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December entered Hogwarts quietly, akin to a cat whose soft paws didn’t make a sound. Darkness had loomed over the castle for a month now, little by little eating away the light. For many, December meant snow, and anticipation of the holidays, and hope for a miracle.
He cared neither for snow nor for the holidays. If anything, both were a nuisance to him: they brought mud and noise to the castle. Beyond that, he barely noticed the change of seasons. One might think he was another one of the Hogwarts ghosts — indifferent to the passage of time, and, if you compared him to the other living inhabitants of the castle, lacking something substantial. But, unlike a ghost, he was subject to the influence of time: with each passing year, his wrinkles would deepen and new ones creep onto his face, his limbs’ trembling would grow more violent, his back would bend lower. And yet, it was but an interminable, monotonous addition of years.
Except for this year. Like never before, he longed for days to change each other faster — and, in a cruel mockery, time slowed down almost to a halt. When he looked back at November, it might as well have been one horrible day, stretched to the longest month in his life; December promised to become even longer. He had never been so lonely — he had always been lonely, of course, in the castle full of joy and magic and youthfulness, but he had her by his side. She had been taken from him; by a prankster or an evil entity, she had been taken from him, and he could do nothing but wait for the sun to complete half a turn and to bring the awakening. Oh, this time he would notice the spring come. This time it would mean he would soon feel complete — alive.
But it was December, and every bone in his old body ached a hundred times more painful than from the mere cold weather.
The further into the darkest part of the year, the slower shortening days crawled; his mood grew viler. The young ones seemed to forget too quickly the dreadful event — they were frightened, yes, but they moved on, leaving behind the one trapped in his own body, expecting their paths to merge again in several months. But he could not — he would not leave her behind. He thought of her every waking moment of his life, when he trudged along Hogwarts corridors, when he lay sleepless in his bed — he hadn’t been a sound sleeper for years now, but her warm weight on his chest and her affectionate purring would soothe him into slumber; he saw her in every one of his rare dreams. He visited her — perhaps, not as often as he ought to, for it pained him to see her previously soft and gracious body now stiff and unmoving, her eyes blank with terror. He did not want to think of what she had seen, what she had experienced — what she could be experiencing at that very moment — and yet he thought of it, his lack of knowledge producing monstrosities unheard of. She was trapped and so was he.
He wasn’t moved by the news of another incident. He didn’t care — perhaps, he was even glad: with every next victim, the situation got more serious, and chances of investigation grew. It had been deadly serious for him since that damned evening, but he didn’t flatter himself with an illusion that his opinion was of any importance. He had said to himself that he would strangle the culprit with his bare hands, had he known who was behind it all, but he knew he was powerless against whoever could perform such a sorcery. He was powerless; he could only wait.
And he waited, when the castle emptied and left him in the silence, that was disturbed only by the sob and sigh of the wind and the shuffle of his own steps. He waited, when Christmas came, a holiday that did nothing for him, for the only gift he wished for was to have her by his side. He waited, when the year withered and ceased to exist.
He waited, and prayed for never knowing such a lonely December again.