The Glass Hall
Author's Note: A mere footnote to the masterpiece that is Deathly Hallows. I hope you'll make some sense of the speculation I was unable to stop myself from indulging in, and enjoy it.
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The sun glared into his eyes, temporarily blinding them, and he acted instinctively, with years of murder and dark deeds and impulse behind him, and the fatal words left his lips. The killing spell left the tip of the Elder Wand in a flash of green, streaking inexorably towards Harry Potter, and the exhilaration had yet to fade when the wand twisted in his hand, suddenly treacherous and slippery as an eel, and slid from his groping fingers. And the spell rebounded, and came streaking back and he could nothing to stop it, and no amount of horrified staring could reverse the curse—
The brilliant glow of the sunlight intensified to white, and he was curled upon an invisible floor, like the most helpless infant, like the half-dead, inhuman creature he'd been in the years after his downfall. The white, naked light hurt his eyes, seemed to strip everything bare and leave all of his sins exposed to scrutiny. In that strange, encompassing illumination, it was easier to remember, and harder to forget. The orphanage. The bitter confrontation with his father. The humiliating moments of defeat, in which certain victory became as intangible as smoke in the air.
Everything had seemed so certain, including his hatred of Mudbloods…
Dimly, through weak, lashless eyes, he perceived a great hall, its great vaulted ceiling soaring into glittering sunlight, fractured by the glass into many-hued rainbows. Quickly he averted his gaze, a little uneasy at what he might find if he stared too long, and a vivid flash of color to the side made him twist awkwardly to examine it closer. He maneuvered the fetus-like, deformed body, clenching the scabby scaled hands on the nonexistent floor. Rage and humiliation welled up within him, and if he could have, he would have killed Harry Potter then and there as painfully as possible. He let out a snarl of anger that was mangled by his throat into a shrill, high yelp that sounded more animal than human. And then that was stopped short as he stared, surprised.
Somehow, without his knowing it, there was a platform come out of nowhere, and a train, painted bright red, had come up silently and steamed to a halt, serenely puffing gray smoke into the still air. And as he looked, the doors to one of the carriage slid open, quietly welcoming. But what was more striking was that the train was, in very passing particular, the exact copy of the Hogwarts train.
And he was eleven again, waiting to attend his first year at the wizarding school he'd heard so much about, filled with apprehension and pride. The first sight of the castle through the window had completely dispelled the former. The orphanage had been merely a place to live and sleep; Hogwarts was the home he'd been seeking, subconsciously, since he'd been a child, the place that would first acknowledge his magical superiority and his intelligence, the place that had been founded by his ancestor and now welcomed its long-lost son home. For a moment, nameless, softer emotions assailed him, and he turned his face almost wistfully towards the waiting doors of the carriage, remembering. Very briefly, he was a dark-haired youth, sitting on the edge of a white bench, and his limbs were whole and human.
Then he knew that the train had come to take him…on.
Fear gripped him; fear of the unknown, of the great divide between the living and dead. It was a mixture of horror and anger that made him, with a great effort, wrench himself away and scream out his abhorrence and denial in a wordless cry of wrath, broken at the end into harsh, intermittent gasps. And he felt rather than saw the Hogwarts Express move away, leaving him behind, and the white light shattered like a mirror, leaving only darkness in its stead.
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There are no stories to tell of the ghost of Lord Voldemort. Where he went, what he will do, is of little interest to a post-war world struggling to rebuild itself. Harry sometimes wonders if his old enemy was ever able to accept death and hopes that if he did, he is now at peace. He has more important things to do now, and many ugly things to forget. But there are times when he recalls how Tom Riddle had called Hogwarts home, and cannot help but think…
Everyone needs an ending, even Lord Voldemort.
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