The moment that he had dreaded came halfway through the tenth hour of
the next morning when the sun was bright enough to light the remorse grey
in the clouds that painted over the blue of the morning sky. A brown owl
with feathers that gleamed in the sunshine flew Tom and the girls as they
sat against the wall. They had been there since breakfast, which was just
as dull and tasteless as ever. Ana sat against the wall, her dark legs
gleaming in the light, as she looked
up at the owl emotionlessly. Tom gulped and summoned the letter from the
owl as it perched itself proudly on one of the trees in the garden. Tom
opened the letter with numb fingers and he could feel himself trembling
with dread.
I Dear Mr. Tom M Riddle, We have awareness that you performed the Avada Kedavra Curse at approximately 10.49 pm last night on an unarmed Muggle in a Muggle inhabited estate. The severity of this infringement of the Decree for the Concealment of Sorcery and the breach of the Decree of Murder Involving Magic generally results in the expulsion of students and their relocation to Azkaban. However, We have further intelligence that the curse was performed in the means of defence for Miss. Miatorrivin Jameson. We are also aware of your heroic act in the rescue of Miss. K. Derrings and Miss. L. Parker in the previous year. Your outstanding achievements and position you fulfil has brought to our attention that a wizard such as yourself would decline to use an Unforgivable Curse without the appropriate consideration and explanation. Therefore, your violations have been evaded and you shall return to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on the coming Sunday,
Yours sincerely, Jennifer Manglecod Improper Use of Magic Office Ministry of Magic. /I
Tom blinked. That was unexpected to say the least. Just because he sparked a couple of hexes at a Manticore that was cornering to squealing little second years last year and a bunch of certificates he escaped not only expulsion, but also Azkaban. He shuddered involuntarily at just the sliver of the thought of that place. Only witches and wizards who committed crimes of terror went their. Only they who were so drenched in hate and the thirst for revenge and the power to bring others fear, and the insanity to use their own abilities to control pain and the moments between life and death. Cold suddenly shot down his spine and his skin prickled. His face paled so quickly that he felt dizzy. Cold beads of sweat trickled down his face and arms and chest. The white shirt he wore stuck to his skin from the moisture. His clammy hands ran their fingers through his hair as he trembled with a feeling that was so new and unreal to him that he wondered if he had been hit with some kind of jinx. But no, that was not it. He knew what it was. And he was scared of his own guilt and of what he had committed. Murder. There was no way of denying it for the image of that man falling to the ground and the look of immortal fear and shock on Torri's face at that moment was so clear in his mind that he thought he could reach out and wipe that look off her face and leave a beaming smile on it. But he couldn't. And that made him feel worse. Not only had Torri been robbed of virtue and shadowed with melancholy and the emptiness that horror had left in place of happiness, but she had witnessed the death of a man. And that meant she could see the Thestrals. Seeing them was a simple reminder of death. However beautiful they were, with the gleam of their coats in the pale light of the moon, they were still reminders of the fragility of life, and of its briefness. Tom was sure Torri wasn't scared of death. He knew he wasn't. Or at least of his own. But to see it before his very eyes, to come from curse that slipped from his lips and tear a man's life from his very blood and skin... The thought made Tom sick in the gut. He was playing the role of someone – something – greater than he. And he surely had no right. Nor did he have the right to burden Torri with the grimness of murder. And that was all it was, because no other word meant what had happened. The boy looked down at his pale hands bitterly. They had held the wand responsible for a murder. What was he to do? Burn his wand and spit on the ashes? That would almost be like an insult to the death in the first place. And that would mean Torri was burdened with something worthless enough to spit on. And he would not let that happen to her. But he couldn't just give the life back. He had even transfigured the body into harmless gases and the spell was so complex he could never get it back. He looked back up at Torri, and could see the emptiness that hers and Ana's eyes held. And indeed he felt it too. He couldn't bear to see them so miserable, even with the lives they each led. He shifted next to Torri and his buried his face in the sleeve of her plain cotton dress. He could feel Ana's gaze of sorrow fall on him, and could easily detect the misery in every breath of Torri's that sifted through his hair. Tears that had been dwelling inside him since before he could remember slipped down his cheeks onto the white of Torri's dress. The bitterness he directed at himself washed away with every drop of emotion that flowed with his tears. And he vowed, then and there, to himself, that he would protect his girls from that piece of reality, for it was the part of reality that ripped away the sanity of human consciousness.
I Dear Mr. Tom M Riddle, We have awareness that you performed the Avada Kedavra Curse at approximately 10.49 pm last night on an unarmed Muggle in a Muggle inhabited estate. The severity of this infringement of the Decree for the Concealment of Sorcery and the breach of the Decree of Murder Involving Magic generally results in the expulsion of students and their relocation to Azkaban. However, We have further intelligence that the curse was performed in the means of defence for Miss. Miatorrivin Jameson. We are also aware of your heroic act in the rescue of Miss. K. Derrings and Miss. L. Parker in the previous year. Your outstanding achievements and position you fulfil has brought to our attention that a wizard such as yourself would decline to use an Unforgivable Curse without the appropriate consideration and explanation. Therefore, your violations have been evaded and you shall return to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on the coming Sunday,
Yours sincerely, Jennifer Manglecod Improper Use of Magic Office Ministry of Magic. /I
Tom blinked. That was unexpected to say the least. Just because he sparked a couple of hexes at a Manticore that was cornering to squealing little second years last year and a bunch of certificates he escaped not only expulsion, but also Azkaban. He shuddered involuntarily at just the sliver of the thought of that place. Only witches and wizards who committed crimes of terror went their. Only they who were so drenched in hate and the thirst for revenge and the power to bring others fear, and the insanity to use their own abilities to control pain and the moments between life and death. Cold suddenly shot down his spine and his skin prickled. His face paled so quickly that he felt dizzy. Cold beads of sweat trickled down his face and arms and chest. The white shirt he wore stuck to his skin from the moisture. His clammy hands ran their fingers through his hair as he trembled with a feeling that was so new and unreal to him that he wondered if he had been hit with some kind of jinx. But no, that was not it. He knew what it was. And he was scared of his own guilt and of what he had committed. Murder. There was no way of denying it for the image of that man falling to the ground and the look of immortal fear and shock on Torri's face at that moment was so clear in his mind that he thought he could reach out and wipe that look off her face and leave a beaming smile on it. But he couldn't. And that made him feel worse. Not only had Torri been robbed of virtue and shadowed with melancholy and the emptiness that horror had left in place of happiness, but she had witnessed the death of a man. And that meant she could see the Thestrals. Seeing them was a simple reminder of death. However beautiful they were, with the gleam of their coats in the pale light of the moon, they were still reminders of the fragility of life, and of its briefness. Tom was sure Torri wasn't scared of death. He knew he wasn't. Or at least of his own. But to see it before his very eyes, to come from curse that slipped from his lips and tear a man's life from his very blood and skin... The thought made Tom sick in the gut. He was playing the role of someone – something – greater than he. And he surely had no right. Nor did he have the right to burden Torri with the grimness of murder. And that was all it was, because no other word meant what had happened. The boy looked down at his pale hands bitterly. They had held the wand responsible for a murder. What was he to do? Burn his wand and spit on the ashes? That would almost be like an insult to the death in the first place. And that would mean Torri was burdened with something worthless enough to spit on. And he would not let that happen to her. But he couldn't just give the life back. He had even transfigured the body into harmless gases and the spell was so complex he could never get it back. He looked back up at Torri, and could see the emptiness that hers and Ana's eyes held. And indeed he felt it too. He couldn't bear to see them so miserable, even with the lives they each led. He shifted next to Torri and his buried his face in the sleeve of her plain cotton dress. He could feel Ana's gaze of sorrow fall on him, and could easily detect the misery in every breath of Torri's that sifted through his hair. Tears that had been dwelling inside him since before he could remember slipped down his cheeks onto the white of Torri's dress. The bitterness he directed at himself washed away with every drop of emotion that flowed with his tears. And he vowed, then and there, to himself, that he would protect his girls from that piece of reality, for it was the part of reality that ripped away the sanity of human consciousness.