Oooooh! Mystery... So this is my first attempt at a mystery fanfic (although it is, in truth, incredibly short) so I apologize profusely if my suspense-building pains your imaginary ears.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters or places or anything having to do with JK ROWLING'S (not my) fictional world of Harry Potter,
(The place on the seventh floor is the Room of Requirement, btw)
All feedback is appreciated, and I hope you enjoy it! :)
No one knows anything about the curiously handsome dark-haired newcomer hanging around the seventh floor of the drafty Hogwarts castle, except that maybe he enjoys staring at the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy teaching trolls ballet.
No one knows anything about the black-eyed boy, except that he's the only person in the entire world (besides the Bloody Baron and, of course, the great but late Albus Dumbledore) whom Peeves will listen to; hell, Peeves worships the boy!
No one knows anything about this charming stranger, except that the same day he entered the cavernous castle, Professor Slughorn retired in a hurry, coattails flapping wildly as he all but fled from the looming building.
No one knows anything about him, except that the Grey Lady never, ever looks at him, or talks to him, or even turns her pale face in the slightest direction towards him. To stay silent near her is rude, taboo; to speak of the man is even more forbidden.
No one knows anything about the charismatic boy, except that he steers clear of the teachers. Not one professor at the Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry has ever seen this boy, and perhaps for good reason. He is all moonlight and shadows, an enigma if you've ever seen one.
Everyone knows one thing about the ghost—unlike most, he feared death enough to walk the earth again as a shade of himself, a memory of what once was.
oOo
The boy, who had never imagined himself in such a state, knew everything about the castle. He'd learned every nook and cranny, every secret passageway, even the clandestine Room of Hidden Things.
And yet, he failed to learn the most basic lesson of all.
Two hundred and seven long years after the war, Tom Marvolo Riddle finally came to peace with the words that had haunted him for so long, spoken from the very face that had caused him to haunt others in such a way.
"There are much worse things than Death," came the voice from faraway, a world-weary whisper underneath glinting spectacles.
The shameful, ignominious Death that used to taunt Tom so was now an insect underfoot, a speck of dirt washed off his hands. Following the young magical pupils, pureblood and Muggleborns alike, seeing them aspire to be Harry Potter, and watching them denounce Lord Voldemort in the most horrible ways possible, slander and ridicule and pure, outright hate—
Yes, Tom Riddle supposed. There were indeed worse things than Death.
Hahahahaha I told you it might be bad.
I warned you.
Anyways, thanks for reading!
~onceuponaquill