131 Chapter 131: Let's Dance
Hilke's fledgling Patronus whirled into existence, only to be abruptly dismissed. The wavering flame of a kerosene lamp threw her face into haunting dismay, bringing her deepest fears surging back to the surface. She remained motionless, eyes glued to the tall, skeletal figure that was nearing her wielding a scythe much like a farmer preparing to harvest his wheat.
"Protego Totalum!"
In the murky shadows, hundreds of wands arced in harmony, forming a steadfast wall between them and the impending threat, thwarting the downward swing of the phantom scythe.
"Clang!"
The scythe crashed against Sherlock's Shield Charm, its savage momentum making the protective barrier quiver and begin to fracture.
Drawing himself up daringly, Sherlock seized the opportunity the rogue figure had left open, orchestrated his floating wands, and once more, a hundred wands leapt into action.
"Expecto Patronum!" Sherlock roared.
A flood of shimmering light filled the chamber, fighting fervently against the oppressive darkness. The luminous strands intertwined, striving to become one solid entity, yet it was as though fate conspired against its completion.
The scarecrow figure paused its relentless assault on Sherlock's Protego Charm, eerily rocking the kerosene lamp to and fro, its eyes glaring a sinister crimson that seemed ready to spill over. It made a dreadful hissing noise as it turned its attention from Hilke to Sherlock.
"Not him! Sherlock, you are not him!" it screeched, attempting to unseat Sherlock's iron resolve, by revealing his deepest, most personal secrets.
"Shut up!" Sherlock declared, a scintillating white light searing through the gloom.
Two hundred and one ethereal ravens materialized in the cavernous underground chamber. In a whirl of wings, they danced in the air, scattering the shadows and bathing every nook and cranny with their incandescent light.
In their wake, all negative feelings were erased, leaving warmth, hope, and joy underneath their wingbeat. The ageing kerosene lamp in the spectral figure's hand mysteriously sputtered and died. As it did, straw began to shed from its thin frame, and its tattered rags shrivelled rapidly.
A bone-chilling scream echoed in the tight confines of the chamber. As the silver ravens with their radiant light circled the figure, it doubled over in violent retching.
Growing weaker by the second, the figure, now overcome by fear itself, attempted to flee on its spindly, stick-like legs. But Sherlock's Patronus was unyielding. The mass of ravens blockaded the wooden door, their celestial light taking complete control of the room. Stripped of its straw body, only a scrap of cloth clung to its skeletal frame.
"Don't come any closer! Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!" it shrieked, these words emanating more as desperate pleas than curses.
Denied escape, the figure spun around, its fiery eyes beaming with desperation. Like a madman, it charged directly towards Sherlock.
Unruffled, Sherlock continued to command the ravens, skillfully directing them into the path of the oncoming scarecrow. Oblivious to its impending destruction, it pushed through the flock of ravens, lunging at Sherlock's feet.
Just as it squandered the last of its energy and raised its scythe, Hilke, buoyed by the palpable hope and joy, swiftly drew a wooden box from her robes and secured it onto the figure.
Immediately, the scarecrow was rendered motionless, as if petrified, wails of torment echoing round the chamber as it experienced a draining sensation.
"What's happening! What's happening!"
"Don't! Don't! I'm scared! I'm so scared!"
"Don't come any closer! Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!"
"..."
The dreadful silence was broken when the figure crumpled on the floor, a mere husk of its former self, as if the box had sapped its life force. Simultaneously, Sherlock's army of silver ravens faded into nothingness. The chamber returned to an unnatural stillness.
A peculiar sensation tugged at Sherlock's neck, but it was the furthest thing from his mind. He was engrossed in a consummate sense of triumph. Neutralizing the monstrous figure and apprehending the culprit, or perhaps something else entirely. Irrespective of the reason, Sherlock was swept in a wave of joy unlike anything he'd ever felt before.
The surrounding flames around the room sparked back to life, casting a warm glow on the recently liberated chamber. Panting heavily from exertion, Hilke closed the lid on the box she had hastily dropped, then locked her piercing gaze onto Sherlock.
"Who taught you to cast spells this way!" she queried.
Sherlock delighted in her question. There was seemingly no reason for joy, but he was nonetheless elated.
"Ah, an excellent question! Yes great question indeed." he enthused, joyously bouncing around to secure the remaining wands back into his bag.
"It's no surprise that you'd be curious about that, but you see this is a treasured secret of my family's ancient magic. I'm afraid, as much as we get along, I cannot share it with you."
His radiant positivity wasn't lost on her.
"You've released so many Patronuses at once. Seems you're struggling to cope with the emotional backlash," she noted.
Sherlock, aware of this, couldn't suppress his exhilaration. "Let's celebrate, let's dance! I know I can't dance, but you could teach me!" he bubbled over.
"It would be best if you just stop speaking. The emotions will fade on their own," she advised, iciness clinging to her words. Despite her stern warning, Sherlock was undeterred. He reached out, hooking his arm around hers, humming a catchy tune under his breath, and began moving to an impromptu rhythm. Initially, she struggled to break free, but eventually resigned herself to his infectious happiness.
"You should get some sleep," she flatly suggested, as he guided her in circles like marionette. Regaining a measure of his sensibility, still sporting a gentle grin, Sherlock made a jovial proposition. "Cast a Sleeping Spell on me, and take me back to Hogwarts, I won't mind" he offered.
With one hand entwined in his, Hilke pointed her wand at him with the other and uttered, "Stupefy."
Sherlock, making no move to dodge, was hit by the spell head on. In the blink of an eye, his joyful smile stiffened on his face before he tumbled forward, collapsing against her.
Minutes passed as she held Sherlock's limp form upright, seemingly in deep rumination. Eventually, she gently laid him on the ground. Instead of carrying him back to Hogwarts immediately she leaned over his fallen form, studying him closely. The candles and torches around them cast flickering lights upon Hilke, yet her eyes refused to reflect them, instead flashing countless memories across them.
Three-year-old Sherlock, alone at his mother's funeral; eleven-year-old Sherlock, receiving his Hogwarts letter in an empty house; fifteen-year-old Sherlock, getting his first girlfriend only to be dumped weeks later; she saw the hopeful eighteen-year-old applying for a job at Dumbledore's office after graduation and being devastated by his rejection; the twenty-one-year-old returning from the hospital after a failed magical experiment to an unexpected appointment letter. She saw him mastering a new kind of magic last summer, after slaying a Basilisk in the Gryffindor common room. She saw the current summer, him travelling in France with his student Harry Potter.
Finally, she saw him as he was now, sprawled on the cold dusty stone floor of the chamber.
Crimson tears welled up in her eyes. Albeit she'd traveled key moments of Sherlock's past until the present, her quest had remained fruitless.
"You're not John," she admitted, dashing away the tears from her face and readjusting her blindfold. "Maybe it's for the best that you aren't John... that John is truly gone," she muttered more to herself than to anyone else.
Rising to her feet, she stashed away the box containing the spectral figure. Casting a Levitation Charm on Sherlock's unconscious form, she held onto him, retracing their steps until she found herself back at the entrance.
Unknowingly a delicate golden locket slipped onto Sherlock's neck, a keepsake he'd never seen before.
