilke replied, tightening her cloak around her.

Truly a rarity, Sherlock thought out aloud. "Educating one's children in magical arts at home is uncommon, at least here in Britain. I once read a study which stated that with the establishment of the three magical institutes including the newest, Beauxbatons, family-oriented magical education basically ceased to exist in the wizarding society of Europe. Apparently most parents send their kids to school because they believe it is nearly impossible to master all magical techniques in a homely environment."

While dwelling on these points of discussion, Sherlock digressed into other concerns, "In actuality, these magical schools have seen a less than remarkable progression since their inception a thousand years ago, if you ask me. Wizarding education heavily stresses the acquisition of magical skills, but the development of the thinking process is largely left to the families. At schools, students grow much like untamed ivy— bending to the mainstream ideologies of the wizarding society, which inevitably malforms some."

"You talk a lot," Hilke tersely remarked on his lengthy monologue.

Sherlock responded with a shrug. "Talking distracts me from this grim tunnel. Hope it doesn't bother you too much."

The temperature seemed to have bottomed out, but once acclimated to it, the chill was bearable. However, the encroaching darkness was steadily becoming unbearable. The wand's glow had receded to meager lengths of barely half a meter. Extending their arms fully, they could scarce make out their own fingers. The conversation between Sherlock and Hilke gradually died down until silence reigned once again, owing largely to Hilke being about as talkative as a brick wall.

Soon however they had reached their destination, looming behind a wooden door. Doing a brief examination, they pointed their wands towards the door. It was plain, remarkably unadorned.

However, Sherlock refrained from using a mere touch to push the door open; instead, he cautiously attempted an unlocking spell. The door remained stubbornly shut. Normally, even doors with locks yielded to such a spell, indicating this one was far more complex than it appeared.

Questioningly, Sherlock turned towards Hilke. "Did your sources mention that this door was a goblin's craft too?" He asked, to which Hilke simply shook her head, her visible features eerily paler, "They gave no information regarding the door."

Sherlock furrowed his brows, wand in hand, ready to tap the door to unveil any eccentricities, but before he could make contact, Hilke's voice sharply interrupted, "Don't touch it!"

Surprised, he froze and saw Hilke, who had restrained him. Beneath her hood, her eyes were firmly fixed on the door's top. Her lips were ghostly pallid, strained by some disturbing epiphany. Following her gaze, Sherlock saw something like dried straw hanging from the wall, right above the door. It was definitely placed there intentionally. Bound by a rough rope, it stood as a perfect analogy to bait on a hook. The bait....was the wooden door.

Witnessing Hilke's highly perturbed state, Sherlock inquired gravely, "What's wrong, Hilke?"

"It knew we would find this place," Hilke's voice, though still cold, vibrated unnervingly. "It intentionally left this as a trap, waiting for us to stumble into it like fools."

Sherlock's gaze remained fixed on the straw hanging from the rope. On the surface, the straw shared the same trivial nature as those they had previously found on the hill and in the Hog's Head Inn's backyard. However, this straw was far from being ordinary.

"So, what's the plan now?"

"To enter, we'll have to open this door," Hilke proposed, her voice laced heavily with anxiety. "There's a simple way to open it. Magic is ineffective, but a physical push works. However, the individual opening the door will encounter their greatest fear. If they can withstand it, the door will yield."

She offered no speculation of what might occur if one failed to withstand it, and Sherlock didn't press for details. He felt he already knew the answer.

"We should consider retreating for now. There must be alternate ways to get through. We should just ask Dumbledore for help," Sherlock suggested, attempting to remain pragmatic about their situation.

Hilke refuted his suggestion with a shake of her head. "This is the only way; I've spent five years watching it, understanding its sly maneuvers. It's not omnipotent, but within its domain, none can challenge it."

"Perhaps it's an elaborate ruse and it isn't even behind the door. This could be a double fake-out, it might really just be an ordinary door. That's why I say we continue investigating before doing anything rash. Once we know more we can plan accordingly," Sherlock persisted, unwilling to take unnecessary risks. Both his and Hilke's safety was paramount.

Hilke, however, seemed resolved. "Promise to restrain me," she requested calmly.

"It's not worth it, Hilke" Sherlock objected.

"It escaped my surveillance, thus it's my duty to recapture it, before it kills again" Hilke retorted softly. She placed her wand in Sherlock's hand, positioned herself before the door, and drew a deep breath. "If I try to harm myself, hold me back, and no matter what happens, refrain from speaking."

Sherlock found himself holding two wands. Observing Hilke's conviction, he held his peace for a moment before slowly nodding. "Understood," he conceded.

Being reassured of his consent, Hilke extended her pale, slender hand, reaching for the unopened door.