'The thing about this world,
The thing that scares me most,
Is not his cruelty, nor the pain,
But the hauntings of his ghost.'
-g.lee
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"Now; Hospital Wing, Miss Riddle. You know the rules; no detours." McGonagall prompted as they reached the inside of the castle, using her bound scroll to motion down the hall with a flick. Originally misty rain had turned heavy, pelting against the old glass windows, the torches, symmetrically lining the walls, lit with flames, forming their own glows of warm tones, though somehow it still felt cold. So, so cold.
"May you, please, just call me Adeline?" Her small voice captured the Professor's firm gaze, her expression softening, a very rare sight, as Addie referred her own stare to her boot-covered feet. The Riddle girl continued in a whisper, McGonagall having to strain her ears to listen. "I don't like to be addressed by his name."
Her hair, to which was almost more grey than brown, stayed completely still in its tight, slick bun as she nodded formally, politely. The thin metal of her pointy, half-moon glasses rested so discretely on her nose that sometimes Adeline forgot she even had them all together, as though they were made explicitly for her worn, aged face.
Taking this as a dismissal, Adeline glanced upward, chin lifting, in order to bow her head softly in respect to the woman. She turned on her foot and began her rather lengthy trek to the Hospital Wing with small, cautious steps—as though readying herself, preparing herself, for the floor to disappear.
"Adeline," The Head of Gryffindor called, and when Addie turned around, her head perking up, she noticed the Professor hadn't moved from where she'd been previously standing. For the first time, Professor McGonagall hadn't known what to say. "My office is merely a corridor from the Hospital Wing. Keep that in mind."
This was essentially her way of saying: 'If you ever need anything, anything at all, come talk to me.'
"I will." Adeline nodded, the corners of her lips upturning, and she continued, with slow steps, the long way to the Hospital Wing. The rain was louder than ever.
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The halls were deserted, students residing in their common rooms and dormitories, hiding from the elements. Adeline buried her hands in the pockets of Harry's jacket, yet it made no difference to their numbness. Her freckled cheeks lacked their usual rose colour. This sickness was eating away at her—it was hard not to notice the dark circles beneath her eyes, the blue of her lips. The death of her skin scarily resembled that of her monster; her demon that crawled beneath, its eyes, its cold, hard eyes like that of an old doll left for years in the attic: emotionless, and forever staring.
She turned the corner, and that's when she saw him.
His black cloak like a blanket of an abyss, alien skin almost transparent with unhealthily dark veins scrawling across his fully baldhead—just like the lightning from the previous night. He was at the other end of the hall, wand in hand. Only when Voldemort began walking toward her, so, so slowly, did she turn and bolt.
This made no sense—how did he get into the castle? How long has he been here? Weeks? Minutes? How hadn't anyone, anyone at all, seen him? Was this a dream? Was she dreaming? No—no, it's too real. In dreams, you don't remember things, in dreams you go along with the questionable without question, and then you're suddenly, and unexplainably, in a different place without even realising or caring. But if this isn't a dream, how is he here?
