#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...
The Great Hall is not as it once was, the lined tables now lined students and easy air now cold with tension. Even in the 1940s, with the monster of Voldemort sitting in this Hall with his own dark followers, the room was warm in a homely sort of comfort, the best that Tom had to give to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But now, it is like the darkness that resides in Tom, palpable even between the students he crouches beside and with his hand wrapped around Hermione's. The lights seem dimmer than before, the night sky nothing more than clouds, no stars to brighten the night, a metaphor for the time. And though he cannot see more than Gryffindors and the walls of the Great Hall, Tom knows Voldemort is here, waiting for them.
And with the Great Hall now masked in his magic, a stream and ark of power poignantly flowing around them, Tom realizes how much Voldemort lost. It's clear--now that he sees the manifestation of the monster--that Tom Riddle spliced all his good attributes when he created his horcruxes, putting the worst of his soul into the container and keeping the good for himself. That small amount of concern and selflessness is lost with the fact First Year students are now sacrificial lambs to the dark cause. That bit of humanity, lost to the fact that Voldemort is attacking a school of children, something even the worst would never consider. With the partitioning of his soul, Voldemort lost his humanity.
And Hermione can feel Tom's recognition, the boy's hand strengthening in grip with each passing step into the hall, his eyes troubled in analysis of fact. She can only return the grasp, ever increasingly, until their skin is white with pressure in an instance neither will ever remark on. Tom looks weak in his sins, but he trust Hermione not to tell.
Despite the atmosphere--likely because this is now common--the students continue to buzz in quivering questions of their presence here, late at night and nearing curfew. The lines in which they hide, evidently out of sight, stay firm in their design, well practiced obviously enough and with little complaint on part of the masses. Likely because they'll get tortured if they complain.
Peering around the lines, Hermione and Tom gaze upon a collection of old faces for her and implied ones for Tom. At the front of the Hall where the professors' table once existed, two similar, dark-clothed figures stand firmly with sweeping eyes of deep cruelty. Amycus and Alecto Carrow. To the right--staged against the old Castle wall of the great school--stands a worn and older female, haired knotted tight and with a face of great conviction, though lacking in hope. Minerva McGonagall. The left wall holds a smaller figure, obviously descended from goblins but with less maliciousness in his careful, caring eyes. Filius Flitwick. And then there is the entering cloak, sweeping out a ray of darkness like the depths of his eyes and color of his greasy hair, looking all the same in character but with every weight of the war on his back, branded traitor for all but Albus Dumbledore, dead. Severus Snape.
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At the vision of the Headmaster, despite the less-than-caring zeal he revealed this year, the students mudder into silence, more fearful of the Carrows than Severus Snape. He stands in the center of the raised area, sharp in appearance and quartered by the other Death Eaters, all three pairs of eyes keen on discovering the truth and sharing it with the Dark Lord. And though the man simply looks dark, lacking in moral sanity and incapable of compassion, Tom cannot help thinking there have been worse men to rule over Hogwarts.
