Roseate Lies ~ Prologue
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and certain characters belong to J.K. Rowling, and also Heyday Films, Moving Picture Company (MPC), Warner Bros. Pictures, et al.
Dorian Gray and certain characters belong to Oscar Wilde, and also Ealing Studios, Alliance Films, Fragile Films, et al.
No profit is gained from this writing-only, hopefully, enjoyment.
TOIL and grow rich,
What's that but to lie
With a foul witch
And after, drained dry,
To be brought
To the chamber where
Lies one long sought
With despair?
"The Witch" ~ William Butler Yeats
The morning of his arrival, rain fell in sheets for as far as the eye could see, and a good deal beyond. The dreariness of it appealed to him, and he found the foul weather the only appropriate backdrop for such a day. The irony of sunshine and warm breezes would have been intolerable.
He was to wait at the gate, and while doing so struggled to remember his humility and the debt of honor he would hopefully soon find himself on the other end of. As the strange carriage he had ridden up in from the village nearby circled around and started back on its lumbering return, and as he stood with his suitcases, bags, and one crate surrounding him in the cold, northern rain, he found himself abruptly lost in the memory of another such time, another moment a lifetime ago when he had stood alone-completely and utterly separate from every other person in the world.
It was then, as his mind ventured once more into agonizing matters long past, that a messenger appeared before him. Dressed entirely in black with a disposition seemingly even gloomier, the figure approached the large gate on foot. When within hailing distance, the stranger pointedly acknowledged him with only a brief nod and quickly set about opening the gate.
Surprisingly silent, the great mass of metal easily gave way, and without delay the messenger, who resembled nothing so much as an overly large, drenched bat, stepped through. He smoothly glided over to the small heap of luggage and then drew short, seeming all of a sudden almost hesitant.
"The crate?" the stranger finally asked, eyes intent upon the object in question.
"Yes, although I will carry it myself," he responded, and, without waiting for reply, quickly strode over and picked up the flat box crate.
The bedraggled, sour man turned to look at him, but stopped before making actual eye contact. There was a bitter rejoinder floating around unspoken, no doubt some remark about hotels and servants, but, in only a matter of seconds, the man had successfully arranged the remaining baggage and without further ado turned back to pass through the giant work of iron.
"Coming?" the man tossed over his shoulder, already walking once more up the path, this time with several pieces of sturdy brown leather luggage under his charge.
Knowing no response was either necessary or expected, and with the most secure and unyielding of grips on the crate he held, he set off after the unpleasant man, stepping through the open gate and resignedly plodding through mud, puddles, and slick grass.
Just before a bend in the path took them to the left of some very tall trees, he risked a glance back the way they had come.
The gate was firmly shut and pulsed with a steady white light.
Part One