Disclaimer: Based on characters and situations created by J K Rowling. No rights or privileges are claimed.
The Deeper ShadowEvery member of the assembled crowd, clothed in the robes and pointed hats of Hogwarts students, faced him. Nowhere did he see a pleasant look. He looked over at his oldest friend, Ron, hoping to see something else, sympathy maybe, but he only saw the same stern look there. Not hatred, like some of the others. It was a look of disgust.
All the students were gathered in front of the great entrance doors to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, gathered in neat lines and sorted by house. The last time he had seen the students so arranged had been before the Triwizard Tournament in his fourth year, when the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang had arrived. But this time he was on the opposite side, and the mood was quite different.
He shifted his gaze to Hermione, standing next to Ron. She had been his friend for almost as long as Ron, but the look in her eyes was, if anything, fiercer. Ron's scowl deepened and he shifted to block Hermione from his sight.
Not knowing if he had any friends remaining in Gryffindor, he turned to face the Slytherin students, expecting to see looks of triumph from them. Malfoy, at least, had never pretended to like him. He had always made his feelings clear. Sure enough, Malfoy, with his white hair, was looking at him with pure spite etched upon his features. Crabbe and Goyle, at least, didn't seem to look smug. They wore the same clueless expressions they always did.
Everywhere he looked he saw the same thing: disgust, hatred, spite, loathing. The Hufflepuffs, all ten of them, looked at him with a mixture of fear and hatred, but most of all betrayal. Yes, he had betrayed that house, and yet despite their remarkably reduced numbers, they couldn't begin to guess the enormity of what he had done.
And then Professor McGonagall stepped forward, appearing older than she had ever seemed before. She began reciting the list of crimes he had committed. It hurt, hearing it like this, in front of the entire school. It hurt more knowing that she wouldn't be listing the crimes he was truly guilty of. She couldn't, because she didn't know. And then she was reading a list of names. The students who were dead because of him. They were all Hufflepuffs. Only ten girls remained, and half of those were first years. All of them were scared of him. Tears ran down their faces as the names were read, and none of them were looking at him anymore. It seemed to go on forever as McGonagall stopped after each name, as if they would be less dead if they were remembered individually. Had there really been that many?
There wouldn't be a sentencing, he knew. This wasn't a trial. He should be in front of the Wizengamot in chains right now, but instead he was standing free, his wand in his robes if he wanted to use it. He didn't have to stand there; he could leave any time he wanted. Or he could hex them all into oblivion. They wouldn't stop him, he knew. They dared not do that.
McGonagall finally finished reading the list of names. The people that were worse than dead because of him. And then the teachers began moving away, filing back into the school. Whispers started as the students turned from him, waiting to move back into the school. He knew what they were saying. They were talking about what he had done. Some were no doubt talking to their about friends what curses he must have used. Others were probably telling anyone who would listen that he had betrayed them all to Voldemort and that they would all be dead soon. He didn't bother wondering how they could think that: he already knew how gullible children like these were. They would never guess the truth.
He just stood there, watching the black river of students file into the school. And then his breath caught suddenly as his eyes made contact with her. He had avoided looking at her before. He didn't want to know what her face held, but he couldn't look away now. She, at least, didn't fear him. Nor did she seem to hate him. He wouldn't if she could still love him, as she once told him she did. It didn't matter though. He didn't see sympathy there, either. Just pity and regret. And shame. And then Ginny turned around and walked resolutely into the castle. He knew it would never be like it had been. Not after what he'd done. Not after what she had done. Not unless… no. It would be too dangerous to tell her.
As the last of the witches and wizards filed into the school, he stood alone for a few moments, and took a look around. He took in the lake, the Forbidden Forest. He saw Hagrid's hut, and the greenhouses out on the grounds. Everything was quieter than he had ever seen it before. And he looked up, taking in the darkened sky. It was as if the very heavens were mourning.
A few moments passed, and he turned back to the doors of the school, and trudged in. He saw no one as he moved through the empty corridors. Not even the paintings seemed to be occupied. The fat lady was gone, but her painting was open, and he passed through the Gryffindor common room on his way to his dormitory. He collapsed onto his bed without bothering to take off his robes and pulled the curtains around his four-poster closed.
He mentally cursed everyone. His friends. Dumbedore. McGonagall. They were so stupid! They had expected him to fight Voldemort and give his own life for their freedom. They had thought it was that easy: a life for a life, and then it would be over. But it was better this way. It was better that they didn't know. Which is why they had their accusation ceremony, and then let him continue his life, such as it was, essentially unhindered. They didn't want to know what he knew. The price had to be paid, even though they didn't want to pay it. So they let him do what had to be done, and then placed all the blame at his feet. They didn't even want to know why. None of them would listen if he told them. And so it would go on, over the coming days and weeks. During the coming months, and perhaps years, they would blame him for everything, because they didn't want to know the truth.
"No," he said to himself as he stared straight up. "They only see the evil whose shadow their in. Does that make me evil?" Maybe he was. Maybe he was just the lesser of two evils. Then what did that make Voldemort?