Note - Alright boys and girls, first story. Give me a hand if you can, tips are always welcome, constructive critisism, not so constructive critisism, whatever. I`m all about it. So, reviews are wonderful. I can`t promise regular updates, I`m a student after all, free time usually involves studying or sleeping. Thanks for reading though ! I hope you'll enjoy it :)
THIS IS A DISCLAIMER! PLEASE DONT KICK ME OFF FANFICTION, I DO NOT PRETEND TO OWN J. K. ROWLINGS MASTER PIECE, NOR AM I UNDER ANY FALSE PRETENCES THAT I MIGHT STEAL IT OR SOMETHING OF THE LIKE. that is all.
Chapter 1 - Broken.
I'm too old to live how I used to. My house may from now on be a little bit of a disaster, but considering the state it was before, I'd hardly say it could get much worse. It feels as though the mess is hollow now. Like the souls that once created such a disaster have vacated it, and left it for me to clean up.
I'm too old to clean up after them.
It breaks my heart when I enter a room, which had once belonged to one of my children. The air is stale and heavy, the curtains drawn, and the bed well made. The living room, once crowded and worn, is now neat and empty. The whole house is so very empty. I am an old woman now, not thanks to anyone but you, Tom Riddle. And it shows, maybe not to anyone else, but I can feel it, I can see it. The very air I breath feels thicker, and my old lungs are worn; the heavy air comes in painfully slow.
I feel broken.
And this is your doing, Tom Riddle. You took the youth out of me, long before my children grew. Long before I had any children to speak of. You took my youth, my childhood, when you took all whom I held dear. If I were to ask, you would tell me I was lucky, you allowed me to live, to go on with my life. But I'm no imbacile, the look in your eyes, your gaunt, lifeless eyes, proved that you had much more in mind for my life then I could ever have imagined. No, you had no fantastic intentions for me as you had for Harry Potter, or Albus Dumbeldore. I am no hero, and you would be the first to remind me of this. Your only intention for me was to make me miserable.
You did not kill me. No, you simply took my heart in your hand, and twisted it in your grimy paws. You killed what hope remained in me, Tom Riddle, you murdered me in the most brutile of ways.
By doing absolutly nothing to me.
You are a sick, twisted man.
But I'm old. I'm worn, and I'm broken. I have healed, but old wounds have a funny way of opening when you least expect it. So, I decided that this had to be done, before the memories of my hopeful years dissapeared entirely, without a single word on them having been written. Those lost must be remembered. They must be celebrated, and they must be loved as I loved them.
Heroes, such as these, must have a place in history. They earned such a place.
And they may never be commemerated, Tom Riddle, no one will speak their name with awe and amazment. No one will learn about them. No, what's worse, is they will learn about you. They will learn about all the awful deeds you did, all the terrible things you did to people. People will know your name. And what of the heroes?
What of James and Lily Potter?
What of Mad Eye Moody?
What of Gideon and Fabian?
What of Sirius Black?
What of Alice and Frank Longbottom?
What of Nymphadora Tonks?
What of Remus Lupin?
What of Severus Snape?
What of Fred Weasley?
What of my son? Who died while fighting for something that was far older then him. A cause that had seen many more winters than he had, and had taken him at his prime. What of my brothers? No two better men could be found, no brighter men either. Is that why you killed them, Tom Riddle? Because they were too good for your dark world? Their light was too bright for your intended darkness.
I hope you have found your darkness, Tom Riddle. And I hope, with every fiber in my body, that it burns you. That you suffer as I always will.
I hope you are broken.
My name is Molly Weasley.