Until We Die
"When you've hit rock bottom, sometimes the proper response is to break out a jackhammer and embark on a journey to the center of the earth."
---
It was cold. He'd never felt such piercing cold in his life, not even when he'd gone skinny-dipping in a pond one late autumn, near his aunt's house during a visit. It wasn't the kind of blistering cold that came from wind and snow, chilling the skin and then seeping into the bones. It seemed to drain all the warmth out of him from the inside out, leaving him without even the memory of what it was like to be warm - a cold that was like a snake, biting deep, delivering a venom of purest ice that coursed through the veins and then chilled every corner of every cell. It flowed down to the marrow: a chilling doom that seemed to strengthen and intensity with every moment.
And yet he didn't shiver. His teeth didn't chatter. The cold was an endless, bitter torment, and yet he couldn't react.
All around him were hushed Dark voices; incomprehensible, whispering in languages he couldn't recognize - a speech that was like a melange of broken dreams, without any kind of definite meaning; any similarity to the language only a cruel trick of the mind. There was no blue sky above or solid ground underfoot, only a swimming uncertainty and the lurch of distant gravity. There was, however, a blizzard of darkness, shadows, and pinpricks of ghastly white light that seemed to flurry around, like fireflies buzzing around in search of something they couldn't find.
"Am I dead?" he asked, disbelieving.
He looked down at his hand. It was perfectly clear of any wounds. He remembered getting a small tear in his skin; an open gash, bleeding wicked red. It was right before something big and heavy fell down on top of him, and made everything dark.
Gradually, something took shape in the darkness around him. A landscape, if something seen only as shadows among shadows could be a landscape. Distant, massive shapes that were felt rather than seen; closer, a solidness that rushed up at him until suddenly, in a whoosh, his feet shook and stumbled, appearing on solid ground. He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, but it didn't sound like a normal breath - it sounded like a ghostly whisper, echoing and reverberating. He wasn't sure he was really even breathing. He put a hand over his heart but couldn't sense the reassuring beat.
The whispers around him became much louder, now, with definite language and intent behind them, directed at him. They had become voices, moans - encouraging him softly to move, to keep going, as though 'staying' was something bad.
He pushed on with assiduous resolve, then, deciding to take their desperate advice to heart - in spite of the deathly cold, he stalked through the pool of endless darkness, one hand covering the exposed eyes, the hurricane gale of shadows whirling around him in an intricate dance, as streamers of umbral liquid.
And then, a great, imposing silhouette appeared in the distance, beyond the shade cyclone - rising out of the darkness was an enormous structure, bigger than anything he'd ever seen before, with dozens of gray-white stone steps leading up to a naos with fluted columns surrounding a vast, cavernous entrance. It was grandiose and resplendent, majestic in a way that defied proper description using human language. He could discern there was something about its contour and material, its architecture and greatness, that he could never hope to comprehend. However, a sphere of reassuring, warm, entrancing light surrounded it, like a pocket of reprieve in this dreary world of darkness.
He moved towards it, efforts redoubled, in hopes of reaching it as fast as possible.
The stone columns were seated on plinths with carved inscriptions on them. The doorway rose high overhead, forcing him to crane his neck up to see the overhanging stonework, which had figures carved into it, though most the faces and figures were too high above him to make out details. Among them, however, the largest was a man whose edges blurred like flame or lightning, and in his palm were the others, as well as an orb that seemed to be planet Earth. However, cracks spread from his heart, and into everything else, corroding the entire ceiling and reaching down even towards the walls, marring what might've once been an indescribably immaculate piece of artistry.
The overall impression he had was of some cross between a Greek temple and a mausoleum. He felt it'd be appropriate to shiver, even though he physically couldn't.
There was nothing else in the great antechamber. Only the gray-white stone floor at his feet, polished to a shine, and an immense, long hallway ahead.
"Hello?" he called out.
No one answered him.
He began to walk forward. The hallway was great but possessed an unmistakable aura of harsh severity. There were stone images carved on the walls, high above his head, and dark doorways leading off in all directions, but no furniture or any other decorations, and where his feet touched the floor, he didn't see so much as a speck of dust. The carvings were different than before, but made in a similar style: there was a great, coiled dragon swallowing a sphere that might have been the Earth... or an egg. He couldn't be sure. Then there were more animals: wolves, serpents, a raven, a turtle...
He paused when he noticed that one of the darkened doorways he was passing by was not so dark - there was light coming from within. He moved to the doorway and looked inside. The light came from a single candle, set in a tall, silver holder on a table. By it, on an old chair, sat a weary-looking man in chain armor and a ragged tabard, with a shortsword hanging from his belt - a medieval knight. His chin rested on his hand, his elbows rested on his knees, and he was intently studying a chessboard.
"Hello?" he said.
The man didn't respond. He cautiously stepped into the room.
The knight still didn't say anything as he slowly walked over to look at him and the chessboard. It looked very old; the pieces were carved blocks of wood and carved animal bone respectively, unadorned and perhaps even somewhat ugly.
"Do you play chess?"
The sudden question almost made him jump. He took his eyes off the chess pieces and looked at the knight. The knight had finally looked up from the board. He was a beardless man with whitish-blond hair; once, he might have been handsome, but now his face was lined, weathered and pallid.
"A little," he said. "My cousin and I used to play in the summer."
"Perhaps..." The knight spoke in a hesitant voice, as though he'd forgotten how to use the English language, and was doing his utter best to remember. He made an awkward gesture with one hand over the pieces. "Perhaps you can see some move I cannot?"
He looked down at the board again.
"It looks like you're going to be checkmated on the next move," he said.
The knight nodded unhappily. "I'm sure there is an escape... if I only study the board long enough."
Very slowly, in painful increments, Dudley Dursley was beginning to realize his situation, as well as his whereabouts.
"Are you playing, err, the Grim Reaper?" he asked.
The knight nodded again. "Yes. He said that I could have all the time I like to make my move. He won't return until then."
Dudley looked at the chessboard again. He was not the greatest chess player - Harry beat him most of the time - but he didn't think there was any way for the knight to escape checkmate. He stood there a moment longer, and the knight resumed resting his chin on his hand and staring at the board, motionless.
Back out in the grand hallway, the stone carvings had changed. Now the figures were human. There was a large, naked, muscular man with a beard wrestling with a skeletal figure. The skeleton was pinning him to the ground; the man, though his arms were huge and his legs were like tree trunks, had a desperate look on his buffoonish face.
He continued walking, beginning to get frustrated. There was no end to the hallway, and the dark doorways he passed by seemed endless as well.
A ghostly child skipped out of one of the doorways, crossed the hallway, and darted through another doorway. Dudley halted immediately, alarmed. Another child - a little girl wearing an old-fashioned dress and bonnet - ran from the doorway he'd just seen the first child disappear into. A ghostly song echoed through the entire building.
"I am...
sooo not into this," Dudley muttered.
He backed away from part of the hallway the children skipped through, then promptly turned around, intending to go back to the knight playing chess. He saw no doorway, however, and no light. He desperately groped his way ahead through the darkness, but his palm met a sturdy wall. He froze, gritting his teeth.
"Hello."
Dudley spun around to face the source of the voice, only to find himself in a seemingly endless space. A small zone of light existed in front of him, as though an invisible spotlight was shining down on that exact spot. Around it, there was nothing but thick, impenetrable darkness.
Someone stepped out of the darkness in front of him. Dudley gasped.
"You were expecting me?" Death looked down at him.
Holy fucking macaroni, he wanted to say, but couldn't. His vocal cords were frozen.
He was completely sure it was Death. He was so very much confident of that presumption, holding it with a heart-deep certainty because Death looked exactly as he'd imagined. His voice was a pleasant, rich baritone - the voice of a most wealthy, stylish, affluent, and tasteful gentleman. It would've been difficult for anyone not to faint from shock at the mere sight, but Dudley was beginning to think his current body wasn't capable of achieving anything similar to unconsciousness. He was afraid, almost to the point where speech was an unimaginable prospect.
"You're staring," said Death.
He muttered, "Sorry," and kept staring.
"So, what do I look like?"
"Don't you know what you look like?" Dudley was having some trouble not stammering.
"Of course, I know what I look like," Death replied. "But I don't know what I look like to
you."
"I... uh..."
Beneath a black cowl, a gleaming white skull tilted. "If I had to guess, I would guess a skeleton in a robe. You seem to be the type."
Dudley nodded. "Y-Yeah."
"I thought so." Death regarded him with a rictus grin. "Do you find me frightening?"
"Y-Yeah, pretty much. I mean, is that weird?"
"Is what weird?" Death asked.
"Finding you scary?"
Death regarded him for a moment in something like curiosity. "No, it's natural to fear me while alive, but unnatural to persist in fear. Are you not a brave young man? You're already dead, aren't you? There's no reason to persist in dread."
Dudley considered that fact - and something cold settled in his gut. Already dead - he'd been ten years old and was still ten years old. He'd hardly even lived a fifth of what most people can get. It was the height of unfairness - as the retort pressed itself to the tip of his tongue, he looked up, and saw Death's face, then stopped. It wasn't very likely that Death would accept something as silly as that as a valid argument: he allowed babies to die in other parts of the world, so what did Dudley's life matter? The thought, however, pushed him back to consider what he'd seen in the mausoleum.
"Who were those... uh, children?"
"Spirits of the dead."
"Ghosts?" he asked. Now that some of the initial shock faded, he could speak again, without stuttering, "They can't leave?"
"Anyone can leave," Death said, plainly. "But sometimes they would rather stay here."
A moment of deep silence.
"Why are you here?" Death asked, in a low, almost intimidating voice.
"I-" Dudley wasn't sure how to answer that - was it a rhetorical question? He shrugged with pursed lips. "Because... I died?"
"Ah." Death leaned back. A single hand made of bones rose to his chin, clutching it. "No, you see - most everyone who dies stays outside. You've entered my palace - my resting place - and that means you cannot rest yet. It means you have a reason to be here."
He thought about Death's words, then spoke, in a rising tone - as though his reply was a question, "My, uh, name is Dudley Dursley, and I'd like to be alive again?"
"Ah," Death said, in a long drawl. "Yes, I've been expecting you."
"You have?" Dudley blinked.
Death nodded, then approached in slow footsteps. "Oh, yes, indeed." His cadence was between grandly ominous and pleasantly inviting. "I do not think I've properly introduced myself yet - I am the Most Deathly Power, the Guardian of Death, the Principle of Tomorrow Unending, the Chooser of the Slain, the Circle of Entropy."
"It's nice to meet you, I'm Dudley," Dudley said - in an insane and uncontrolled burst of something that was a mixture of tiredness, fear, and muscle memory, his father's teachings kicked in, and Dudley promptly held out an open hand, to shake.
Death looked down at it, amused. He shook Dudley's hand, cold bone against cold flesh.
"It's been quite a while since someone came here, to my humble abode," Death said. "It used to be that I could scarcely go half a decade without someone dropping by, but I don't get many visitors nowadays. I almost never let visitors return to the land of the living, you know?"
"You said... uh, you said that anyone can leave."
"Not alive, I'm afraid."
This gave Dudley some pause - his face was blank, as he asked, "So, I'm gonna be stuck here forever? You can't, like, bring me to life?"
As though studying his blank face, Death moved his arms from behind his back, to fold them in front of his chest, letting the sleeves of his black robe hang down almost to the floor. Almost coyly, he shifted once in posture and cocked his head to the side in contemplation.
"Perhaps I can," Death said. "But why should I?"
"Um, what do you want from me?"
"I should ask, what do you offer me?" Death, annoyingly, repelled.
Dudley frowned and thought about his actual value as a human being for a couple of seconds. He didn't possess any magical powers like Harry and wasn't old enough to have acquired any useful skills aside from primary school education. His only good use was, perhaps, menial service like carrying boxes or punching people. "I'll... serve you."
"Serve?" Death made a wide, sweeping gesture with his other hand. "Doing what, prithee, sweeping my hall? What do I need servants for?"
"I don't know." Dudley felt a burning frustration and growing irritation blossoming in his chest. If Death wasn't planning on resurrecting him no matter what, why even have this conversation? "You must want something. You wouldn't even be talking to me if there wasn't something I could offer you, right? Unless you're just toying with me."
"Perceptive," Death said, its voice as dry as a burning campfire.
"Do you want me to beg you?"
"I am not a prideful Power; groveling does not amuse me."
"Will you let me return to life, uh, if I beat you in a duel?"
Death's laughter was cold. "Are they still telling tales about challenging me to a duel? You're a mortal, Dudley. If I wish for you to die, I can simply move my finger and have your life. I only accept 'challenges' from visitors who offend me, to punish them for arrogance. Do not delude yourself, child."
"How about... chess?"
"I only play one game at a time."
Something inside of Dudley broke, like a cracked window - the decorum that was preventing him from slipping into a regional accent and cursing in front of a stranger - and he let himself go, "Man, there's nothing that'll fuckin' satisfy ya, is there?"
The darkness around him deepened. A flash of cold ran along his spine, and Dudley immediately regretted his outburst.
"You're lucky that I have a sense of humor," Death said. "And besides - fate has apportioned much greater things for you, Dudley Dursley. Indeed, the Parliament of Stars even now sings to me - what a terrible waste it'd be for one with so much potential as you to die. I will... make a bargain with you."
"A bargain?" Dudley's mind was still reeling in shock and confusion.
"I'll exchange a life... for a life." Death closed his fist, then opened it, to reveal a silver coin. "Give this coin to someone else, and they will die immediately. If you don't manage to find anyone to take your place in seven years, you'll instantly die yourself." He extended his arm and opened his hand, holding the coin out.
As numb as in the darkness without, he accepted the coin. "I don't understand."
"A rare gift from me to a child whose audacity amuses me," Death said, "Consider it a Deathly token."
He shook his head. "What is this, some kind of morality test?" He stared down into Death's sockets defiantly. "I won't kill someone!"
"Mhm. Well, that is up to you." Death gave the impression of shrugging.
"You're cruel," he said angrily.
"Often." Death nodded, unperturbed.
His shoulders trembled with rage as he looked down.
"Goodbye, Dudley Dursley," Death said. "I will not see you again before your time. Aermora Bravus."
And he was standing alone in the darkness.
He stood there for minutes before he shakily dropped the coin into his pocket, and turned around, and walked out the way he'd come. The antechamber of Death's stone residence loomed ahead, and Dudley crept through it slowly, then moved outside, back into the hurricane of darkness. He sought an exit, a way to leave, as Death said.
After some time, he saw a long tunnel of light ahead - a kind of membranous veil and stepped through.
And then, for what must've been the first time in over a year, he drew in a breath.
---
"Do you see anything?"
"I don't. Neville, be quiet."
"Ugh, Hermione, stop pushing!"
"Ow, who stepped on my foot?"
As Harry pulled the Cloak of Invisibility aside, a group of five, uncouth children was revealed to the world. They were in the Hogwarts dungeons, in a small closet inaccessible from the outside without a password. It was actually a nexus that connected several hidden passages, one of them fortuitously connecting to the chamber the Aurors had sealed away as a crime scene. To Harry's chagrin, Daphne and Hermione were glaring at one another, while Neville and Ron stared at Harry with dour expressions, communicating wordlessly they never wished to travel under the Cloak again together in that manner.
"Alright, gang," Harry said, clapping his hands together. "Our job's pretty simple."
"As Professor Hagrid would say, we're here to 'figger oot what that doohickey's fer,' and to find out what happened. It's clear that Dusty's not responsible," Ron said, affecting a surprisingly good West Country accent.
"Yeah, yeah. Let's go - I was hoping I'd get an opportunity to take a shower before tomorrow's Quidditch game." Neville tapped the closet's wall in several places, then saluted. A rocky arm sprouted from the wall, saluting back, then it slid open to reveal a passage. "Lumos."
Everyone followed, wands glowing with soft light. They reached the sealed chamber in only a couple of footsteps, and opened yet another hidden door to step inside. It was devoid of Aurors or wizards, the security staff having returned back to regular patrols in the upper dungeon levels. There were several bored and tired Aurors patrolling or standing on firewatch outside, but none of them would step inside and interrupt them unless they made a heck of a lot of noise. Harry prepared a small legion of rats to act as a distraction in case something didn't pan out.
"I'll check the artifact," Harry said.
"I'll go with you," Hermione said.
Neville approached the northern corner of the chamber, beginning to cast novice crime scene analysis spells, particularly ones to pick up on any chemical or potion traces that might be lingering around. He didn't seem to be finding anything of note and shrugged. "I don't think we'll learn anything the Aurors don't know already."
"Maybe so," Ron answered. He shivered, one hand rising to correct the way his scarf was resting on his neck. They'd each packed some clothes that could be used to obscure their faces, as a precaution, aside from Harry who had his Cloak. "Are you sure there are no Dementors in here, mate?"
"We checked pretty thoroughly," Daphne strutted in confidently. She crouched and squinted into a grate close to the floor.
In the meantime, Harry was casting a long battery of spells on the broken artifact itself, on a quest to figure out its properties as well as purpose. It resembled a metallic hen's egg, half-melted, with protruding struts and pieces of melted glass. It seemed to be enchanted primarily using the classic Charm-layering methods, but sadly, it was completely and irreversibly broken - most of its magic leaked out. It also didn't use a runic matrix, so figuring out its properties from any shapes was impossible. It must've been an incredibly powerful working, but clearly not that durable. He wondered what someone might've been hoping to achieve, using it on a Dementor.
"There's something I'm wondering," Neville said, making his way over to them.
"Yeah?" Harry asked.
"It's clear that Dusty was in here," Neville said. "The Dementor overpowered him, and some Auror saved him... And yet, not even the Aurors believe it's Dusty. According to the Map, he was sleeping in his chambers, right?"
Harry shrugged. "Yeah."
"And there's another thing - the artifact." Neville looked down at it. "How did it even break? It couldn't have set itself on fire randomly, right? My theory is that someone cast a spell to melt it. A way of covering up the evidence of whatever it is they were hoping to achieve."
"Something doesn't add up here," Hermione agreed.
Up the staircase, they heard a door creaking open - then, voices speaking, and hurried footsteps.
"Aurors!" Daphne shrieked. Everyone bolted, taking cover behind Harry, who donned the Cloak of Invisibility and included them.
A march of Aurors stepped down into the chamber. At least seven of them, but additional voices suggested another squad was lingering further upstairs. They were led by Auror Savage, as well as - to Harry's immense surprise - Auror Shacklebolt. The latter squinted his eyes at the corner where they stood, maybe sensing their presence as the Cloak had to dilute its magic to hide five people, but something that Savage muttered drew his attention back to the scene. They were speaking in hushed murmurs, low enough that it was difficult to make out the content of their conversation.
After discussing it for a moment, Shacklebolt cast a spell on the artifact. It levitated up into the air and moved upstairs on its own. Harry pondered whether they'd tripped some kind of hidden alarm, prompting the Aurors to descend like this. It didn't seem like it.
And then, Auror Savage left. Shacklebolt stayed behind for a moment, staring nowhere in particular, but they could hear him speak, in a low and sullen voice.
"I hope nobody else dies tonight."
---
[ ] Return Upstairs - As soon as the Aurors vacate the chamber, go back using the same route you'd entered through.
[ ] Follow Shacklebolt - As the Aurors vacate, leave your friends behind and shadow Auror Shacklebolt under your Cloak's guise. They can return upstairs, you need to find out who died!
[ ] Write-in
---
Here's a
character sheet for this quest.
As a reminder, you can join
Discord here for discussion, as well as alert pings to let you know an update is going to come out in a short while. All discussion on Discord counts partially towards your Gnosis progression and offers boosted rewards if relevant parts of the discussion are reposted in the thread.
