THE WIND WHIPPED and thrashed violently through the bleak nightfall, and the ghostly stillness of the ancient castle would give anyone a sharp, thrilling chill up the spine.

The two entered Hogwarts, and were directed to Dumbledore’s office, where in the centre was conjured a large, round, oak table.

The headmaster paused his conversation with another professor, and commenced the feast.

The entire evening, Belvina engaged herself very positively with the headmaster and other professors who now found her much more amiable than when she was a youth as their student. Whilst in a conversation with Professor Slughorn about his new Slug Club, she noticed Tom stand up abruptly and dismiss himself.

Out in the dark, deserted corridor, Tom paced a few steps. His fingers quivered through his hair.

If the assassination could fasten up the consequence, and capture hold of success, this blow only may be the be-all and the end-all here. But in such deeds, there is always the gods’ judgement here on earth, so that we simply present tainted intelligence, which, being shown, returns to plague and haunt the inventor. The equitable justice delivers the ingredients of a poisoned chalice to one’s own lips.

But Tom is here in Dumbledore’s trust: First, as his colleague, who he has offered a job—a strong argument against the deed—then, as his guest, who should be against his murder, not bear the knife himself.

Besides, Dumbledore has carried his powers so courteously and kindly, has been so serene in his employment and duties, that his virtues will plead like angels, as powerfully loud as trumpets, against the damnable sin of his departure from this world.

Tom had no spur to prick the sides of his intent, and, despite his ambition, concluded not to kill Dumbledore.

“Dumbledore has almost finished the feast. Why have you left the chamber?”

Tom glanced up, Belvina barging into his train of thought.

“Has he asked for me?” asked Tom.

“You know he has,” replied the witch.

Tom approached her, their eyes boring into each other’s.

“We will proceed no further in this business, Bel,” said he, causing Belvina to glower at him. “He has honoured me recently, and I have gained golden opinions from all sorts of people, which ought to be worn now in their freshest brand new shine, not cast aside so soon.”

Belvina’s eyes diverted to where Tom’s hands clasped around hers, and wrenched herself away.

“You are just the person who is full of big plans and talk when they are drunk,” she retorted, “but then who wakes up green and pale the next morning saying, ‘What the hell was I thinking?’”

Tom approached her with a step and she scanned the corridor to ensure they were alone, then continued, “From this time forth, such I consider your love. Are you afraid to be the same in your own act and valour as you are in desire? Would you have that which you regard as the ornament of life, and live a coward in your own opinion, letting ‘I dare not’ linger passively for ‘I wish to’?”

“I dare only to do all that is appropriate for a man,” said Tom. “Who dares to do more is not a man but a supernatural being.”

“What was it, then, that made you reveal this undertaking to me? When you dared to do it, then you were a man, and, to be more than what you were, you wished to be so much more than a man. Neither time nor place did then harmonize, and yet you would make both.”

There was a moment of silence, until Tom spoke softly, “If we should fail?”

“We fail?” She moved closer to him, tilting her head. “Just strain your courage to the final point, and we will not fail.”

“Do you even have a plan?”

“Of course: We wait until Dumbledore is asleep.”

“But how shall we get in?” asked Tom. “There is a password.”

“Pour him some extra chalices of wine, and the guard of his brain shall be vapourized.”

Tom still was not sure of the plan and remained stiff.

“What you and I cannot execute on an unguarded Dumbledore?” continued Belvina. “Especially when we assign his sodden caretaker to bare the guilt of our great murder?”

“Will our story not be accepted when we have stained with blood his caretaker, and used his own dagger, that he has done it?”

“Who dares to receive it differently while we shall make our distress and glee roar upon his death?”

Finally convinced by Belvina's cajoling, Tom said, “I am settled, and I make myself ready.”

Each bodily power to this terrible crime. Let the two go and befool the time with the fairest display. The false face must hide what the false heart does know.

—————

“WHO IS THERE?” called Abraxas in the still blackness, holding his illuminated wand, and standing outside the gate of Hogwarts.

“A friend.” Tom’s visage emerged into the light. “You received my letter then?”

Abraxas nodded. “Not yet at rest? The headmaster is a-bed, is he not?”

Tom pulled out a cigarette to insert it between his lips. “How would you like to work at Hogwarts?” Tom asked, lighting the end of his cigarette, and puffing smoke.

“I already work at the Ministry for your Dark magic.” Abraxas scoffed and stepped closer to Tom. “Now you want me to work as a professor? Live under the same roof as the leader of the Order of the Light?”

“I understand.”

A long silence enswathed over them.

“I dreamt last night,” Abraxas spoke, “of the three weird sisters. To you they have shown a degree of truth.”

“I think not about them,” lied Tom.

He too has dreamt of them and their peculiar nature on that bizarre day. He would often even wake up startled during the pitch black witching hours.

“Yet,” Tom continued, “when we can manage a time to gratify us, we ought to spend it in some words upon that matter, if you would grant the time.”

“At your most agreeable opportunity, Tom.”

“If you hold firm to my proposal, when it is, it shall make a high rank for you.”

“As long as I lose none in seeking to further your proposal, but still keep me free of guilt and my loyalties clear, I am prepared to be directed.”

Tom nodded, dropped his cigarette, and stepped on it. “Sleep well in the meantime,” he said.

“Yes, the same to you.”

—————

WHEN TOM FOUND his way through the corridor towards his chamber where Belvina would be waiting for him, he began to stroke his eyelids, it seemed as though the walls turned crimson. He continued rubbing his eyes more aggressively but did not seem to ease his vision—or reality?—he was not quite sure.

He stared in horror, wide-eyed, his heart dropping; blood dripped from his fingertips and palms.

Whose blood is this? Tom glanced up and the stone walls dripped with blood just as his fingertips did. He slowly tilted his head even more upward to the ceiling and saw a corpse. It wavered frighteningly in the air, a rope tied around its neck like a noose, and hung from the ceiling right above Tom’s head. Right as a drop of crimson splattered on Tom’s forehead, entire body flinched in terror.

There is no such thing! It was the bloody business which gave form of these illusions to his eyes.

In these hours, nature seemed dead over the hemisphere, for nothing could be seen in the dark night.

Witchcraft ritually solemnized Hecat’s offerings and sacrifices made to the goddess of the moon and of sorcery, and withered murder. Towards Tom’s execution, may he move like a ghost; the stable earth does not hear his steps and which way they walk, for fear his very shadows chatter of his whereabout and acquire the present horror from the time, which now is suitable with it.

As long as Tom only threatens Dumbledore, Dumbledore lives, and mere talk breathes too coldly upon the passionate nature of actions.

The clock struck midnight, and the bell rung like an eerie symphony to where Tom stood before the door to his chamber. If he goes, it will then be done; the sonorous bell encourages him.

Let Dumbledore not be aware of it, for it is a knell, that summons him to heaven or to hell.