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THE FIFTH DAY after the night of horror dawned, and silence settled itself over the heads of the students of that Academy where, in its halls, the golden memories of childhood slowly faded away, and a shadow loomed across the minds of all, forced to be ignored like an everlasting lie, for its utterance would misshape history.
The students did not speak of the incidents, and silence fell. A silence because no one spoke of the gruesome murder and its perpetrator; of the omnipresent existence of the Infernal. The Oratory was closed, leaving only a single white rose as a memorial to what had happened.
It was palpable in them, the quiet apprehension. They all felt the absence of something; the emptiness that enveloped this place, for James Paaige's soul had not escaped, nor wandered without purpose or beginning, but had vanished like the bygone time.
And amidst all the silent mourning and the black gowns stood Professor Riddle, who always attracted Alethea's gaze. She observed him in the mornings that grew grey with the approach of winter, repeating the words that they whispered in her mind like a mantra to remind herself of how his mind might be wired.
They spoke of him being raised in a Catholic orphanage in London, surrounded by the false religion. Of him being baptised, and of the Red Cardinal being the only one to bear his presence. But the image refused to form in her mind.
His figure, wrapped in an obsidian cloak, often stood in the mighty skeleton of the old sanctuary; sat in the choir, through whose tracery windows coloured light fell, up there at the professors' table, as if his dark aura did not cloud her mind.
Every day she saw him in the ruins of a church, yet his gaze was never directed at the ceiling, wondering what would happen to his soul when his eyes would close for eternity.
And was this not the only question that haunted Christians? The one that kept them awake at night? Oh, will I be the same good person tomorrow as today, already feeling heaven?
Alethea watched as Professor Riddle stood between the towering serpentine columns in the corner of the great crypt, his form now shrouded in a black cloak to show his mourning. Her grey eyes were fixed on him, while he admired the statue. Salazar Slytherin on his throne, like a god looking down upon them, the commons.
Her gaze was fixed on him, not knowing why he was in Summoning class or why he said nothing, just listening to Professor Graham while his youthful gaze was fixed on the wizard who had reduced whole villages to ashes with demon fire after Dustborn had burned his wife on a stake as a heretic.
"On Saturday, we had a demon attack, and as your professor of these very creatures, I wondered if the students were perhaps not so well trained. Or perhaps they are, but lack the general competence to apply their knowledge outside the classroom," echoed the resounding voice of Professor Graham, who took a step back and looked almost languidly at his class. "A good professor blames his students, not himself."
