#180 in Fanfiction || #1 in Hermione ||
In the language of literature, there exists a seemingly-concrete, antonymous relationship between good and evil, light and dark, hero and monster. And yet, we often disregard the transition from one to anothe...
In more ways than one, the Room of Requirement fits to the needs of the visitor present. Like it had for Harry in his Fifth Year, it provides the necessary tools for planned tasks and the environment suited to the needs of the user. But moreover, it seems to bask itself in an atmosphere fitting of the meeting. For Dumbledore's Army, it provided a refuge from Umbridge, screaming of safety and hope. And tonight, it was completely antonymous of the DA for the gathered group.
It would not appear to be the appropriate time of night--midnight, specifically-- if it was not for the imposed ambiance in the Room. The corners lingered in darkness, as did the majority of the walls, in the small gathering room of three dark leather couches, one larger armchair, and a green-lit fireplace, not providing much light at all. Indeed, the light only seemed to play on the leading figure of the Knights of Walpurgis, accenting his pacing silhouette and sharp curves of his body. His pale skin had never appeared paler than in this light and his anger. Like a phantom, he gracefully paces in front of his knights, their faces reflecting genuine fear at the dark magic stirring around him and tempting to kill them all.
"Now, not two days ago, one of our own decided it'd be acceptable to go around screaming titles in the open halls of Hogwarts," Voldemort snarls, his pacing halted as his predatory, yet cold, eyes come to rest upon the once innocent looking boy whom has been tainted by his bidding. "Nott, what do you have to say for yourself?"
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The boy, caught under the anger of their Lord like one boy per meeting, is as stuck as ever, eyes wide and fearful like no one else could make him. The power of Tom Riddle--with his magic sparking around them dangerously and cold eyes that had killed multiples--made Nott weak to his first thoughts. "I was just--"
"Crucio!" Tom cruelly cries, watching with a glint in his eye as Nott falls from his place on the couch, down to the cold, stone floor. The professors say you have to mean the Unforgivables to perform them, and from Nott's screams, Tom is reassured that he really means them. "You were doing nothing!"
Tom turns gracefully, though like a whip upon a lion, to the other Knights of Walpurgis, their eyes revealing the fear that Tom loathes despite the fact that this curse is performed at least once per meeting. Of course it is intentional, on Tom's part, to invoke fear within his followers and reassure his power over them. And that power twists grimly upon his lips, looking to the whimpering Slytherins around him with a cruel glance: "If I ever hear my title used outside this room, consider your families ruined. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, my Lord," echoes from all the boys without a moment's hesitation, like a trained army of brainless soldiers. And though their thoughtlessness worries Tom greatly, he accepts their words with the removal of the Cruciatus from Nott.
"Now, Mulciber, what was it that Nott was so needing to tell me?" Tom drawls, not sparing one look at the 'unfortunate' victim of this night's rage and instead turning to Nott's partner in their tasks.
