Traces of History

Harry stumbled forwards and his hand hit the tapestry by the side of him, sending a blow of dust which he was too slow to avoid breathing and got a mouthful of that nasty taste of old. It wasn’t until the choking subsided that he actually managed a look around, with watery eyes and his sight half blocked by the dirt on his glasses.

He moved more dust when kicking a lying helmet. The metallic sound echoed painfully, piercing the silence that seemed not to have been disturbed in ages. Gazing up, he spotted it; the huge tapestry finally made sense. Though the layers of dust, he was looking at the image of a man. The letters inscribed were worn out, but Harry made out the G’s and F’s, the rest was easy. Here’s your Half Blood Prince, Dumbledore, he told himself feeling sick of his stomach. Forever immobile.