Disclaimer: I own nothing.
The hand she didn't take
By Heir of Darkness
Tom Riddle sat on his bed late at night, all four curtains closed, ignoring the mad howling of the wind on the grounds. The only light in the dark room came from the flickering light of his wand he held in his shaking right hand, and his left was running madly across a piece of parchment, almost against the will and out of the control of his feverish brain.
Dear Minerva,
I feel this is going to be the last letter I'll ever write you. I am loosing myself more and more often now. I feel like I'm not me, that someone else is taking over my body. I know it's hard to believe, but I can't stand it anymore. I just can't go on living like that. I'm going insane. I'm split in half, and hopelessly trying to stick the two parts together again. I need help.
Everyday, I'm less and less Tom. The other half of my soul is winning. The boy who was your friend is dying, and 'he' is killing him. Sometimes I completely forget what I have been doing for a while, and then find myself in a place I don't know how I got in or why I got in. I'm afraid. I want to give up. I don't want it to happen again. Do you think I should speak to Dumbledore? I really want it to stop, but if he knows about it, will he expel me? I think so. I don't want to be expelled. Great, now I'm starting to sound like a six year old. But then, maybe it's because I am as scared as a six year old. I don't know what to do. Please, help me. At least answer me. This is the, what, fortieth letter I've sent you? You never wrote back. You don't know how much it'll help me if I knew I still had someone to care about me. I wouldn't feel so lonely. Tom shall perhaps feel stronger, and be able to overcome. Please.
You're the last person I ever called a friend. I know you won't talk to me anymore because I told you … that I'm… that he's… It hurts to say the word. But then you should know that it wasn't me! I told you, because I thought you would understand, and care, and help! Maybe that now you hate me, but remember in our three first years, we were friends! We went past the limits of house rivalry; we talked to each other and remember when we said of course we would stay friends forever, not seeing why we wouldn't! I know that now I've somehow broken my promise and you don't trust me anymore, but in remembrance of this friendship please make me know that you don't think of me as of a monster.
I'm not good at eloquence, am I? I've always preferred to sit back and be silent, and leap into action when my time comes. But now this thing have taken me by entire surprise, I'm not prepared, and am lost like a child in the darkness. Please, Minerva, just answer me with a word, just a single word, of hatred or of friendship, just something to remind me that I still exist … If you don't, then this time I'll know that everyone has forgotten Tom and that he can let 'him' take over without anyone mourning his loss.
This is the last time.
Tom Riddle
Tom attached the letter to a dark brown owl's leg, and the bird flew away briskly, taking with him the boy's last hope of redemption. Tom watched the night with dreamy eyes, aware that it was his last chance. A silent prayer was sent this night to the stars. A prayer that was to remain unanswered.
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Minerva McGonnagal yawned as she descended the stairs leading to the Great Hall. She always was a little late for breakfast, because she knew that Tom always was early. When she pushed the door open, almost everyone was already settled down. She walked towards the Gryffindor table, and before she could reach it the Hall suddenly grew somber. No one was alarmed, for they all knew that it was only the owls coming in to deliver the letters. As she sat down at her usual seat, an almost black bird dropped a piece of parchment tied with a silver ribbon in front of her. She wrinkled her nose in disapprobation.
"No, this was not another one!"
She carefully opened the letter, as if afraid of it exploding any second. It was a beautiful handwriting, regular, but somewhat jerky. The ink was a dark kind of green, and she knew the writing too well.
She saw the signature and, without reading it, tore the letter to bits,
as she always did.
Author's note : I have to say something here that's got nothing to do
with this story. Just that, in the days that follow the horrible events
that happened in America, we, kids, teens, junior high students as we are
in my school, all feel deeply with the victims of that cursed day. A girl
I know had her school in Manhattan, and she saw the towers fall. I really
can't say I know what it feels like, because I'm sure I don't. I'm just
saying that here, in a random high-school in Paris, as far away as we are,
we think of the people who died and suffered and try to help as we can.