I always knew I was to die. My initial prediction was by the hands of my father, or by the hands of myself. I didn't think i would part this way. We cannot choose our lives, That I know, I was a fool back then, when I believed that he loved me. We were both fools. I honestly believed that he cared for me. So I let him go, and I was struck with the white hot whip of reality.
The consequence was in my arms.
''Call him Tom Riddle, Tom Marvolo Riddle.'' I told the woman who had handed me my child.
''Rest now,'' she replied, politely laying back my head back onto the snow coated ground. I no longer felt the cold, I knew why. Because I was dying. I was out of hope. Out of time.
''I.. Hope he will look like his father..'' I croaked, my throat parched,
''I'm sure he will.'' The woman nodded. I knew she was judging me, the girl in rags, too hopeless to live for her own baby, even with magic. Then I knew it was time to go. So I let the happy arms of death embrace me, something I should have done so long ago. Before departing, I caught a glimpse of my baby, and in his eyes a flash of scarlet. And only then did I realise the mistake I had made.