They say when you die, a profound sense of ease comforts your body.
You are preparing yourself to go to a much peaceful place, a much better one, leaving behind the world along with all its atrocity. The pain that tormented your body for years, the grief that ground your soul for decades, is no longer your companionship. And all you experience at that moment is a feeling of liberation as if you have turned into a leaf hoisting in the warm autumn wind blowing. Or such, as if you are floating on your back in the most calmer waters, encircled by the purest Turquoise overtone to the deepest soothing hue of Prussian blue. Your body comes in contact with emptiness, annihilating all your senses and perceptions.
I say they lie.
You feel your body seized by a pain incomparable to everything you could have felt before in your life. You feel how the weight of your body is growing and presses your organs as if it wants to crush them. And it's like you feel yourself delving into the floor, your body fiercely attempting to drag you into a dark abyss against your will.
You struggle, you writhe, you try to get up. You try to fight with an entity that exceeds your ability to understand. And which, without any effort, holds you down.
You are able, with weak twitches, to move a finger or two, and this gives you the hope that you could even get up.
And in your anguish, you squirm even more and lessen what it's left of you, giving your best to escape from the claws of death.
For a moment, you really believe that you have defied the death, and your eyes gain a glimmer of hope, the corner of your eyes slightly moistening in joy.
Or maybe sadness, because a part of you is still rational, sentient that you are not actually coming back to life, but you are giving up your last breath.
And so you let a tear caress your still warm cheek. And in your renunciation of struggling, all the other senses invade you.
Although my eyes were blurred, I could notice the white rays of light dancing on the wall, refracted through the glass behind me; 'The war is not over', I told myself bitterly, knowing that I will see the end of it behind the curtains.
Only then did I become aware of the vein in my neck that was strongly throbbing in two small places, similar to the sharp tip of a needle, not at a great distance one from the other.
It was throbbing almost as when ...
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From one year to the next it seemed as if the agitation was getting bigger and bigger, everybody was crowding, it was a competition between which gets first to his table, which greets more friends, and all without missing the opportunity to give the rival house the short stink eye.
But once they sat at their table, everyone was eagerly awaiting to see the little ones among them walking with trembling feet to the front chair, looking over each other's shoulders at the newcomers' reactions: some screamed with joy, others burst into tears.
That and the food were the great joys of that evening. They all knew that the finest dishes were served on the first day of the school year. It's as if the kitchen elves were teasing them: "You like the food, don't you, sir? Oh, we are more than pleased to hear that, miss. Pity we won't serve that until the next year". Maybe at Christmas, if you were lucky enough, you could say the food was comparable, but it was a kind of compensation for those who did not have the chance to spend the holiday with their family.
The sorting ceremony could sometimes take several hours, sometimes even an eternity. And that's exactly what it seemed to Ophelia, as she dragged her feet one millimeter per minute to the moment that would be decisive for her future. At least that's what she heard from the children on the Hogwarts Express, who kept getting into her compartment, asking if she knew what house she wanted to be sorted in. She was much later able to answer this specific question; well, in fact, someone told her to which house she would have been more suitable, and she could not have agreed more.
But she knew only one thing at the time: she had to be sorted into Salazar Slytherin's house. She did not even conceive of interrupting a long line of tradition in her family, in which for generations, they had unmistakably entered the house of the ambitious and cunning.
She was so lost in the image of the candles above her head, fascinated by how they could float on their own. She yet did not have a clear understanding of magic; she had not understood it even when, at the age of six, one night when she was afraid, she simply made her teddy bear float into her arms. But everyone told Ophelia she would understand more when she'll attend Hogwarts.
"Linwood." the little girl was still thinking if the candles were not suspended by the help of a thread or something; it had to be a scam.
"Linwood ?!" the gentle voice of the woman was heard for the second time. Ophelia looked down from the ceiling, staring at the chair she was about to sit on. With each step she took, her thoughts pressed harder on her shoulders and seemed to prolong the agony of the moment. The children's whispers were now in the background, and the only thing now heard in her little head was the voice telling her that she was not allowed to disappoint her family.
"Faster." one could already feel slight irritation in the woman's voice as she lifted the shabby object from the chair to make room for the girl to sit. Ophelia slipped a few times, and when she finally sat down, she grabbed the wooden edge of the chair in her small hands, clasping her fingers tightly.
As soon as the hat was on her head, it began to growl. She saw how fast things were going for the other children, and she did not understand what could take so long for her. It was simple, wasn't it? All the hat had to do was say Slytherin.
"You could have your own choice, you know that, right?!" a hoarse voice came from above her, suddenly taking Ophelia's breath away. "But it seems that life has chosed you another path." Those words made no sense to her, and it was far from what she wanted to hear. She was on the verge of crying when the hat said in a low voice, "Slytherin ...".
Her little heart began to resume its normal beating rhythm, and with a quick jerk, she jumped out of her chair, glancing over her shoulder at the man with his hair almost white as the milk, who applauded effervescently every time a child was sorted.
She was lost in the sea of children with green scarves with delicate silver threads, some of them proudly wearing the badge of their house (now she could easily say that it was hers, too), all inviting her to take a seat among them. But her feet didn't seem to want to listen to her, she passed by all those children who seemed to be the most popular.
But there it was a free seat that seemed to fit her. She didn't even attempt to ask if it was free, but she simply moved her legs around the bench, proudly waving her robe. She didn't even pay attention to the children in front of her who were eagerly stretching their hand to greet her; with delicate movements, she turned her head to the boy to her left, who looked the same age or maybe a little older.
Her eyes connected with the two, deep, onyx eyes, pleasantly framed by strands of black hair.
The boy smiled shyly at her as if it had been many years since he had done so.
