Chapter 19: Ravenclaw

Ravenclaw. Herne had been chosen by the very head of house to be placed into such a group of astute individuals. He had not been selected by the hat like his peers but instead specifically elected, though as to why the boy didn't exactly know.

He had heard but snippets from the adults pressing conversation, rare instances of agitated tones being thrown at one another, and scathing reviews of his persona and yet, the boy knew only one thing, that being where he now belonged and his smile reflected such a fact, for veiled by the corpse of the leather creation existed his contorted lips.

However, that was the last Herne would hear of the spectators deliberating tones, for, in the following moments, nought but silence would ensue. The air around him felt cumbrous against his stained blue skin as he awaited further directions, instructions from Rowena as to what he was to do, and yet, nought but ringing silence reverberated within his mind. Like the sound of static, Herne could do little more than revel in the perpetual noise that plagued his mind with no remorse for his ever-drowsy form.

His body grew colder by the second while the strange, almost irony liquid that once drifted atop the very surface of his fingers bled into his skin, robbing him of his warmth and dyeing his flesh with their nameless colour.

Seconds passed this way, though, for Herne, it felt like hours. It was as though his concept of time had been shifted, stolen from him by the umbral guise of the darkened room. He could feel his breaths steam against the very tip of his nose, condensing in the form of running snot.

The sensation was stifling, yet Herne could not rebel against it, only submit to the space's musty attitude. His lungs burnt as spores burrowed their way into his oesophagus, trying yet failing to force the mucus-coated structure to contort in a way that would allow them to make it their home. With time the boy could even feel his eyes redden and swell to the point where he mistook the forced tears that ran down his cheeks for irritable droplets of crimson bile. If he remained in the land much longer, Herne feared he may reignite the memory of the gnawing maggots from his stay at the Three broomsticks inn. However, this time, they would not be chewing upon wood but instead his flesh, the skin upon which he made sure to keep clean.

It was when Herne was about to give in to the maddening temptation the darkness provided that he heard it, a soft tone that pressed upon his ears in a mind-numbing notion, the voice of Rowena.

"Herne, you can leave now. We'll open the door, but no matter what, you must keep the hat upon your head until you hear its call," The mother spoke. However, her words confused the boy, for what he heard from the brief interludes of sentences he could transcribe from the ephemeral mutterings that once filled the claustrophobic darkness was that the hat was asleep. Did something happen? Had the four heads managed to awaken their slumbering creation? No, Herne still couldn't hear it. The second voice in his head had retreated. Not even a syllable was breathed in his mind without his express permission.

He was once again the king, so then what? Why did they tell him to fasten down the leather item until it had spoken? Herne was confused, yet he did not utter a rebuttal nor question his elder's demands. He merely accepted everything asked of him with a broad, obscured smile. And it was with such an expression that the sealed space began to open, for the slammed door once again began to turn upon its infested hinges that had become a breeding ground for all types of nocturnal creations.

Immediately light sprawled into the room, though it did not manage to penetrate the thick leather cap the boy wore. In fact, it looked to avoid the placid Herne in his entirety, for no beams pressed against his sodden figure. He was not illuminated by heaven's radiance but instead accepted by the void. Warmth flooded the mind of the dazed child, though not that of the enchanted sky above nor the luminous candles that had burst into life from all corners of the decrepit land but of Rowena's dainty palm that embraced his hand with kindness only she spared him.

The mother led Herne out of the airless space and to the border where the light clashed with the room's fetid darkness in an eternal battle between too fundamental ideologies, and it was there that she paused. It was for but a second, and yet, in that brief instance, a torrent of strange utterings left her mouth. Herne couldn't see it, but a wand had been firmly placed upon his chest, its tip glowing a strange translucent blue light that looked to contort and pull at the very space around it.

Such a light, however, did not stay fixed to the item's point but instead traversed to the forsaken land that was the boy's body or instead his cloak and tunic. It shrouded his entire being. His once frigid flesh appeared to soften, almost thaw under the odd radiance, the bleeding sensation of the eerie bile that seeped into his skin all but dissipated as though peeled by the mystical enchantment. He had been cleaned, though what of Herne did not know.

Still, the magic did not stop there, for before it rid itself of this world, its ethereal body seeped into the very fabric of the now-deceased hat, at which point it began to softly blaze in the same picturesque blue light.

The moment the light dissipated, so too did the warmth Rowena provided. Her hand had left the boy's at the precipice between the two worlds, and no matter how much Herne attempted to find the woman, he simply could not, for his eyes remained blind to the world, obscured by the same decrepit fabric the adults were trying to comprehend.

"No matter what you do, Herne, do not turn around nor even think of lifting up the sorting hat. Just make your way to the front and centre of the room and sit atop the wooden stall," Rowena instructed, her voice lacking the warmth her hands had once provided. All the while, her piercing gaze remained ever-placed upon Herne's slowly meandering form. She would have to separate from the boy, for now. Her conversation with Salazar, Godric and Helga had yet to conclude.

They would have to skip out on the festivities they had once planned. Leave the children to squabble amongst themselves as they break the ice between one another. It was an event the mother wished with all her heart to see, yet unfortunately, one she would not be able to attend.

"You should be able to find your way back to the stool, right?" Rowena questioned, not wholly ignorant of Herne's rather unfortunate circumstance, unlike her peers who did not find an issue with the child's temporary blindness.

However, her words would fall upon deaf ears, for before the first of the many syllables could even trespass through the barrier between her plump red lips to the air around her, the boy had already departed from the stifling room.

His steps were shoddy, mismatched as he stumbled towards the towering form of the wooden stool that was now entirely eclipsed by the shadow of the stained glass window that loomed poignantly behind it as if in wait for the blasphemous child to take his throne once more.

It beckoned the boy, called to him, guided him, for although Herne was without the ability to see, he found his feet instinctually falling into place atop the path that would lead towards the godless seat. The eyes of the many once again found themselves entranced by the strange figure of the once-removed boy as he fumbled his way through their very own garden of Eden. However, though their eyes followed the boy with utmost curiosity, the way they fundamentally viewed the child had changed, for rumours had started to spread, originating from the den of lions.

Hushed voices bounded across the expansive hall, recoiling off every possible surface until they breached the boundaries that served as Herne's concealed ears.

"Hey, do you think it's true-What the Gryffindors are saying about him?"

"Are you an idiot? Of course, it is. There's no way someone would be able to stall that hat for so long otherwise, or are you forgetting how quickly it delved into our minds and started messing with us,"

"But I don't know, it didn't feel like the hat's ability was something that could only be performed on us wizards, you'd think it'd even work on the common folk,"

Whispers about Herne had begun to spread, their tales varying though one thing remained a common practice across all retellings, that being.

"I don't know. Apparently, he can hardly use magic. From what I heard, it took him hours to even find a wand that would bond with him, and when it did, the most he could do was produce some feeble sparks,"

That Herne, try as he might, could not use magic. That no matter how much he repeated the same motions as the mass, no matter how perfectly he recreated their calls, their chants, he could only produce the most ethereal, short lived spells, a feat that to any non-magical human would be deemed as incredible, was something to be scoffed at, fuel to be attacked for under the prideful demeanour of the blessed wizards.

Their words rattled the boy's ears without a defined end. He heard their whispers, their scoffs and haughty remarks and yet, Herne was unfazed. He was unaware as to the poison their words carried, for Herne did not have a solid basis as to which he should compare them. He knew no better, and without a second thought, his once-sealed mouth stretched into a blinding smile. To Herne, it expressed his happiness, his joy that those around him saw him as a peer, as Herne, they called his name, the title he had been blessed with not even a day prior.

However, such a smile did not appear the same way to the cacophonous mass of children. Instead, it irked them. It was as though Herne was looking down upon them like their condescending words meant nothing to him. He was above them. Such a thought fueled the ever-burning wrath of those of noble descent and the envy of the commoners, yet, no matter how intense their furore toward the child was, they could not raise their tone, for, at that moment, the world around them shifted as Herne placed himself atop the stained stool.

Herne's figure, embraced by the devilish multicoloured light of what should have been a righteous, holy mural, was a sight to behold. The breaths of the masses froze in their chest, left to be little more than bubbles that would never boil over, while their eyes seemed to widen, for the scenery around them shifted. The hall was embraced by darkness, no candles shone, nor light shimmered.

The enchanted ceiling above did not reflect a portrait of the blue sky but rather a visage of endless night. Many thought the enchantment broken, overridden by an overwhelming magic. That was how they rationed the abrupt shift. After all, it was simply impossible for the sky to change like that, for the sun to set and be eclipsed by the moon. Though not covered, they had divined when such an astrological phenomenon would occur and would not be for months.

No stars shimmered in the blackened canvas. It was an all-consuming void of eternal night, one broken solely by the mystical lunar object that stood lovingly amidst such a scene. The moon's radiant glow dyed the open area in its pale white light, though what fraction the mass was blessed with paled in comparison to the child sat atop the radiant throne, for endless light streamed atop his flesh, soaking him in the solemn vows such a celestial being spewed.

It broke through the barrier of the stained glass window, illuminating every inch of Herne's detached body, embracing his figure in a curious manner, one that wished to know of the boy's every trouble. All beheld the sight of Herne with utmost enrapture. They could not speak nor breathe. Their expressions had been frozen, and so too was their skin, for upon the tops of the flesh of all gathered littered a multitude of swelled goosebumps.

However, one figure was free from the ephemeral enchantment the child appeared to have placed over him, that of Merlin, who looked at Herne with wide-eyed curiosity. The very seams of her lip appeared to tug at the forefront as though beckoning the fleshy mound of skin into a grand smile, her icy blue eyes appeared to melt for but a moment, replaced by the original pale amethyst. This was interesting. Herne was interesting. After all, from what she observed, the child wasn't even using magic, nor was anybody else, whether they be in the room or not.

However, such a scene soon came to an abrupt halt the very moment the hat atop his head began to speak. It was instantaneous. With the first syllable that left the item's lip, the sky appeared to clear, the moon immediately set and in its place once again shimmered a clouded sky with a sunny centrepiece.

"Ravenclaw!" The hat bellowed though something was off with its tone of voice. Though the hat made the right motions and spoke in a manner one could only deem incredible, its intonation appeared stilted and off. It no longer sounded like it once did, its inflection was not as organic as before, but instead, it seemed synthesised, a copy of a tune it once performed. It was still dead, without life, though no one knew at that time spare for the creators and one rather astute individual possessing a head of luxurious blonde hair.

Immediately a torrent of changes occurred around Herne's person, the first of which revolved around one of his sealed senses, for he now had gained permission to remove the leather item. His sight had returned, yet what he saw was not a sea of applauding individuals like he had hoped, neigh prayed for, but instead a crowd of stern, almost solemn faces, all of which stared at the boy as if to pry into his very soul, their wrath undisguised and their hatred unfaltering.

They couldn't fathom the event that had just occurred. Had Herne performed such a mystical performance? No, the idea was simply laughable. Then what? One of the teachers, they had all dissipated, vanished behind the insufferably raucous twisted metal door they had once pulled the child into. The scene perplexed all who dared question the event, yet those who simply ignored the fundamental question that plagued the very forefronts of their mind were left with the idea of simply accepting the gaudy presentation of the boy named Herne, the child who was apparently without noticeable magic.

Still, no matter how much they leered at Herne, the child would do nought but stare at himself, his gaze not even matching his apparent opposition as he found himself entranced by his new attire. His once pale tunic had been dyed in the very cobalt blue of the Ravenclaw crest, a notion that was recreated by both his cloak and buckle. He was a Ravenclaw. The hat had cast its judgement though the authenticity of which was something to be questioned though, not by Herne but rather by his peers who stared at the boy with gobsmacked looks of intrigue.

The light of the stained glass window appeared to shift, no longer casting a grand shadow across the broad all it was content with, mildly illuminating the expansive upon which the four founders should have presided, yet one that was now distinctly absent of life.

Herne pulled himself off the steep stool to stand shoddily atop the hard flooring, where his steps echoed with deafening clarity. The hat had been shoved away, placed atop the rickety stool and left abandoned, for Herne did not wait to be called to his table but instead marched there of his volition.

He could feel the leers of his peers stab into his frail body with little remorse, their voices stirred into a cacophony of sound, all of which appeared to revolve around him and yet he kept walking, his figure lined both sides of the leviathan table, yet no matter where he attempted to sit he was met with nought but an occupied land upon which a student had just moved, they were barring his entry to their plain, a fact Herne remained ignorant too as he simply continued to move, aimlessly wandering the occupied land until he eventually found a lot free of human life.

Herne sat upon the very corner of the exorbitantly large creation, his surroundings all but deserted of life spare for one human who eyed the child with utmost disinterest, sharing both the same void-like eyes and silken raven black hair of her mother. Helena could not care less for the expressive child who positively bounced before her.