And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold Seer in a trance
Seeing all his own mischance—
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away
The Lady of Shalott.
-The Lady of Shalott by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

prologue.

August 15th, 1997.

A liar should have a good memory.
- Scottish proverb.

For a while, I thought I could escape my fate. I thought that if I saw it—as I did see it, many, many times before—and I realized that it was the truth, I could stop it, somehow. I thought I could run away. But, as I've come to realize in my old age, I am powerless to fate, the tricky little bitch that it is.

So I have no other choice than to sit in my home, and wait for him to come to me.

I think back on my younger days quite often. Back when I believed him, foolishly. Back when I tried my hardest to push him away until I gave in—and oh, how I gave in, so effortlessly. (It sends shivers down my spine, remembering how surprisingly well we went together. Tom and I—how it felt to kiss him, have his hands roam, to hear his voice...The memories of this time are strong indeed. There's no forgetting something like that. Not easily. Not like I've ever wanted to forget it—it was the happiest time of my life.)

But I am old now; long gone are the days of my youth—my skin is thin, papery, wrinkled like leather. I've aged worse than I would have without Tom, I'm certain.

My children are far from Britain, far from any of the trouble—they raise their own children, and their children will raise their own children, and so forth. But they'll never know what I had to do to acquire them.

I have many regrets in my life, and I have sinned many times in my life. But I do not regret the worst thing I've done, for I did it to save my life—and for love.

(Love, the only thing that's kept me going all these years. The love of a dead man.)

Today's the day. That much I'm certain of. And, oddly enough, I do not fear death as much as I did when the dreams first came to me, of the white-faced man and the wand and the pain, the endless pain and screaming. Back then, I had not experienced pain as I have. Pain is physical. Pain is an illusion. But death—death comes quickly, painlessly, without much fuss at all.

I know how it's going to happen. And he knows that I know.

I think it makes it easier for the both of us, although I know he's never felt anything for me. As Tom or as Voldemort, he's only seen me as something to help him further his sick version of "success." I might as well have been a toy to him for all the help I did.

(And what a toy I was—hard to get with very little reward, he had once told me.)

I hear the loud crack of Apparation downstairs, and I don't feel a thing.

I have lived my life. I've lost friends, my family—I'm certain I've lost my sanity multiple times by now. I've miscarried children I didn't want from the beginning. I've done things I should be ashamed of. And I know when I die, I'll end up in Hell. But how bad can Hell be after spending years married to Tom Riddle?

I almost can't hear his footsteps, but I've seen this from far too many angles to not know what's happening—I can hear him hiss and spit in that God-awful language to Nagini. I remember the first time I heard him speak to the damned snake—

Stop, I tell myself. Now isn't the time for nostalgia.

"Amelia," he says as he sees me, his voice a horrible hiss.

But he isn't my Tom anymore. He's turned into a monster—his face is absolutely serpentine; his skin is a pale white, his skin thin and his veins horribly visible. He wears black robes that billow around him, making him look almost bat-like. His wand is held in his right hand, which is lazily reclined by his side.

(Even as a monster, he's still got a sort of elegance around him.)

I should be afraid. I should be terrified. He's killed hundreds, thousands of people before. I should be shaking and crying and begging him to leave.

Instead, I look him directly in his red eyes and say, "Good evening, Tom."

I can see anger flash through his eyes.

"They do not call me Tom anymore," he says. "As you should well know by now."

"Yes, I do know," I say. "But you're always going to be Tom to me. You should know that by now."

He smiles, a grotesque thing. "Sarcastic to the very end, aren't you?"

"I've lost everything," I tell him, very simply. "My humor is all I've got left to me."

Tom looks at me. "I've come here on business, Amelia." He pauses, walking around my study, his eyes still fixed on mine. "Harry Potter. You've had visions of Harry Potter, haven't you?"

I can feel him attempting to prod into my mind and see my visions, but I block him immediately.

"Why would I?" I say, smirking slightly. "I have no connection to the boy. He's of no importance to me."

"I think you know your connection to the boy," Tom says, a hint of annoyance in his voice now.

"Have I irritated you, Tom?" I say. "That wasn't my intention, I assure you."

He's trying to get the memories, but I don't let him; his anger is almost palpable. His eyes flash dangerously, and he looks as though he's ready to scream.

"Tell me what you saw!" he says loudly, angrily.

"I saw nothing."

"Crucio."

—And suddenly there's pain, nothing but the blinding pain that I've felt a thousand times before; there are a thousand million knives stabbing me everywhere, everywhere, everywhere, and I can hardly see straight and I'm screaming and there's nothing but the pain—

—And suddenly, it stops.

I gulp in lungfuls of air, grateful for the liberation.

"You know how this can end, Amelia," Tom says. "You know I can kill you. But I'd prefer to keep you alive—you are useful, you know. I know that you see the boy. I know that you know where he is, what he's doing, and why. You can help me end this." He smiles again, and I have to repress a shudder. "All you have to do is tell me, and it shall all work out for your sake."

I let out a little bitter chuckle. "For my sake? It's never been about me, Tom. It's always been about you.

"And besides," I continue, "you never loved me and I never loved you. Not really. I loved the Tom that you put on the table and made me believe you were. I loved the Tom who told me I was special and who wanted me as much as I wanted him.

"I loved an illusion. You wasted over fifty years of my life, Tom. You've ruined my life. My children hate me because of you—because they know of what we had. Or, rather, what I believed we had. I haven't seen my grandson since he was born, and who knows? There are probably others now. But they'll never see me because of you. And Vivian..." I pause, swallowing a lump in my throat.

"You killed my sister," I say in the same even tone. "The one person I wanted alive."

He's angrier than before, and he doesn't even bother hiding it now, slapping me boldly across the face. My cheek stings, but I let out a laugh.

"So," I say, smiling softly. "Kill me, Tom. We both know how it's going to end. Either way—if I tell you or if I don't—I'll die."

We stare at each other, both of us challenging each other.

"What are you waiting for? Are you afraid?" I mock, smirking widely, adrenaline pumping through my veins, feeling younger and more alive than I have in ages. "You're afraid! You're afraid to kill me—you can torture me all you like, but you won't man up and kill me! So do it!"

Before I can continue, he's wrapped his hand around my throat, cutting off my air supply. He presses his wand against my jugular.

"I respect your foolishness," he says harshly; a chill goes down my spine. "It's gotten me very far, you know. So, I shall give you one last chance to tell me."

I look at him for a few moments, thinking.

Here is the man that I once loved. Here is the man that once held me in his arms. Here is the man I have had—and lost—children with. Here is the man I left everything for: my family, who are either dead or far away from me and happy; my best friends, the only friends I had; my home and my country and everything I adored.

Here is the man who lied to me and tortured me and made my life a living Hell.

"Harry Potter will win, Tom," I tell him, my voice dripping with venom, my smirk wider than ever. "You know what, dear? Your pride was always your downfall. The way you run away from everything."

He lets out a loud scream, and I close my eyes, waiting, waiting—

"Amelia Hartley," says Tom Riddle, his name like a curse on his lips. "You stupid girl. You little fool."

And then there's a green light that flashes before my eyes, and a darkness envelops me that's so warm and welcoming and oh so comforting.

a/n: please don't forget to leave a review, thank you.