Not Broken, Not Yet | Tom Riddle

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Five

They said he killed himself. That Archibald McDougal slit his throat in his cell sometime before midnight. End of story. Dead. The news spread like a wildfire around the castle and quite quickly the victims were forgotten, for what were they compared to the insane killer that was Archibald McDougal? Rumours spread of his madness, and his last grisly murder. Two first years, both muggleborn - dead just outside the castle walls and then McDougal, found singing drinking songs over their bodies with a bloody dagger in his hand. It was the perfect bloody end to the perfect bloody story.

Yet I couldn't help feeling like there was something wrong with the entire situation. That there simply was something fishy about it. It was of course a silly notion since most students bought the story without further questions. McDougal was a nomad that was a known thief travelling over wizarding communities in Great Britain. There had however, to my knowledge, never been records of him being violent or harbouring the anti-muggle ideas he had revealed to me and Tom on his final night. It all seemed so very strange. So very strange and unbelievable. And there I was, unable to do anything about it.

I found myself growing anxious as the days passed and the chatter of McDougal slowly faded away. Because despite him being gone, dead, I couldn't help but wake in the middle of the night to the vision of his frantic eyes and insane smile. He was dead, but perhaps he wasn't quite gone. And I do believe one part of me doubted he ever would go away.

And so the days passed as the school slowly healed from its wounds. Four students lost. Four lives lost. The Daily Prophet had of course been all up Professor Dippet's beard about it and despite the sudden death of McDougal the school's security had been heightened, and on the ministry's insistence aurors had been placed by all entrances. I suppose it was to make us feel safe, to make us forget the horrors that had swept through our halls.

It didn't work.

For every auror, every extra precaution was a reminder of what had happened, and perhaps more importantly; they created a sort of suspense that something of the same sort would happen again.

"Do you think this is the end?" I asked Tom a few days later as we sat in the room of requirement, staring into the bubbling brew stirring in front of the fireplace. He sat on the other side of the green couch, posture relaxed as his eyes flickered between the brew and the window.

"Whatever are you on about now?" He muttered, sighing as he turned back to me. I had a knack for asking the most random of questions out of nowhere whenever my mind thought of them, something Tom had quickly picked up on.

I crossed my arms. "You don't know?" I asked and pouted.

"I am not a mind-reader, Green." Tom said dryly. "Yet."

I blinked at his last word. "Not at all creepy, oh well, don't look at me like that, Riddle dear, I will tell you. But only if you say please."

Tom's eyes narrowed, he didn't say so much as a word. His gaze was fixed on me, unyielding and quite clearly not at all willing to beg. I rolled my eyes to hide the blush covering my cheeks.

"I was referring to McDougal." I said hurriedly, not wanting the silence to continue on longer.

"Ah." He mumbled, letting the word hang in the air for a moment. "I think it depends." He then finished.

"On what?" I queried.

"What you refer to when you say 'the end'." He said simply. "The world is changing, Green. Grindelwald is gathering followers as we speak, anti-muggle action is taken all across Europe and even the ministry is growing stricter." He eyed me. "Maybe McDougal was a product of his time, or maybe, he was but a warning." Slowly he turned his sparkling eyes back to the fire. "The only thing I can say for sure is that this is not a good time to be a muggle."