OF SERPENT AND ANGEL ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎➝ tom riddle ¹ | ✓ |

THIRTY-THREE

It was a sunny morning. Eliza could tell by the warm orange light spilling through her eyelids, by the heat of the air that surrounded her as if to keep her safe in its cradle.

She lay awake, keeping her eyes firmly shut. That wasn't unusual for the girl; mornings always held the most hope. There is always that fraction of a second where the mind has the opportunity to bathe in true oblivion. A fleeting moment where the body is awake but still unconnected to the brain, a moment where there is no past, present, nor future. Those moments were the sole thing keeping Eliza alive, and she grasped it with tired and bloodied hands like to a lifeline yet it always managed to escape, like trying to hold water in the palm of your hand.

A week had passed now. A week of torture, of insanity. It wouldn't be a wonder to her if one day she didn't wake, if either her mind or her body had finally caved in. Yet she had a feeling that he would not let that happen. Tom always soothed her, always cared for her just enough to keep her alive; no more, no less. He had wanted her there, gone through so much trouble, he wouldn't let her die just yet.

It was like he had said; he was always a hundred steps in front of her. He wouldn't let her escape, not even to death.

But Eliza could feel Death. It was always there, encircling her, spreading its dark wings. Death was the movement you saw in your peripheral vision that disappears when you turn towards it. Death was the reflection you swear was behind you in the mirror even when you're alone. Death was the creak of the floorboards around you in an empty house. It was always there, just waiting for the time to pounce.

But perhaps Death wasn't there to collect her life, perhaps it just wanted to haunt her as a reminder of the lives she had taken.

The moment of oblivion had long since escaped her. Time was far too real; the future, the present, and the past. It was all there, drilling holes into her head. And so she opened her eyes.

Immediately she noted the dark figure standing against the wall, dark hair and dark eyes, watching her. Eliza sprang up into a seated position, crawling away from the man the best she could, her feet entwining into a mess of her sheets. Only once she was pressed firmly against the bed frame, her heart pounding in her chest, did she properly realise the scene before her.

"Thaddeus?" she asked, her voice throaty and quiet as she relaxed just slightly. "What are you doing here?"

"He asked me to watch over you - the Dark Lord. He said he's got business to attend to elsewhere, and that he should be back within a fortnight," explained Thaddeus, though there seemed to be something tighter in his voice than usual, it was more monotone, more robotic.

Eliza blinked. "He's ... gone?"

"Yes," was all he replied with.

A small sliver of hope appeared on the horizon at the word. Tom Riddle was away, for perhaps two weeks. He couldn't possibly have so much control if he was elsewhere. "Doing what?" she asked.

"I don't know," admitted Thaddeus, momentarily seeming embarrassed until his face was once more masked into the emotionless expression of a soldier. "We aren't to ask questions. He wanted me to tell you that just because he isn't here, doesn't mean that he won't know if you try something. And he wants you to read this."

From the desk, he picked up a newspaper and lightly tossed it onto the bed in front of her. Eliza looked at it for a moment, hesitant to read it, until, after having glanced back up at Thaddeus, picked up the Daily Prophet.

The title Galway Family Murder Solved was written in large bold letters at the top of the front page. Eliza instantly felt uneasy upon reading it, she knew Tom would only give it to her to taunt her.

Most of the page was once more covered by a black and white photograph of the same man, though this time he was standing on a small podium, evidently intentionally addressing the public.

'The family massacre that a week ago shocked the entire nation has finally been solved as Abram Franks, the head of the Auror Department reported last night. Only to further increase the panic and shock of the British people, the Ministry has announced the murderer responsible to be none other than Eliza Galway, the youngest daughter of the family, who unlike prior belief was not found dead among her family. The Ministry recovered a note written by the girl confessing her to this vile crime and many believe her to be mentally unstable and incredibly dangerous.

' "The search for Eliza Galway continues," says Abram Franks, "but it is hardly likely that she still remains on British soil or the Ministry would already have found her. Thus we have contacted the Ministries of our neighbouring countries as well as having informed the Muggle Prime Minister of the danger. We appease everyone to remain calm but vigilant. Eliza Galway is not a mastermind, but a very ill girl, and we highly doubt she will strike again. Nevertheless, any information regarding her current location must be communicated to the Ministry of Magic and any sightings or contact must be reported immediately".'

She didn't turn the page to continue the article, she didn't continue reading. Slowly, Eliza placed the Daily Prophet down to rest atop her bed. She stared vacantly at the space before her, a single tear falling from her eye and rolling down the porcelain cheek. The whole world would now think of her as a dangerously unstable girl who had massacred her family. She would go down in history for her sins.

Her biggest ambition had always been to spread kindness, to help people, change their lives for the better. If she were to be remembered, she had always wanted it to be in a positive light. People should have memorialized her as the kind and loving girl who gracefully walked the Hogwarts corridors, always a book under her arm. But now she would be recognized only as a murderer.

Then her thought went to Atha; what would she think? Would the girl refuse it, insist that her best friend would never commit such wickedness? Or would she accept it with a regretful shake of her head?

All that remained of her was a fading echo, a picture in the Hogwart catalogues that future generations would only glance at then turn the page. She was nothing but a memory that would soon be forgotten. Eliza Galway was not a mastermind. But Tom Riddle certainly was.

when you're ill, you write bc fuck school