Julie Stone was a regular girl; she lived in an orphanage, had some friends, and every now and then would bang her head against the wall due to stress. . . . Normal!
Anyway, all her life Julie never seemed to quite fit in. She loved it, but her life...
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𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐫
────── *•. ⚡︎ .•*──────
From her place next to Cedric's body, Hermione watched as Voldemort rose and had a fun chat with the rat and talked his nose off to Harry as he called his little army of minions. Or Death Eaters. The air was suddenly full of the swishing of cloaks. Between graves, behind the yew tree, in every shadowy space, wizards were Apparating. Hermione had to step aside as one of them landed on a spot a foot or two away from her. All of them were hooded and masked. And one by one they moved forward . . . slowly, cautiously, as though they could hardly believe their eyes. Voldemort stood in silence, waiting for them. Then one of the Death Eaters fell to his knees, crawled toward Voldemort, and kissed the hem of his black robes. Hermione was looking at him in disgust. How could someone stoop so low? To kiss another's robes? As if they're some deity figure. She was getting sick to the stomach but if someone would look at her they would find a numb expression. Because Hermione wasn't really one to show emotions, well, except her eyes. Those were burning with disgust and hatred as she looked at Voldemort.
The Death Eaters behind the first did the same; each of them approaching Voldemort on his knees and kissing his robes, before backing away and standing up, forming a silent circle, which enclosed Tom Riddle's grave, Harry, Voldemort, and the sobbing and twitching heap that was Wormtail. Yet they left gaps in the circle, as though waiting for more people — Hermione was standing on the outside (thank Merlin). Voldemort, however, did not seem to expect more. He looked around at the hooded faces, and though there was no wind, a rustling seemed to run around the circle, as though it had shivered.
"Welcome, Death Eaters," said Voldemort quietly. "Thirteen years . . . thirteen years since last we met. Yet you answer my call as though it were yesterday. . . . We are still united under the Dark Mark, then! Or are we?"
He put back his terrible face and sniffed, his slit-like nostrils widening.
"I smell guilt," he said. "There is a stench of guilt upon the air."
Hermione scoffed. How could someone smell guilt? Was he a werewolf? Because if so he is a triple hypocrite or whatever. She scoffed again as a shiver ran around the circle, as though each member of it longed, but did not dare, to step back from him.
"I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers intact — such prompt appearances! — and I ask myself . . . why did this band of wizards never come to the aid of their master, to whom they swore eternal loyalty?"
No one spoke. No one moved except Wormtail, who was upon the ground, still sobbing over his bleeding arm.
"And I answer myself," whispered Voldemort, "they must have believed me broken, they thought I was gone. They slipped back among my enemies, and they pleaded innocence, and ignorance, and bewitchment. . . .
