????, 2020
Somewhere past the Quidditch Pitch, past the viaduct bridge that led to the main path over Hagrid’s hut, past the plains through to the Owlery, and a little beyond– just barely visible via the peak of the clock tower south of Hogwarts– lay a path that snaked around the Owlery and through to the Forbidden forest if you stuck to it long enough. Mists clogged the area during sunset, early morning, or after it had just rained, making it almost impossible to see the wand one held in front of them. If one wanted to visit the Owlery, the path behind it was irrelevant. If one wanted to cross over to a Magical Beasts’ class, there was a sharper path that cut straight to the house via the West Tower exit. If one wanted to traverse to the Quidditch Pitch, one would pace out the North exit of the school. This is all to say that the path behind the Owlery was very unused. Not only was it difficult to see– it was as quiet as a graveyard. Not even the creatures lurking on the border of the Forest bothered with the insignificant dirt trail that pointlessly scurried over the hills to the northern side of the school. James had surmised, quite rationally, that the path had been used for travel in the past before Hogwarts was expanded and newer, cleaner roads to classes and extracurriculars were established.
All in all, the trail was a useless one. Bramble grew over it in some areas, it was uneven throughout and the climb up the sharp hilly slopes was very much avoidable. And yet it was James’ favoured route whenever he could take it. When the days were noisier than usual, when the people were just a little more unbearable, James chased the quiet like he would a bird. Unattainable, out of reach. It felt secret, it felt illegal. He was doing something wrong, indulging in something he shouldn’t be, but he couldn’t place where exactly the fault lay. What was so wrong with taking a quiet passage? What was so wrong in wanting a brief escape from people?
Down the path, a small ravine divided the land, and a slim rush of river water passed between the scraggly shore below before it opened up to the larger bed of water that Hogwarts overlooked. The path led to a bridge that carried commuters over, rickety and old but not so small in size. The path continued on the other side before it connected to the back of the Beasts classroom. James had never seen anyone down below at the ravine’s shore. If there was a way down, someone would’ve found it by now. Or maybe no one else knew about it except him. He liked to think the latter.
The path wasn’t enjoyable to walk through. Because the mist was usually so thick, he’d miss the rough overgrown roots weaved through the path and he’d trip and scrape himself. The bramble would scratch at his legs. The steepness of the hills was irritating and exerted him terribly. Half the time, he couldn’t tell if he was going in the right direction, or whether he had accidentally turned around and would walk himself right off a cliff in the gloom. No one was around to help him. James was completely alone.
Yet, he kept coming back. Here, James wasn’t James. He was stripped to something lesser and more.
This place was metamorphosis. This place was the root of all his dreams.
James found it hard to sleep. Whether it was his room back home, the bed in his dorm, or his girlfriend’s shared mattress, it was supremely difficult to lull himself. Half the time he did, he was transported to this lonely, useless trail again. Sleep exhausted him. He was lost as soon as he closed his eyes, and he was lost as soon as he opened them.
When he dreamt of the path, James found there was no such thing as straying from it; he had never felt the desire to seek out something new besides. The old, arduous one before him always seemed the only option. Up he’d go. The brush would bite at his ankles like it possessed small teeth. The mist felt like tears on his face. He was carrying something heavy, slung around his torso. His school bag. Textbooks banged sharply against his side as he trudged through, like a robot, like a ghost. James pretended himself into certainty a lot, but never would he be more sure than now. He felt weightless. The closest thing to free.
He was soul-bound to this place.
Then. The bridge. His dreams would always end at the bridge. The path blackened and darkened on the other side. What lay behind him had rotted, or was erased. James didn’t know– he never looked back. He always just looked down.
It didn’t feel like destiny. That wasn’t quite the word. It felt like an avalanche. A demise. Powerful. Inevitable. Natural. Out of his control.
It felt like falling.
James would wake up and learn to stop fearing it.