the last verse ; harry potter [2]

vera's diary ; ii

It was dark outside, the moon hidden behind fluffs of clouds, and Diana Riddle's mind wandered down, down, down the rabbit hole into unconsciousness and she arose on the other side, the other world, a world in which she wasn't entirely convinced was not real.

She heard crying. Like a developing photo, the inside of a church began to seep into vision, saturated until she was truly standing between solid walls. The same church, in fact, she had seen before: last year, she would periodically find herself here when she fell asleep, encased in paint-splattered walls and pews made of sanded oak. The one she stood in now had the same stained-glass windows, splaying technicolor light upon the cement floor like splotches of colored paint, fuzzy around the edges but just as bright as if it were tangible. Reds and greens and blues colored the room, all dancing and jumping with joy. It had the same unblemished pews, the same statue of some great, bearded man, but she noticed a large difference: the walls that were usually painted in dull colors, depicting a bloody battle, were blank. They were only stone brick, grey and lifeless and dotted with specks of colored light streaming through the windows. They were walls you could typically find in a basement, old and eroded and dirty with ancient cobwebs and dust.

The crying echoed through the room, quiet and pitiful. A brown-haired woman sat huddled atop one of the middle pews, leaning against the far side with her head cupped in her hands. Her muffled cries sounded fierce and harsh and gritty, as if they were so violent they couldn't even be heeded by attempts at quieting one's self. She rocked herself with each sob, her hair splaying over her hands and face, her body heaving and trembling with each agonizing breath she took.

Diana found her feet moving forward toward the center pew from the back of the church. She brought herself to the isle of the pew with the crying woman, and her feet took her slowly down, down, down until she was close enough to touch her.

Her breathing was silent and she stood rigidly, watching the woman with curious eyes. Unable to stop herself, her fingers lifted until they gently brushed the woman's shoulder.

As if she had truly felt Diana's touch, she raised her head. Though her eyes were bright red and her face was splotchy, it was most definitely Vera Beauregard: her bright eyes shone through the welling tears, her hair violently pushed behind her ears, her teeth nearly chattering with the force of her crying. She looked ageless, as if she could be sixty or she could be twenty: she had soft creases that were gently carved into her face, though the longer you looked the more they disappeared. Her cheeks had the same hollowed glamour of beautiful youth, though her eyes were matured and her hair had light, almost imperceptible streaks of grey.

But Vera stared at Diana's shocked face. She couldn't bring herself to open her mouth and speak, for she was waiting for Vera's eyes to pass without recognition, or for someone to speak behind her who Vera had been truly looking at, but she didn't. Their eyes just met, their mouths frozen closed.

"Is this real?"

Diana hadn't thought before she said it; it just came out by itself, echoing dully through the abandoned chapel.

It took many moments for Vera to speak.

"Does it make any difference?"

Her voice was light and kind, her mouth quirked into a small smile. Her eyes roamed over Diana's face, over each of her features: her dark hair, her startling eyes, her pink lips, her high cheekbones.