Serpentine

Cw: racism nonsense from a 13 year old

-

Playground brawls are common at Wool’s. It’s almost impossible to house so many troubled children in such a small space without a fight or six breaking out every week. The cause of such spats are, of course, stupid: refusal to share the communal toys, name calling, accusations of adoption sabotage...Tom suspects most of the reasons didn’t really matter, and that the other children are just savages. Asserting your dominance through messy, physical violence is barbaric, and he doesn’t just think that because he was always too scrawny to do so himself. Dominance should be asserted through authority. The naturally strong don’t need to show off. They simply are. (If the weaklings around them are too stupid to realize that, well, then that could be a mild exception but--)He, himself, doesn’t release his anger in such ways. He hones it. Bides his time.

Occasionally, it’ll come out anyways. Only in his magic, of course. Physical violence is so Muggle. He’s better than that now. Or perhaps always was.

He has not seen a playground brawl at Hogwarts.

Rules are stricter here. Punishments more harsh. The most public a fight gets is a shove or a mild expeliarmus--The more public a fight gets, the less likely it’s legitimate. Real rumbles take place in the dark. It’s why Katux always tried to subdue him in empty hallways and classrooms. It’s why Tom hasn’t gotten caught giving them a taste of their own medicine. And why he never will.

So back to what is happening before his eyes:

Opposite forces of hesitation and voracity crack and cannon into each other like thunder and sea: a hurricane of conflicting emotions attempting to swallow the other. A splendid war of the self. All bottled within his classmate’s magical signature only a few mere feet before him. The cold temperature of her aura driving the hair on his skin upwards in alarm.

Ian’s magic flares up: the feeling of crushed earth and hot air popping in the area around him. It’s absolutely nothing like the spar the two of them had only yesterday: the spark of anger then only produced a chisp of manifestation. A blip on Tom’s radar.

The magical signatures meet, and Tom swears he can hear his own blood pulsing through his head. His heartbeat is in his skull and banging against the sides. He's in danger. They're in danger. Where is his mask? The evacuation route? Will sirens ring in Hogwarts?

“Get a professor.” Ximena’s voice is clear and matronly like. From beside him, though it feels like kilometers away, Nemesis seizes up before running off out of the dungeons area. It shouldn’t be long before Slughorn shows up, right? Or even--

Dumbledore.

Tom takes his vice grip off his wand. He remains cradling his cut up ear, wincing when he realizes the side of his head was sliced as well. It’s not gushing, but it is bleeding. He presses the sleeve of his robe hard against his wound--He has to apply pressure, right?

“What’s this, Riddle? Need a big burnt brutish cockroach to protect you?” Ian sizes Ximena up carefully, undoubtedly recognizing her, but undoubtedly failing to recall any of her sparring quirks, “She your girlfriend, now?”

Though he cannot see her face, her energy shimmers and quakes at Ian’ taunts--A bottled hurricane. He wishes he could see it. Smell it. Hear it. Instead he has to be satisfied with just the simple sensation of sensing. He’s sure her face shows nothing, though, because Ian doesn’t have a satisfied look on his.

“Baubillious!” White hot sparks emerge from Ian’s wand, bright enough to blind, Tom has to squint his eyes to keep his retinas from burning--He would lift his over sleeve to fully block, but he does not want to miss this.

And again, as in the duel with Hedwig, Ximena does not yell. But she mutters, under her breath, “Chhel,” and dark night emits from her wand, consuming the light from Ian’s spell. A foreign, but obvious counter--And it’s not at all what causes Tom to pause: her magic was on the move much before she uttered the spell. As if saying the words was just for show. An afterthought.

A slicing hex comes at her. The same one used on him. Ximena blocks the attempt with a flick of her wrist and the spell hits the wall beside them, causing frighteningly deep gashes. A refined form. Not trained like Ian’s, but somehow natural. The magic guides her, not the other way around--or maybe that thought was wrong, considering how much she’s keeping her magic at bay. It can almost physically touch him as he sits there behind her, bubbling with anticipation.

More spells hurl at her (or them? Ian’s aim can’t be that bad--) in rapid succession, reminiscent of Tom’s own duel with Ian. Her magic pricks out selectively as she blocks and counter-curses: a poised snake striking with heavy restraint. She doesn’t want to hurt him. At least, not in a way that will incriminate her. He understands. Expulsion is an ever hanging threat swinging above their heads like a pendulum.

Her opponent does not take this well. Ian speaks again, though Tom knows it is once more directed at him, “You’re rubbing elbows with all the worthy wizards well...Got yourself a lowblood to have on the side just like all the proper highbloods, is that right?” He laughs, giving a head gesture to Ximena, who remains still and waiting, “That’s all you are, you know? No better than a mudblood slag, there to sit pretty, take what you can get, and be grateful for the generous amount of coc--”

For all his talking (and his big ugly mouth), Ian really wasn’t good at trash talking. It’s a silly thought to have, as the fire spits it’s way out of Ximena’s wand and onto the other boy’s face, but it’s an honest one. Ian rambles his feelings, keeps them hidden at the very surface of his skin. He should learn to keep them down, well below. It might have saved him. Ximena does not open her mouth to cast this spell, but she doesn’t need to in order for Tom to recognise it. The burning air and explosive flames, elegant in their form and violent in their path...Her confrigo curse is perfect. Impassioned, uncontrolled, and fueled by nothing but Ximena’s anger. It’s when he sees it unleashed that Tom realizes she’s holding back. Her magic isn’t simply just kept at bay, it’s being desperately bottled. Held tightly by her own fists if it were possible.

The scream from Ian is something he’ll never forget in his life.

This isn’t a duel. This is nothing like the staged, little play spars displayed in the club hall. This isn’t a swabble. This is a fight. A real one.

Ian’s expensive robe, singed away revealing a grossly burned collar and shoulder, looks little more than tattered rags--of lesser quality than Tom’s, even. It flutters with the power from his magic manifesting around him, as if there were a gale in the corridor, “Expulso!”

Imitator. Fire with fire, though Ian’s is a deceivingly cold blue. It pops his ears and crackles through the small space between Ian and Ximena. Explosions. He could help here. He could whip out his wand and send a protego maxima to help and it wouldn’t incriminate him. He doesn’t. He can’t interrupt their duel. By standard rules or otherwise. Would that stupid ancient law apply to this? It wasn’t official, they didn’t bow, Ian attacked him, not her so did she interrupt their own duel…? He can't think he can't think, what does he do? What should he do? He should run. Away. Far away. Save his skin. Curl up and hide. The train, he needs to get on the train--

A heavy hum vibrates in his pocket.

Her head turns so sharply, he’s sure she has whiplash, to look down at him in absolute shock and bemusement--The magic from the bracelet is thick and tingling. It rumbles and blows out like a bubble, eager and desperate to meet back with Ximena’s magic. He makes the mistake of making eye contact with her in the few milliseconds before the beaded bracelet saves their skin from melting off, and he sees himself in her eyes. Hurt. Afraid. Vulnerable. He sees her, too, then. Hurt. Afraid. Vulnerable.

Shit.

The fire parts around them as if there were a barrier unseen, the same way Hedwig’s attacks were barred when she dueled Ximena. And he understands. She understands.

The humming stops. The attacks do not.

Luckily, Ximena isn’t an idiot. What sounds like the word shell leaves her lips and Tom feels and sees themselves being enveloped in an armored cocoon that rises up from the ground like an enclosing flower--pink and translucent [1]. The protective arms of the spell enclose. He feels safe. Right. The violent explosions are muffled as they bend around the shield formed, as if they were nothing but rain drops. They could probably stay here until--

Ximena does not stop.

She flicks her wand again like it were a sword deflecting another and Ian’s wand flies obediently into her free hand.

Ian does not stop.

Ian curses at her, through language and not magic, and the volatile emotions swimming in his magic manage to build up a violent gush of wind in the corridor. His wandless magic isn’t poised or controlled, it’s like watching someone having a spasm try to write their name.

Her next move should be a mimblewimble spell. A full body-bind curse. Tom waits eagerly for her to raise her wand, but it never happens. She tosses the two wands behind her at Tom (they hit him on the forehead) and--

Ximena tackles Ian. Gets one. Two. Five good hits in before he wises up and places his arms in front of him for protection. The fool doesn’t even know how to fight back without his wand. He’s useless. Screaming expletives at Ximena as if that would do anything. His burn wounds are still fresh and bleeding, and the hard hits and scratches she lands on him only make it worse. She is a child. Fighting and hurting another child. It’s more passionate than the schoolyard brawls he’s seen in his early childhood, but it is still a schoolyard brawl. There’s blood on her hands. Anger in her eyes. It suits her.

His eyelids draw heavy--Shit, how much blood has left him? Why didn’t anyone teach him a blood clotting spell? A scabbing one? His lungs are made out of rusted iron, his head is throbbing--

Eager footsteps approach. He feels a magic he’s never (consciously) felt before. A booming golden magic that drums triumphantly down the hall behind him like an entire herd of elephants. It feels like fire and spirit. He knows who the magic belongs to before he looks.

Dumbledore.

-

What Tom most enjoys about Ximena, he concludes, as the mediwitch finishes up his bandages in the hospital wing, is that she doesn’t cling. She considers him a friend now, he’s sure, and she hasn’t not once initiated something as vulgar as a hug or a friendly pat on the back. Ximena has manners. It’s delightful. As if she knows not to touch him. That he’s untouchable.

Nemesis has not gotten this message yet. She sits pretty and attentive at his side, staring at him with such pity it makes him sick. She’s too close. Her hands are too close. Can’t Madam Belfast see she’s bothering him? Crowding him? Useless woman! Put on his bandages, feed him the proper medicine, and get rid of--

“How are you feeling?”

He pops on the sensitive, woobie eyes, and a brave chin tilt forward, “I’ve had worse.”

She thinks he’s putting up a valiant act. He isn’t. “I can’t believe he did that, I...I’ve never seen him so…” A sigh, “What on earth could have possessed him?”

Jealousy. Truth. Revenge. Inadequacy. Envy. Hysteria. Rage. Insecurity. Reality. All ideas Tom has had. He has more too--Does a reason really matter? He did what he did. And he suffered the consequences of it. Sadly not at his hands but--

“...What do you think will happen to Rosier?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Her head shakes, “A slap on the wrist, I’m sure. The Rosiers are an old family, and they have a lot of weight in the legal system.”

Tom scowls, “What right does the Wizengamot have to interfere with Hogwarts?”

“--You are not wrong, but…” She picks at her nails, “...Hogwarts is where the majority of magical children go for their education in this part of the world...You can imagine how important it is for the richer families to have their say.” An apologetic look, as if this were somehow her fault, “Even if one of theirs attacked another student.”

Pathetic. To have Hogwarts held back by such nonsense is infuriating. Insulting. Dippet is cravenous. How much money is enough to keep justice from being served? Ian is an idiot. Attacking him so openly in front of another student (one he didn’t even incapacitate before she was able to alert a teacher), possibly even attempting to…

“What’s an Unforgivable?”

He looks at Nemesis not with the look of a naive little puppy (as he had planned before all this nonsense), but with a look of fierce determination. He has a right to know what was almost done to him--A right to know what spell could land a child in prison at the drop of a hat. A curse that, when casted by the right person, wields no consequences.

She gulps, blinking, searching for the proper words...As if the very subject were taboo, “An Unforgivable is...A truly unforgivable thing, Tom.” He gathered as much, but as she says it, the weight of her words presses down on him. He doesn’t feel the urge to roll his eyes at her explanation, “Casting one...It does things to your magical core. To your soul.” Her palm presses flat on her chest, while the other grips his own. He resists recoiling back in favor of having her continue, “They are the darkest, ugliest magic, Tom. To think that one was almost done on you so casually…” Ugh, is she going to cry?

Tom puts on his best reassuring face, “But it wasn’t.” He put a stopper on it before anything could happen--With a damn tickle hex, of all things. Is that curse really so powerful if he was able to avoid it with a simple spell? “Whatever Unforgivable it was, it was never cast.” Which is a reason they’ll argue in Ian’s favor for not expelling him, sadly, “I never even got to hear the incantation. Not fully.”

Her hand squeezes his. Awful. “I can venture a guess which one it was--There’s only two.”

“Just two?” Just two spells out of all the countless ones in the wizarding world are considered soul tainting? The darkest, ugliest magic? Unforgivable?

“Yes--And, of course, if the rumors I hear are true, it was probably, um,” There’s no wand in her hand, and her magic is not primed at the ready to cast, yet she hesitates to speak the name. As if saying it would bring it into existence, “It’s a curse of pain. The most...The most excruciating pain you could ever go through…” Here, her voice dips down into a whisper, “Don’t...You didn’t hear this from me, but...A lot of the old families use it to discipline their children and subservients.” His surprise must show on his face, because she adds on very quickly: “Not my family! No, never,” Her long hair swishes with her head as she shakes it, “I mean...The older families who have a bit of a...blood obsession.” Ah. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Ian didn’t know the extent of what he was doing...Not that I’m defending him! I just--”

Tom raises his hand for her to stop, releasing it from her uncomfortable hold, “I understand, Nemesis.” Really, he doesn’t: if the curse was so terrible, then nothing excuses Ian for wanting to inflict it upon Tom. Daft idiot should know better. Even if it’s apparently used on him by his own mother, “It explains why someone so...callow knew about that sort of spell.” Especially before he managed to learn about it. Pureblood upbringing really does have a worthwhile advantage--It’s a bit too late for him to be adopted, though.

His voice raises again, “What do you think will happen to Ximena?”

“--Oh,” Her face grows grim.

Tom wonders how jealousy works in Nemesis' mind. He was under the impression that girls are catty and attack each other at every passing moment, moreso if the object of jealousy was a boy. But there's no malice or smug satisfaction in his classmate's eyes. Nemesis appears genuinely worried and uncertain about Ximena's fate. There's no way she's that great of an actress. Are they friends now?

He lifts his chin, tilts his head.

“The situation really is complicated isn’t it?” Not really. Ian was stupid enough to attack a student and should be punished. Ximena acted in defense. Cut and dry. “I’m not sure...If she were from a noble house, then there would perhaps be some sort of reparations… maybe feuding…? It’s been a while since something like this has happened at Hogwarts.”

Tom resists snorting, because things like this definitely happen often, just in the shadows, “We broke the peace, then?”

His attempt at lightening the mood fails. Nemesis sighs, “I think...The Rosiers will want to keep this sort of thing quiet, at best. If Ian were a Lestrange or, Hectate forbid, a Flint...Then I think Lane’s life would be in danger. The least they can do is demand expulsion, at this point.”

Christ. Thank Merlin he didn’t raise his wand against Ian. He could not handle the weight of potential expulsion on his shoulders. Can Ximena? Does her threat of expulsion scare her? Scare him? She had wanted to leave, had said this place was more of a prison than a haven. But she can’t have meant it, right? Not wholly? Leaving Hogwarts permanently (prematurely) would rightfully traumatize any child. Not just him.

“And at worse?”

She hesitates, “A trial, perhaps...Though, that would just attract attention to the fact that the Rosiers had a foreign foundling best one of their own to the point of scarring. Rosiers don’t like public spectacles. We’re lucky he isn’t their heir.”

Really? Could have fooled him with how sensationalist Druella is--How melodramatic all the Rosiers were...Even Evan. But then again, all the Rosiers he’s met are children. All the Rosiers at Hogwarts are children. He really can’t wait until they’re grown and past such nonsense.

“Really, Lane’s lack of bloodclaim is a blessing and a curse: I imagine she’d be in hotter water if she were a confirmed Muggleborn, they don’t do very well in court.”

“No, I expect not with this current Wizengamot.” People talk, Nemesis notwithstanding, and they especially love talking about things they heard their parents talking about, “Was it always like this?” This bad? This easy?

Nemesis leans over again, and then recoils back when she sees him flinch purposefully, “Some families like the Malfoys would have you believe that it was, but that’s all rubbish.” Her voice is down to a whisper again, as if what she was speaking was heresy, “They’ve kicked all the witches out of the Wizengamot, but we’ve had plenty of witches as minister for magic. A good handful of half-bloods too--Not all from old or rich families either.”

He refrains from replying, he keeps his thoughts to himself. Nemesis doesn’t need to know where he stands just yet.

“It wasn’t until--” Her mouth opens and closes, “It must have been twenty, thirty years ago? This...There was this horrendous resurfacing of Purism. My grandfather said it’s the worst it’s been in years...” Her eyes catch the torch light coming in through the open doors, and Tom sees gold. There’s still a small splatter of his blood dried on her cheek. In that moment, he sees that she’s actually quite pretty, in the way that most people would define beauty, “You know I don’t like talking about these sort of things with our housemates...All these picketers and lobbyists are their parents and aunts and uncles!”

Oh Tom knows exactly what she means. It’s not a good look. It’s not proper social etiquette. It’s not enough to make Nemesis grow a spine. Shame. “I see.” His head throbs, and it’s not just his wound.

“It didn’t...I didn’t...I thought maybe my uncle would change things as minister, but…” But he was a cravenous insect. No better than Chamberlain. “It’s so hard, Tom. Everyone is such a vulture, only looking out for their own interests…” So it’s just like Hogwarts, then. “I sat in on a trial during the summer, some Muggleborn accused of thievery and--Sweet Hectate, they were merciless. It was as if he had murdered children! A capital punishment for a minimal offense, all for his blood!” So it’s just like Hogwarts, then. “It was so normal, I couldn’t stand it...And he...my own uncle, the Prime Minister for Magic...He did nothing. He was content. All his power and influence for what?” So it’s just like Hogwarts, then. “My father, he tries, he really does, but it’s all for nothing. They don’t listen.” So it’s just like Hogwarts, then.

A moment passes, and he decides against patting Nemesis on the back of her hand, lest she get ideas. Instead, he gives a soft sigh (genuine) and pauses to think about the right words to say (fake, it’s so easy to come up with what Nemesis wants to hear), “This will pass. Resurgences always happen in history, even with Muggles. It will pass.”

Maybe it’s his voice or the atmosphere or her vulnerability, but she looks at him and nods once. Smiles. She believes him. His words are truth to her because he has spoken them.

At last! Madam Belfast has come to shoo Nemesis away, it’s late and Mr. Riddle needs all the rest he can get. Nemesis looks absolutely heartbroken that she must tear herself from his side, but leaves with a soft goodbye. When she reaches for his hand, he pulls it away. He wishes her goodnight with a smile on his face, thoughts lingering on their conversation.

What he should have said, what he wanted to say, was ‘Do something about it.’ Stop crying. Stop grousing. You’re no better than the moneybags who pull sad faces at him and the other children at Wool’s, lament their status in this life, and then spare tuppence and ignore them until Christmas or Easter. He wants to shake her. Throw the pumpkin pasty on his dinner tray at her retreating form. He does not. It would be a waste of a good pumpkin pasty.

He’s alone in the hospital wing.

Ian was transferred to St. Mungo’s at the insistence of his parents: two stern, upper-lipped witches who reminded Tom a little too closely to some of the prospective parents that toured Wool’s. They skimmed over his own injuries, and looked at their son with nothing but controlled contempt. He only saw them for a whisper of a moment, but the act of taking Ian away from him was a kind enough gesture to leave a good impression on Tom: he’s not sure how he could have handled his whining. Or how gruesome his injuries looked to be. Madam Belfast can cast all the sweet scent spells she wants, but nothing can take the smell of burnt flesh out of his nose.

Ugh! He’s remembering it so explicitly, he scours for a better memory from the last few hours: the spells themselves. Such exquisite dark magicks being performed before him, unlike anything he’s seen. Nothing like the spars in Dueling Club and DADA, and eons ahead of the duel between Hedwig and Ximena...It felt good. Indulgent and cozy, like the hot chocolate he had shared with the witch last January. Sweet, almost, though he did not taste anything (can he taste magic? Is that possible?) He wants to wrap himself in a blanket of that darkness and sleep.

The bracelet remains with him, for now: tucked securely in his robe pocket (did he place it there this morning? He could have sworn it was left in his bedside table), and growing heavier by the hour. She knows. There’s no way she doesn’t know. The extent to what she knows is up in the air...how long he’s had it, how he got it, if he was intent on keeping it...No the...The way she looked at him...He didn’t like it. That look is reserved for the despicable swine at the orphanage. When he takes their things, and makes them pay. The look that they give him. Rightfully. Not...not her. Not to him. He’s meant to stay the Golden Boy here at Hogwarts. Beloved. Would she tell? Will everyone listen to her? Will this be what Dumbledore uses as definite proof that Tom hasn’t and cannot change?

He’s going to have to give it back--Yes, he is...He has to. It’s the only way to salvage the situation. His image. Their relationship. Her trust.

Fuck.

He needs more time, he had a plan. Or at least half of one. Could he pin the whole thing on Ian? Yes yes, he took it back from Ian and got found out. Caught. He’ll weave a tale of having suspected Ian for weeks before valiantly sneaking into the third year boys’ dormitory and investigating for himself and--Lo! He found the bracelet, sealed with some sort of protection charm that he disarmed without any fuss because Ian is patheticly untalented but also Tom is miraculously skilled. He’ll slip out unnoticed but then! It’s so hard to find Ximena, he couldn’t have gone straight to her! Boys aren’t allowed in the girl’s dormitory, so he can’t place it with her things. And no no no, he absolutely could not hand it over to a third year Slytherin girl, it’s too personal a thing. Too precious. Only he could have given it back, he was the only one she told about having it missing.

Teeth bite down hard on his bottom lip the more he thinks about it. Does she trust him enough to ignore that burst of magic that so obviously came from his person? Friendship takes precedence over evidence, if radio has taught him anything. Things were proven and felt with the heart rather than paper trails and eyewitnesses (all of whom turned out to be falsified in the end), and based on the interactions he’s seen between friends his whole life, it has to apply to reality too. Ximena will believe him because she will feel it in her heart that he is her friend and would never absolutely do something like that. Nevermind silly things like induction.

A flutter of wings is heard just outside the window behind him, and he stills, expecting a tapping at the glass and hearing nothing of the sort. Just silence. Just owls. No crows. He still doesn’t turn around to look. Just in case. In case of what? He doesn’t know.

The bracelet talks again. Not talks, but mutters. Sputters and utters and putters out that strange not-language in whispers: a conch shell held to his ear. He’s sure if maybe he concentrates on it, that he can figure out at least a mood or tone, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to shake it out like he does to ringing in his head.

He shuts his eyes

When he opens them, he is in a room he has never been in, but he knows it’s Ximena’s. The air is grey and damp, and the sad rays of the sun that manage to make it inside the room are dull and lifeless. He sees dust flying in the air. If he exhales, it flurries like a squall. The space is colorless. Plain. There is a grey rug underneath him. Cotton. Old. A weathered dresser to his left made of dark wood and kept neat. A bible rests on top next to a glass, single flower vase with that strange flower from the year before that colonized the fields of Hogwarts. It’s fully in bloom. White. Her small bed has one woven, moth eaten beige blanket and a sad, flattened pillow with minimal but obvious stains. No, it’s not flattened completely. There’s something inside--Underneath? Round and small like a baked bun, or a nest. A spiral. He reaches out, to touch and take.

Something else draws his eyes instead.

To the right of the bed is a small table and lamp, a seashell blue color. There’s another little black book on top. A black so deep, he swears it’s made of shadow. Dark and alluring. He picks it up, turns it over, and knows that it belongs to him. When he opens it, her writing is on the inside instead. It’s a diary. His eyes run over words and dates eagerly, but absorb nothing. He is reading but his brain is not processing anything until he reaches the last page she wrote in. This, he remembers:

Ximena plays with her name. Writes it a million times over, each time with a different family name attached to the end. Camacho. García. Muñoz. Rivera. She says none of them sound right. Cruz. Díaz. Fuentes. They all sound as wrong as Lane does. Ortega. Leyva. Guerrero. But she’d prefer either one of them anyday. Goméz. Carpintero. Salinas. A name is a claim: proof that you belong somewhere. Calderón. Gonzaléz. Martínez. They’re all far away names, from across the ocean. Juan. Sanchez. Villa. But not from Spain, the voice that reads them in his head speaks in a way that tells him these names are further away.

He writes with a pen that was not there before. The matron’s nice ballpoint pen that he doesn’t take to school for fear of being labeled as a Muggle lover. He writes some new names down for her; closer names: Zabini. Potter. Shafiq. And then, even closer: Flint. Lestrange. Black. Why can’t she be a part of their families? Close to England. To him. If he were friends with a long lost Black, imagine how much easier his path would become. Two long lost children born from greatness, straight out of a classical story. A hero myth. His ex mentor said so himself, he could be anybody. They could be anybody.

--And then, temptation seizes him.

He writes something blasphemous. Indulgent. Iniquitous. Something that will bond them together in blood and water.

Behind him, though he does not know how he knows, the flower turns red.

When he wakes up, the hospital wing is pale blue in the light of the dawn.