68|| Bishop to F5
At first, it is just Neville Longbottom who leaves the Castle, sullen and bloodied and limping with every step he takes. And then, it is Ginny, seemingly looking to mourn with her friend for those they lost and nameless others. But with her, more people come, as if drawn by the prospect of mourning, but truly, the air is coagulating and changing about them. Tom Riddle can feel the magic of empathy, of knowing an unknown person is shocked, of knowing where to go when a scene appears. And though the others do not feel it, they follow along like sheeps behind the shepherd, Neville, as a flock from the Great Hall.
And though it could be a trap, Tom knows Voldemort will not kill them until he brags about his sacrifice of the leading sheep and how he will slaughter them all. It's this idea that has him rising to his feet, bearing a hand up to Hermione as Ron also stands, struck by the current flow of people from the Hall. Luna, Seamus, Cho, Mister Weasley. And stumbling slightly, the three--not the Golden Trio--follow behind the crowds, amiss in the masses with every intention of hiding Tom Riddle until the last moment, if possible.
The sight that awaits them is to be expected: a parade of death, destruction, and immorality. In their uniforms of black, the Death Eaters of notable repute are striding with every nerve of victory, bragging before the final duels finally occur. It's as if they are attending a battle of politicans, one candidate and ideology against another, nevermind the fact that Hogwarts's candidate is dead.
And that's when Hermione realizes the purpose of the procession, knowing Voldemort is inclined to bragging, and this being a joust at the Order, a taunt with the dead body of Harry Potter. She cannot help the sharp gasp that escapes her lungs upon realizing, others looking to her tear-streaked and solemn face, innately knowing what has occurred--if not from the missing Harry--then from her expression of complete and unadulterated loss. Their people weave and stutter between their feet and around their spine, a silent call of mourning that is no different from the rest. But, ever the strength in the strong tides of life, Tom holds Hermione tighter about the waist, nested within the dwindling crowd of students and Order members.
"What's going on here, Neville?" they hear Arthur Weasley ask the boy from the head of the group, the boy stuttering and then lapsing into silence. And though he is strong from just the continuation of his stance and his conviction to help, Neville cannot manage the truth of words in that moment, Ginny being far too close and still unknowing of what happened. And then he is looking to the remainder of his friends and allies, a wish for the miracle of Harry's life within his eyes, but trodden down by the look in Hermione's eye.
But like all things dark, the state of the universe in its most natural form, there is always a light to permeate the darkness, needing only a single fuse to destroy the state of lightlessness. And that's what Neville finds in an oceanic depth of darkness, a glitter of a ruby-edged sword within the confines of the Sorting Hat...all like Second Year.
But blind to the power of these students, the Death Eaters and Voldemort continue their proud approach, pleased to see the blood, dirt, and gore on the faces of righteousness. And though he attempts to be subtle in his analysis of the remaining Golden Trio, D.A., and Order, Tom knows his attributed actions better than anyone, ducking behind the taller Dean Thomas without the boy's notice. Indeed, so sly in everything he does, only Hermione and Ron notice the action and immediately understand.
Harry called him their secret weapon, the boy who would defeat Lord Voldemort--paradoxically himself--if Harry could not. That time is now, but surprise is necessary.
And even more pleased with each inch he gazes at--war-torn students, the rubble of the destroyed Castle, and disheartened expressions--Voldemort does not notice the extra pair of feet in those masses, ones that could mean his downfall in the most ironic sense of the idea. He would destroy himself. But Voldemort does not see through the glazed eyes of his fatal flaw, pride, grinning most maliciously like Tom does, but so much worse.
"Behold, Nagini. Our work is done," the Dark Lord hisses in Parseltongue, a language unheard by the many people, though it carries over to the familiar ears of his other self. Tom questions the sanity of this other version, having taken company and alliance with a reptile over a human.
At his words, an unspoken command, the entirety of the parade stops for the viewing of the other company. And though there is much to see in those dark ranks, Hagrid has always been one to stand out--half-giant, after all--and one that Tom winces at for more reasons than one. If the character himself did not make him feel great emotion, than the figure in his arms does, the wet tears of the half-giant pouring onto the familiar shirt of Harry Potter. Limp and dead and everything in between, the Boy Who Lived is no longer living, but as dead as the old Headmaster and Voldemort in a few minutes' time.
"No...No!" Ginny screams from her realizing position near Neville at the sad sight of the boy she loves so dearly. It's almost primal in quality, reinforced as she pounces forward in an attempt for his side, maybe to kill the horrid Dark Lord himself. But, as a father always does, Arthur is quick to wrap a screaming Ginny into his arms, her body struggling under the constraining force before relinquishing to fate and fact alone. He pulls her into a tight and loving embrace and one that mourns together the whole lot of today's losses, this one most potently.
"Silence!" Voldemort calls at the girls unnecessary display of emotion, the Elder Wand jutting up with a crack towards the sky--obviously greatly enjoying using the clouds as a canvas, no more mature than a elementary student. But he looks at Ginny Weasley with a demeaning glance of many years, hissing, "Stupid girl. You cry for that?"
Tom pointedly huffs at the idiocracy of himself, so blind to the powers of emotion simply because he lost their potential to the creation of horcruxes. But nonetheless, he watches the Dark Lord's gesture to Hagrid's baggage, the great giant looking tearful but not scared in the slightest. Tom wonders what Hagrid feels like, seeing the monster that destroyed his life at a very young age.
"Tell me," the Dark Lord prompts, using a tone that's vaguely like the charming one Tom now uses, only the power's lost to his ugly facade and heartless actions. "These last few hours--as you collected the dead and tended your wounded--was he by your side?"
Another test. Voldemort's strangely blue eyes shift over the settled group of students and Order members, all of which are muted in response and look unwilling to bend a knee for his rule. But in that mass, Tom succeeds in hiding himself, a great task alone for he knows Voldemort is as observant as him, though slightly blinded by pride. They are the same person after all, and if Voldemort had seen him, he'd surely not have nodded happily at their silence, the Gryffindors starkly quiet.
"While your hands ran dark with the blood of mothers and sons, fathers and daughters, brothers and sisters, his were clasped in prayer--but it was a prayer for one and one only," Voldemort persuades a group of plugged ears, the good knowing of the man's questionable lunacy and Harry's complete selflessness in this war. "While you battled courageously, until you could no longer will yourself to stand, he had long since fallen to his knees. While you cursed me until your voices grew ragged, he begged me for mercy in a voice as meek as a child's."
"That is rubbish," Tom scoffs in a whisper, his voice permeated in a wavelength so smooth that Voldemort himself hears the sound, eyes narrowing in search of the perpetrator. But with everyone so collected together, as if trying to hide, the Dark Lord is unable to see himself in the masses, something that could make things better and worse.
And thus, he continues his fallacious stint of idiotic ideas, "So do not cry for that. He's not worthy of your tears. And do not despair of his betrayal. You were never in his heart. Not for one single solitary beat."
"Liar!" Ron cries that Gryffindor spirit and friendship, not so surprising and even less when Voldemort flicks the Elder Wand and Ron falls to his knees in pain. Far too close to the Dark Lord's line of sight, Tom swerves backwards to avoid notice near Ron.
"Did you not hear me?" Voldemort cries towards Ron in a victorious, angry, and proud voice. "Harry Potter is dead! From this day forward, you put your faith in me or suffer the consequences. Harry Potter is dead!"
The snake at the Dark Lord's feet seemingly hisses in victory at the exclamations of his mad master. And if the cruelty of Voldemort was not enough, everyone is furthermore assured this monster would be the worst leader of the Wizarding World, looking more than a touch mad in his address.
But he eyes them with an ignorance to their traitorous thoughts, reassured by the present and what must be done in joy, "Now is the time to declare yourself."
From both sides, light and dark, mumbling partakes the ears and mouths of all, questioning who will be the one to betray Harry Potter first, and verbally questioning if they should themselves. But there is a more potent person in the ranks of the light, seemingly a traitor as the family across his way stares and pleads.
"Draco..." his father hisses loudly, heard by the masses as everyone then focuses upon the Malfoy heir, his eyes bearing the weight of his and others' sins. The older man gestures for his son to come forth and into the Death Eaters, something that Draco nods at without fault, but then hesitates between steps, wondering what it is he wants.
"Draco, don't be stupid," his father is rash in pleading, a thin and malicious smile peeled across his face, though it is a begotten notion at his mother's request, "Come, Draco."
It's not a request, but a kind command from a kind woman, heard by all, even the living and the faked dead. Draco looks at her--the one person he cares for absolutely--before resting his eyes upon the ground and stepping forward towards not the Death Eaters, but his mother. Those around him send him bitter, hateful glances, things that Draco does not deserve for all he's done, and Tom wants to curse them for it. Slowly, he passes the remaining Golden Trio, a sharp pain in his stomach and only tightened by Ron's hissing, "He saved your life."
In the brief moment of more hesitation that those words evoke, Draco's eyes come in contact with those of Tom Riddle. The dark-haired boy has a blank facade, hiding behind the tall form of Deah Thomas. But for such an emotionless zeal in his eye, he can see the nameless boy challenging him to do what is right by his morals, not by his family. And though he must look to his mother, her form quaking in realization of his intentions, a barely perceivable nod, Draco grounds his feet into the ground near Tom, turning his hard grey eyes onto the horrid Lord Voldemort.
"No. I belong with Hogwarts," his voice quivers, not a Gryffindor but even more powerful for his courage in the eyes of the righteous. Cries of outrage sound from the walls of the Death Eaters and Snatchers, the Dark Lord meeting the look of Draco with threatening blue irises. But, having seen as much action on part of the boy, Voldemort's eyes quickly diverge to the previous focus of Draco Malfoy, knowing something or someone persuaded the boy otherwise. And yet, Tom expected as much from himself, now crouching behind the many people and closer to Draco.
In a sudden and slow maneuver, Tom Riddle passes a wand into Draco's hand, one he found on a Death Eater so minutes ago and intended to use himself, but Draco needs it now. And, like the smart boy his grandfather was, Draco knows not to look downward at the gesture, to reveal this stranger's presence at his feet, as Voldemort looks particularly inclined to find the person, coming up empty handed. It's as if this ghost knows how Voldemort will react.
"Your family will pay for this, Draco," Voldemort threatens, although it barely touches Draco's heart, not caring one bit for his father and having the acceptance of his mother. "But for now: who will be next? Hm? Come now, don't be shy."
Despite the state of their battle--Harry being dead--the others seem empowered by the actions of Draco Malfoy in resistance to the Dark Lord at the moment of the least hope. Voldemort sees this, of course, the enemies' eyes all burning red in defiance and rage, pointed at him except in the state of the leading figure, Neville Longbottom. With his eyes stuck to the ground, the wind lightly pushes the arm holding the Sorting Hat and it's interior treasure, the light of the weapon gleaming on Neville's eyebrow, missed by the Dark Lord.
Limping forward with stunned expressions following in his wake, Neville is strong and confident, burned, mangled, and dirtied by war and schooling. He only takes a few steps from his original position, but it is enough to make his intentions known, standing now in front of Voldemort, though a great distance away, and the Dark Lord looking absolutely amused.
"Well, I must say, I'd hoped for better," Voldemort offers, again blinded by external appearances rather than the internal drive of an individual to do well by himself. "Is this truly the best Hogwarts has to offer?"
As if he is the funniest comedian--a joker of sorts--the Death Eater peanut gallery laughs at the expense of the practically-orphaned boy, no more than Bellatrix Lestrange with her wicked and crazy grin potent on her face.
"Who might you be, young man?" Voldemort asks, never having been one to turn down a follower--obvious enough by just looking at the collection of Death Eaters he has gathered and the fact Goyle was one of them. Neville is worth a hundred, and the monster cannot see it.
"Neville Longbottom," the boy says, his face not revealing his true intentions, but Tom knows he does not mean to switch loyalties, having seen the boy's devoted actions earlier.
The Dark Lord smiles askew, a proud grin that masks every lie from his blue eyes, "Well, welcome, Neville. I'm sure we can find a place for you in our ranks."
"Someone has to do the washing," Bellatrix quips, setting off roars of laughter from the many Death Eaters though it is not particularly funny in Tom's ears.
"Now, now, Bellatrix," Voldemort reprimands, though he does not mean it, "Let's not underestimate our young friend. By stepping forward, he lives to see another day..."
Of course, given they are possible of thought despite the Dark Lord's expectations, the crowds of righteous fighters understand the implications of his words, the snake-like creature surveying them with those cold blue eyes.
"I'd like to say something," Neville says quickly, Tom half-expecting the Dark Lord to kill him right then and there for his ignorance. But instead, the Dark Lord just furrows his eyebrows (or what used to be eyebrows), evaluating Neville with new understanding.
"Very well, Neville," he says, a test. "I'm sure we'd all be fascinated to hear what you have to say."
But instead of looking to the Death Eaters in half their expectations, Neville turns to his friends and allies, the other boy of July birth and grown strong by the war he's faced. They look to him with a great amount of confusion at his actions, suspicious with his intentions. And it leaves Tom wondering how he knows Neville is not a traitor after only hours of watching him, and they do not understand after years of friendship.
"It doesn't matter that Harry is gone," the boy calls loudly, setting off a great many murmurs of questions over his intentions.
"Stand down, Neville!" Seamus cries angrily, the personification of the Gryffindor spirit more so than Ron Weasley himself. Tom only rolls his eyes, watching the Irish boy charge forward towards the 'betrayer' only to be held back by Ron who does not look happy, but at least is reasonable.
"People die every day. Friends. Family. Yes, we lost Harry tonight. But he's still with us, here--" Neville says, a hand tapping the bones above his heart. "And so is Dumbledore and...all of them. They didn't die in vain." He surges in his address to them, turning on his heel towards the Death Eaters, now greatly spiteful as he looks at the mad woman, Bellatrix Lestrange, with "But you will." And to another trio of Death Eaters, "And you and you and you will." But the most potent in promise, a yearn for revenge, is spent to Voldemort, Neville never once fearful in the presence of evil, "And so will you. Because you're wrong. Harry's heart did beat for us. All of us..."
The boy steps forward, a threat to the power of the Dark Lord, and truly pushing the limit of the man's control as he spits on the ground at Voldemort's feet, eyes never once leaving the blue irises. But subtly, knowing what is to occur in a great streak of ingenuity, Neville's hand reaches into the Sorting Hat, another secret weapon for the battle to come.
"This isn't over." It's a promise from them all--Dumbledore's Army, the Order of the Phoenix, the Golden Trio, and the mysterious dark-haired boy. And it sets off the fire in the soul of the Dark Lord--that familiar red color flickering into Voldemort's eyes, a cruel smile rising on his lips at the challenge, Elder Wand rising to fire a spell. And yet, Neville is prepared for such a reaction, a wonderful trap set, pulling the Sword of Gryffindor from the Sorting Hat and blocking the green spell of the Dark Lord. But, particularly potent in potential, the Killing Curse rebounds onto a group of Death Eaters, killing a great many but being blocked by the intended target Bellatrix Lestrange.
Tom is tempted to clap, but in that moment of insanity, he comes upon a sight that changes the fate of what is to become in this battle. The Heir of Slytherin doubts Hagrid even senses it with the spell being thrown nearby, but there is a notable flinch of Harry's body at the loud sound of the spell's impact. And it is then that Tom realizes what must be done, for he will not be the boy who defeated himself or the secret weapon any longer. Harry Potter is alive, and Tom Riddle's secret must be brought to light. For time.
"Anything else, young Neville?" the Dark Lord hisses with the rage of the boy's survival, a chance for a battle to begin.
But before that moment, Tom Marvolo Riddle stands to his feet, shoulders postured and calmed by a breath, his voice low but palpable to everyone in a way Dumbledore always managed, answering the question meant solely for Neville Longbottom:
"Yes." And he is heard by all.
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I swear I don't mean to do all these cliffhangers...it just kinda happens. The next chapter is the one you've all been waiting for (arguably). I promise it's worth the wait!
xo
Patagonian