            It sat at the very edge of the cliffside, where earth met a writhing grey sky, and the sea around it churned, black waves soaring and crashing. The door was at least the size of Grimmauld place and curved, save for fissures in the crackling, scarlet frame of pure, energized magic. And in between the nearly blinding, red light of the boundaries was a darkness so black, so devoid of life, that a terrible cold settled through her body at the mere sight. Muggles would have called it a black hole. Hermione knew better. What lay between the edges of sparking, spitting magic was Death itself. Sucking, luring, calling out for life.