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Entry No. 14: Where the Dead Keep Watch
I walk briskly through the biting cold down to the entrance of the catacombs, descending the steep road that had been paved, Merlin knows when– perhaps before the creation of any civilization in the surrounding area of the Highlands. A very long time indeed. As I ambled along, I mapped out a route in my rapidly racing mind for another awful day of doing nothing more than worrying about Sebastian’s wintertime (year-round) mechanisms and mischief, this time in a place fairly far removed from the usual Hogwarts misery-mystery.
It just so happens to be the time of year that I am least compelled to worry about his antics. It is the time of year when things are supposed to be more restful and quiet, but alas. It is not so. As he silence of winter deepens, the darkness grows louder. I have heard it in his voice, the edge of obsession, the slight sharpness to his laughter. I cannot allow anymore of his hoarding secrets in that darkness. I know he is hiding it from me- I have always known. I only chose to ignore it because I wanted to believe otherwise. There is a chasm that opens when you lose someone. If not Anne, who still has life left in her, I can feel the loss of others vibrating in my blood. The loss of dignity and honor and prestige. The loss of morality. The less of self. It ran through the Gaunt family like a river of poison. Marvolo, Morfin- the very name Gaunt was carved into history with blood and madness. I will not bear the same weight of that inheritance, yet here I stand, watching a friend tread the same stones my ancestors have walked.
I have a particular bad feeling about today. The undead are the least amicable of all beasts.
It came to me then, one last look at the red sky, how this is a starting place for many souls to be laid to rest. How fitting it was. In her classic Tales of the Highlands, reprinted umpteen times, Philomena Feely describes the catacombs as “a warren of shadow and silence where time itself seems to hold its breath. Few who wander there do so by choice, for the air is thick with the weight of ages and the whispers of those long buried. Bones lie heaped like forgotten harvests, and carved arches stretch endlessly, guiding the unwary deeper into the stench of an ancient darkness. Some say the walls remember every footstep, and that the restless dead keep watch in those endless halls.”
So, why is it that after all the sound advice I’ve given him, Sebastian insists on choosing to lose himself in those halls? I have never known him to be suicidal, but now I’m not so sure he doesn’t have a death-wish.
I would understand if he would just tell me. If he would channel the grief and anger of “losing” his sister into anything else, like I have. I do not mean to compare, after all, Anne is his sister, but she is also my friend. I have tried to tell him that she is not lost, but still alive, and that she is brave and resilient. To cherish the time we have with her, even if it is cut short. He does a good job of convincing me that he listens to what I have to say... Still, it has become apparent that he is not a very good listener… or perhaps Salazar Slytherin has gotten to his head much more than he was able to get into mine– not through blood, but something more sinister—clouding his ability to see the light. To choose from a dark place.
I’m afraid he may be too far into the depths now to go back, but I hope it only seems so dire because of my attachment to him, as my closest friend. If I were not so certain I’d be disowned by my family if I had been placed in any house other than Slytherin, my loyalties may have made me a Hufflepuff. To stand by his side even a sliver after everything is not something most people would be inclined to do.
In any case, here I am. If I die, may the darkness turn me into an Inferi, so that I may still be of some use to Sebastian… I do not mean this too seriously, but my anxieties make me want to overdramatize and turn things into poetry. If I indeed do sense death, I hope it is not my own, but in case that is what I sense, I write these thoughts down in my journal– something I like to call my own personal Field Guide containing notes of my findings, as well as my thoughts and context for this particular adventure. I am calling this one “Where the Dead Keep Watch.” How very Ravenclaw of me. And to this, a Ravenclaw says, “But have you considered the philosophical implications of being a Ravenclaw?” No, because Slytherins would rather make their own philosophies for the sake of glory. At least, my family would. Slytherins would also do anything to philosophize the need to find a cure to help someone of their kin. At least, Sebastian would. I wish I didn’t know him well enough to think that.
Oddly enough, I chuckle at this thought. It’s hard to find humor in the dark and cold, but all the more reason to squeeze as much of it out as possible. It becomes like a speck of light, a warm animal held to your breast, before it fizzles out again. I, at least, have more of a conscience.
Whatever wind could be had outside is no more here. More endless thoughts– or perhaps, I’d be Gryffindor, charging into this hellhole like a lunatic. Somehow, the air inside is colder. I reckon it is the lack of sunlight and refuse to think about what else it could be.
I hope I find Sebastian quickly. I hope that I can vaguely follow the sound of footsteps amidst the barren silence, as well as the open doors paving the way. If not, and my premonitions are correct, I write this final word to you, my friend–
I may not agree with you, but I will stand with you until the end.
I cannot shield him from the allure of whatever whispers in his ear, but I can be there if it happens. Somehow, to bear witness to someone's demise feels more comforting than just letting it happen. I cannot tell if it's the blood in my veins that revels in the corruption of minds and hearts, or just the fear of holding the guilt of not having tried to stop someone I care about from going down the same path my family subjected me to. The idea that a part of me may find pleasure in this makes me sick. It is a response to much more than pain, but fracture. The fracture that happens when someone is forced to torture others against their will. The psyche has no choice but to grasp at any ounce of pleasure it can to keep itself from going mad. Similarly, that has to be what I have heard from Sebastian's laughter during arguments. There is pain hidden underneath, underneath all this. And a desperation. I can hear it.
The air grows colder with each step I take. These catacombs are too quiet, too suffocating, as though the earth itself conspires to take the breath away from my lungs. Yet I follow—always I follow. There is an echo of footsteps ahead that guides me, as I had hoped, a faint rhythm against the stone. At first, I thought them Sebastian’s alone. His tread I know as well as my own, quick and purposeful, betraying his impatience. But there is another cadence, lighter yet deliberate, falling closely. Two sets of feet where there should be but one. Only a trained ear could have noticed.
I cannot see, yet I feel the weight of the catacombs pressing upon me, the bones piled high like silent witnesses. I feel the bones like prying eyes, the promise of Inferi not much further. Still, I cannot turn back. If Sebastian walks with another, I have an inkling of who it is that keeps him company. The echoes draw me deeper, into silence and stone, and though dread coils around my heart, I feel as though I have no choice. Perhaps this is what Sebastian felt when he began this dark descent. What he still does. Perhaps this is also what makes me a Slytherin. This unmitigated tenacity to follow through with the strongest guidance that thrums against my own bones–
For those close to us, for duty… and for fear of what I might discover.