One to Tear Away the Mask
The darkness fell over his eyes, and all was silent.
"Hmm, this is interesting." The voice echoed through the black void.
Gryffindor. He had to be in Gryffindor. He focused on the thought. The singular need circled and circled about his mind.
"Why Gryffindor?" The voice asked.
It was obvious. Daring, nerve and chivalry (towards her) -
"You desperately want to be with your friend," the voice said smugly. "Loyalty then? Oh yes, and a great deal of tenacity," the voice declared. "A hard worker. Is that patience I sense? How about Hufflepuff instead of Gryffindor? The two Houses are friendly."
No, it had to be Gryffindor. He was anxious and terrified, but he focused on being as Gryffindor as he could be.
"Oh my, what a ruthless streak! Not patience then, but relentless pursuit. You are well-suited for Slytherin." The voice sounded amused.
No, he thought furiously, not Slytherin. He was panicking. It was all going south. He tried again to adjust his own vision of himself.
"Such a fast turnabout?" The voice laughed. The fabric of the Sorting Hat felt scratchy, like a hundred spiders crawling over his face.
"Well done!" The voice cried, "Not a bad attempt for an untrained child! How about Ravenclaw?"
Ravenclaw was useless to him! The itch over his face increased, and he fought the urge to scratch or tear the horrible Hat off. He fought back his tears of frustration as the voice went on, "A terrible hunger for knowledge. A desperate desire for recognition. Your talent and intelligence, coupled with your willingness to work hard, will take you far in Ravenclaw and gain you the recognition you crave. No? Then back to Slytherin. You wanted to be in your mother's House, yes? They hold ambition and ability in high regard. You will do well there."
He wanted to scream at the Hat. Gryffindor didn't get along with Slytherin. A wedge would be driven between Lily and him. It was inevitable, whether it would happen in a year, or two years, or four years. He could see all the way to the end of it. It was obvious! Any idiot could see it!
"Well reasoned," the Hat replied, "so go to Ravenclaw."
He wanted to be in Gryffindor. Why can't he be in Gryffindor?
"You won't fit in", the voice explained patiently.
He would see to it that he fit in. He would just act the part and they would never tell.
"Hmm yes," the voice said, "you're cunning enough for that. But seven years is a long time. You won't enjoy it."
He didn't need to enjoy, he needed to be with Lily.
"You would be frustrated. You would hate it."
He would reveal it when he graduated. The look on their faces would make up for it.
"You precocious little schemer!" The voice laughed. It took on a sly tone. "So if I sort you into Gryffindor, which obviously you're ill-suited for, you would pretend for seven years?"
Yes, he thought anxiously, he would do it. Put him in Gryffindor!
"Even if you hated it there?" The slyness in the voice deepened. "Would you live with the Gryffindor students, study with them, fight with them? All of it?"
Yes, he thought, all of it!
"Nothing you won't do huh?" The voice sounded extremely pleased.
Nothing whatsoever, he assured the Hat. He was just as pleased; he was going to Gryffindor.
"Then it's clear the House you're best suited for is - SLYTHERIN!"
The Hat was lifted from his head. He was flabbergasted. The Hat had tricked him! Then he became aware of the hundred of pairs of eyes in the Great Hall on him. (There was whispering. Snivellus Snape, yelled James Potter. The Gryffindors burst into laughter. Lily looked furious.) Blood rushed into his cheeks, and he thought he would faint from the embarrassment. He quickly put his sleeves to his face and rubbed the tears away. He leaped to his feet and walked briskly to the Slytherins, his face burning.
"Welcome! I'm Lucius," the prefect greeted him. "What happened there?"
"It wanted to put me in Ravenclaw," he lied quickly, "but I insisted to be in Slytherin."
Lucius smiled approvingly. "The 'claws aren't so bad, but Slytherin's where it's happening."
He nodded awkwardly, suddenly acutely aware of how his frayed second-hand robes compared to the prefect's new ironed ones. Lucius patted him on the back and guided him to sit down beside himself. "Don't worry about that, you're one of us now. We always take care of our own..."
Choice. He had always had a choice.
He did not speak. He would not. Within his hollow chest, the hand of Death squeezed his heart in a vice-like grip. Ice water ran through his veins. Ice water, not blood. Ice water.
Gellert Grindelwald. The Stone of Life. The Deathstick. It all came together the moment the Dark Lord identified the old man's wand.
He would not speak.
Three sacrifices had been planned - one to conceal, one to open the door to defeat, one to open the door to death. Of course, the old man always had a plan. He was satisfied. So the old man did not toss him aside as a by-the-way, as a footnote to Harry Potter.
He would not turn aside at the last moment. Yes, he was ruthless, and most ruthless of all to himself. To reach his goal, there was nothing he wouldn't do. Would he speak, cast his friend's son into the water, just to keep his own miserable self afloat for longer? He would not. The Dark Lord with mastery of the Deathstick would be unbeatable. He would not falter now. A pity he could not see the look on the Dark Lord's face when He found out.
But he was anxious. It was going too fast. He had to go to the boy. He had to tell the boy. There was too much at stake. Without him, would the boy talk to the portrait? Surely so, these sentimental fools were predictable. But what if he didn't? There was too much at stake. Would the boy even guess the password to the office? Surely so, he had made it that simple, tailored it to the way the boy's mind worked. But what if the boy was even more stupid than he had imagined? There was too much at stake. What if the boy ran away instead? It was not going the way he had planned. He needed more time. There was too much at stake, he needed more time...
Then he was falling. Death was like water; he was drowning in ice. Death was like fire; it burned him like acid from the inside. Death was like the grave; it smothered him in oily shadows. Dying, like killing, was easier in theory than in practice. It hurt; he deserved it. But what if everything failed? He would deserve that too.
He felt hands on him and a face appeared before his dimming vision. Lily! No, it was the boy. How? No matter, there was no time for that, no time for lies. No more lies.
All stories have a beginning. It may be difficult for conceited children to conceive of a beginning that did not start with them, or that their elders could ever have been young once...
Conceited children who may have the chance to review such a history would think badly of him. He thought badly of himself too. But that was who he was! Now, he was helpless to do anything more. The hand of Death tightened in his chest - no, he had to know. He struggled in vain against the encroaching tide.
"Look ... at ... me," he whispered. He had to know. He had to know if the boy would do it. Was the boy James Potter? Or was the boy Lily? Would the boy do it?
Ah. Yes. It was true, after all. He had not realised it before. The boy had his mother's eyes. It did not turn out the way he had planned it, but somehow things would work out.
The darkness fell over his eyes, and all was silent.