14th October, 1888 - Knockturn Asylum
Time was an uncaring master.
It was a fickle, remorseless, and merciless beast that could not be tamed and with each day that passed in the Asylum, it had become the most ruthless of all captors. The days bled into nights and each second melded into a blur of indistinct hours to which Argus was oblivious and no matter how hard he tried to keep a steady watch on the sun through the slits in the walls he had for windows, the only thing he knew for certain was that as darkness fell on the cold stone room each night, there would soon be light to signify another day had dawned. The warmth of the sun would creep into his cell and for the briefest of moments, things would feel okay.
But as time always did, it would take that away from him and the unfriendly dark would rear its ugly head once again. He had no relief and no release from the torture he had found himself in. Though he was left alone and though no one interrupted him, Argus could hear the blood-curdling screams echo through the halls – and that was the only comfort he could find. To know others were there even if he would never see them was enough for him to know he was not alone but even that soon ended when he found his vision would begin to blur and each cough drew blood.
He was due to be released in less than a month though time; time had decided that Argus, the once great auror, had used too much of its’ gift. Each day he would open his eyes and see himself etching closer toward finally being free though with each step he took, he could feel something clutching a hold of him tighter and tighter. He could step outside of these dark walls and feel the air on his face once again though when he did, he would be greeted by a cloaked figure to whisk him into the afterlife. It had become an inevitability and so he wrote the letters to his children to make things better. It had become a cruel joke that time had played on him and though time was without mercy and emotion, it allocated him a moment to reflect on his life and as Argus did, he was not met with the happiness of his past before the accident but of his actions after. He was met with everything that had led to this place. That had led to him knowing that he would no more see Araminta’s soft smile or Julius’s stoic demeanour. He would no more be able to walk down the cobbled paths of Hogsmeade and inhale the scents of the bakeries and sweet shops. He would no more be able to sit in his chair watching over his family at the dinner table as they discussed their days.
No more would Argus be able to watch his children grow.
No more would Argus be able to sip his favourite drink.
No more would he be able to make right all the wrongs he had done.
Perhaps, then, that was why time had presented Argus with this inevitability. As he sat on the stone floor with his legs tucked in and arms wrapped around himself in the corner of the room, Argus thought on everything he had done wrong. He’d allowed the vicious attack – the one that changed him – to control him. He’d allowed it to shape him into a shadow of the man he once was. Glimpses of his past would shoot across his eyes before the bright lights of the night he attacked his own blood plummeted directly into his chest like a knife straight through his heart. He yearned for forgiveness though knew the possibility was not one that would come into fruition. He wished, more than anything, to be able to turn back time and make right everything he had done.
And that was it, he supposed. The actions of his past had dictated his future and the future he had was a dark void with no hope of finding the light once again.
Slowly, sluggishly, and sleepily Argus took a shakey hold of his quill and parchment and began to write.
It was a fickle, remorseless, and merciless beast that could not be tamed and with each day that passed in the Asylum, it had become the most ruthless of all captors. The days bled into nights and each second melded into a blur of indistinct hours to which Argus was oblivious and no matter how hard he tried to keep a steady watch on the sun through the slits in the walls he had for windows, the only thing he knew for certain was that as darkness fell on the cold stone room each night, there would soon be light to signify another day had dawned. The warmth of the sun would creep into his cell and for the briefest of moments, things would feel okay.
But as time always did, it would take that away from him and the unfriendly dark would rear its ugly head once again. He had no relief and no release from the torture he had found himself in. Though he was left alone and though no one interrupted him, Argus could hear the blood-curdling screams echo through the halls – and that was the only comfort he could find. To know others were there even if he would never see them was enough for him to know he was not alone but even that soon ended when he found his vision would begin to blur and each cough drew blood.
He was due to be released in less than a month though time; time had decided that Argus, the once great auror, had used too much of its’ gift. Each day he would open his eyes and see himself etching closer toward finally being free though with each step he took, he could feel something clutching a hold of him tighter and tighter. He could step outside of these dark walls and feel the air on his face once again though when he did, he would be greeted by a cloaked figure to whisk him into the afterlife. It had become an inevitability and so he wrote the letters to his children to make things better. It had become a cruel joke that time had played on him and though time was without mercy and emotion, it allocated him a moment to reflect on his life and as Argus did, he was not met with the happiness of his past before the accident but of his actions after. He was met with everything that had led to this place. That had led to him knowing that he would no more see Araminta’s soft smile or Julius’s stoic demeanour. He would no more be able to walk down the cobbled paths of Hogsmeade and inhale the scents of the bakeries and sweet shops. He would no more be able to sit in his chair watching over his family at the dinner table as they discussed their days.
No more would Argus be able to watch his children grow.
No more would Argus be able to sip his favourite drink.
No more would he be able to make right all the wrongs he had done.
Perhaps, then, that was why time had presented Argus with this inevitability. As he sat on the stone floor with his legs tucked in and arms wrapped around himself in the corner of the room, Argus thought on everything he had done wrong. He’d allowed the vicious attack – the one that changed him – to control him. He’d allowed it to shape him into a shadow of the man he once was. Glimpses of his past would shoot across his eyes before the bright lights of the night he attacked his own blood plummeted directly into his chest like a knife straight through his heart. He yearned for forgiveness though knew the possibility was not one that would come into fruition. He wished, more than anything, to be able to turn back time and make right everything he had done.
And that was it, he supposed. The actions of his past had dictated his future and the future he had was a dark void with no hope of finding the light once again.
Slowly, sluggishly, and sleepily Argus took a shakey hold of his quill and parchment and began to write.
October 13th, 1888My darling wife,
I am so sor-
And as much as he wanted to finish writing, Argus couldn’t. Time held out an outstretched hand and offered it to the former auror. His time was over and so Argus closed his eyes to enter his slumber.
He awoke in the same dimly lit room though there was nothing outside of his cell. He took hold of time’s hand before being led into the abyss. As he stepped foot outside, Argus felt the cold brush of fresh air caress his face only to be greeted by a cloaked figure.
Though it was true time was an uncaring master, death was but a companion.
![[Image: BAKvaaS.png]](https://i.imgur.com/BAKvaaS.png)