White. A white ceiling. White walls. White was what I woke up too. Funny how pure and innocent the colour is but when it comes to it you can just see all the dirt.
The room I was in, in my white bed, was empty, blank. No one but me and this empty, white blankness. I was once again alone. Alone. Tom was dead. The war was finally over. We had done it. I had done it. And yet here I sat in the hospital wing, in a bed, alone.
A sad smile graces my face. What was I expecting, really. I knew this would happen. I could feel my life force and magic weakening.
A soft chuckle escapes my lips, but it sounds like a sob. Pitiful. I'm pitiful, alone and pitifully craving someone to come through that door and hold my hand. I know no one will. Why would they? People die all the time. But not all of them have saved the wizarding world, have they?
I am dying. I know it's because of the death of that fraction of Toms soul that was in me. It didn't hurt really. No, it just ached. A soft dull ache that seemed to consume my whole body.
I wanted to be outside to die. But I was in this white room, alone.
My mind churned to workout what I had done to deserve this tragic ending. Was it perhaps the number of deaths that had occurred over the years, or was it because they were frightened of me, or maybe it could be that they don't want to see me die as they had so many others. I hoped it was the last.
"Sorry" I whispered to the emptiness, "for whatever drove you away."
No reply. No there wouldn't be, because there was no one to hear my words. All I wanted was for someone to be here with me and reassure me I was going to be ok, even if that was a lie. That is all I wanted, was that so much to ask?
Still no one came. Not Sirius, not Remus, not Ron, not Hermione, not any of the Weasleys, not even Dumbledore was here for me. Again that soft sob of a chuckle was released from my lips.
Then I realise the only one who knew my pain, I had killed. Tom Riddle, who had often seen the loneliness in my head, was gone. He was the only one to truly knew me and I killed him. Leaving myself alone.
I heard a noise outside my room, waiting with baited breath. The minuets crept by and that door didn't open. No one came.
I sat back against the pillows, feeling the weakness grow heavy. I was so tired. Cold, alone and impossibly tired. I was slipping.
I no longer felt that need for the reassurance that I would be fine. No longer needed that hand. I was no longer scared of dying. No that was what never scared me. No, being alone was. And I seemed to be that most of the time. But I wasn't scared now.
Pain shot through my body, drawing shaky breaths from me. My eyelids closing slowly. One last breath. I was Alone. But I didn't mind much. Then I was gone. I died.
If I had lasted just that little bit longer I would of seen as my door opened to reveal the very people I had longed to see some moments ago. I would have seen them as they cried and reassured me that I was going to be ok, but I didn't. I was dead.
