"Is it better to accept your ignorance, or to accept the truth with all its consequences?" Cobalt-eyed Cobalt Carrow says, blinking. A mischief-making Kobold. Carrow's twin brother's sexual catastrophe is always going to sweep the world. But it is a good question, after all. The tall man in the soft tweed grey thick collar murmurs, as he faces the gin. Pontius Pilate drank it. "Can't we all just not choose?" Aye, the Roman governor had the backbone. It chose one,the other was hanged.
"Name," the curious Abraxas lifts his chin. A hint. His cool Archibald Garrod pink face obscures Carrow's vision, then turns to face Tom. Albino. The downside of inbreeding. "Can I choose neither?" Then, of course. With a name and a longstanding tradition, the consequences of ignorance or breaking the law would always be addressed by the ancestors.
POWER. It's all because of the inheritance tax. Those rotten purple. But Tom didn't. A sideways Bulstrode shows his teeth. Another silver spoon. "I want to hear your answer."
Abraxas looks at the shark, and after half a moment's contemplation, his hand drops low and his whole body tilts back into the velvet upholstery. The meaning of this is, don't annoy him, and don't let him go easily.
A harmless test, it is all child's play. Nott knows this is Malfoy's house, the house of the crooks who plays in circles most profitably and seeks both sides. Never had an outsider come in all these years. Now a new one. No one knew who his family was before.Bureaucratic formalism. Pretence. A back door for the perpetually rejected Kafka. Yes, Jacobin. No problem, Jacobin.
"This is your story, your test," the shrewd man, who presents a calculating shadow behind him, trails off in a long-winded tone, "and you must answer it yourself." To be annoyed is to be released. To be vexed is to be the beginning of an accomplice. Tom knew how it would end.
They wait for him to answer. The Nazarene begged Rome to release the shackles. That shit.
But he is not. These people have a name in common, and it's none of his business. The eyes of the crowd don't converge on him at the moment, because they are inanimate.
"It is better to forget one's name, for he can avoid those who would seek to harm him, including himself. When a man with a name acts, there are those who follow him. When a man without a name acts, his name leaves no trace."
The leader drinks for a while and looks at Voldemort closely; the Charter of the British Duchy is notoriously smelly, and it isn't long before there was the hiss of suicide-exploding gas. The answer had been written long ago. As if arguing with himself, Archibald buzzes. What's his name again? Cabalistic word.“Enigmatic.” Who's talking? Lucretia,Genetiv Kasus. The one that says, "Nothing can be born from nothing, and nothing can return to nothing."
Lucretia is only a year older than Tom, and Tom remembered her, with those wet charcoal eyes of jealousy, saying, "Riddle, you're like a riddle."
Canfora thinks he's from a noble family, and that must be wrong. How could the one who took his name and killed himself be from a civic family? Spiteful, the woman's jealousy. And not to be underestimated. He'd given hints.
To flatter. Anonymous.Abraxax Malfoy's mouth tightened. It wasn't an answer he'd ever paired with him.
"So what you're saying is that we follow a Nobody?" Listen,The open secret about the blood theory is, firstly, don't keep an overly high opinion of your lineage, and two, for deliberately not saying your name (where you came from).
What fate came to the recipient of that book? Ah, the immoral fall. Class fall. It was a resounding event. "I don't know, it's not for me to decide."
Naturalism was born a long, long time ago, way before logocentrism. The question of Lucretius' self-immolation is something that must never be erased by Derrida. Whether it is down to abetting flight from politics or out of Stoic entrenchment, in short, this six-step stanza in imitation of Lucius Livius is not likely to be converted to nothing. It's definitive.
But sie is always going to want a name.
Lucretia's mouth quirks, her eyes with a hint of hesitation and envy. She doesn't say anything.
Malfoy gives her a deep, deep look. When he had began to throw a private party, he never thought of embarrassing everyone by inviting a minor character. No more, go ahead and imagine the melancholy beer hall. There hadn't been a public employment rate within Germany since a long, long time ago.
Bulstrode pouts and looks incredulous as the dim artificial light beams of the garden hit his wide jaw. He opens his mouth wide, the leader. Riddle. Leader. Riddle. Eyes rolling, and he doesn't say a word.
Cobalt Carrow, the future helmsman of STD. He appears to like the colour blue, and thus drinks more melancholically.Cobalt didn't speak.
Nott, Knot, apparently there are more rumours against the second in command. Some says that his family had started out in the business of pruning plant branches. That’s good, a botanist now has to get on the villain's boat. He laughs contemptuously, apparently with Malfoy's consent, and then reaches into his robes and pinchs a gold coin with an intricate design.
It is a gold-encrusted family crest. His ancestors must have plundered someone. Check it out some day.
"We all know it's a trick, Riddle. But I'm not going to bet on a coward." Student stuff, impulsiveness, carelessness, or underdeveloped nerve cells are all tricks to deal with investors. In New York, some families nearly lost their homes because of it. He must be suspicious. Yeah, he's definitely betting on his family name.
That family crest whirls around in Nott's hand like the air had been sucked out of it, and Riddle couldn't read the runes above it. A secret, an eternity carved by time. The apprentice could not see what the master had delivered. In an ontological sense, the passage from apprentice to master means the complete resurrection of existence itself. But they have no life. No one knows a man's life could be tricks. Mōsheh.Then,Silent. Gone. Something - gone from Nott.
A silent spell. Everyone present realised. The Roman governor lets out a harsh laugh, like the pages of a book rubbing against a chalkboard as they turns. His hands are smooth as marble, typically unlike a stealer. One after the other. Malfoy's hands spread out, followed by Carrow's, who could tell from Lucretia's that she'd never done any rough work, then Bulstrode nods, though he couldn't hold back his laughter, and surrenders with his hands held high above his head, and then the four of them look to the second-in-command, Nott, who does nothing, his thin cheekbones crooks, his lips half-lowered in abandonment, and showing a silent childishness. He is sure, as himself, surely surely surely surely not going to turn his own out of existence -
Finally, Riddle looks at the farce before him and shakes his head in silence and innocence, and a prolonged sigh expells from the nameless man's body. A clipped family crest gleams, revealing an unsettling sign. Curious, Cobelt Carrow gently plucks his closed hand away to scrutinise the vanished family crest. "A silent spell?" What does it mean? Something a wise man would learn in two or three years. A diversionary diversion. Just a lesson in risk management.
More. Someone guesses it. The poet is finally smart for once. Malfoy comes closer, he'd smelled the odour from a distance. A secret. A holy niche. Deception. Purpose. First built in the Mycenaean period. Desire. The leader's normally disrespectful demeanour gathered into the shadows of knowledge as he mused, and in turn turns to Tom Riddle, "You twisted it?" Life in the first half of the eighteenth century. Old fashioned. He really doesn't like Solomon.
"Half." The gold coin leaps up gently, skilfully arcing its chord in mid-air, returning to the ship's true owner. Unbeknownst to anyone, This surname from 990 is officially resurrected.