Exhaustion. That's all he could feel as he let out a heavy breath. He lied mangled and broken on the ground, unable to move, unable to make a sound.
When Harry Potter had looked upon the mutilated, infant-like being, he could not bring himself to touch it, no matter how much pity he felt for it. That one little piece of a once whole soul repelled even the most gentle of beings.
Long after Harry Potter returned to the world of the living and Tom Riddle had finally died, that one piece of soul remained there. Rasping for breath, paralyzed by unbearable weakness, he was alone in a place he wanted so badly to leave. Death—once his worst fear—had become his kindest fantasy.
It could have been seconds or centuries. He didn't know.
But he just felt so tired. And cold. And alone.
When he felt somebody touch him, it was a shock. The being touched his forehead, covering his freezing skin with a warm, gentle touch. Then he felt his small body lift off the ground. He felt something surround him in a nest of warmth.
It was just a simple touch. Not a lover's touch. Not a friend's touch. He had felt both and he knew it was neither.
This was so different. He didn't know who or what it was.
But he found himself pressing into it, thankful for the relief from the relentless cold of his eternal prison.
He felt hands brush over his face, stroking across raw cuts and dry blood. He flinched under the pain the warmth caused into his cuts.
Mere moments later, he felt himself surrounded by another cold thing. It cut off his already feeble breath, but at the same time brought undeniable relief to his skin. It cooled his warm cuts and washed away his dry blood.
Then he was pulled out and the warmth surrounded him once more. This time, when the hands brushed his skin, they did not burn. He sighed a tired breath once more, but this time, it was riddled with relief. With comfort. And for the first time in his existence, his breath held a tinge of gratefulness, of thanking for the actions of another.
Gentle eyes looked down at this poor thing. But, where others saw a pitiful, loathsome thing, those eyes saw only pain. The pain brought those eyes grief, yet the way he nuzzled up against the warmth brought those eyes hope.
Those eyes belonged to a woman who, in life, was miserable and her appearance had reflected that perfectly. But here, with her arms surrounding a thing that was once the most powerful evil in existence, she was beautiful. As Tom Riddle had had a striking appearance to Harry Potter, the woman had a similar appearance to Potter's muggle-born mother.
She held the thing the way Lily held Harry so many times the year before her death. The woman's son didn't realize it, but the touch he was feeling was that of a mother's. A touch of gentleness, kindness… forgiveness.
And as she pressed her soft lips to the forehead of her son, the once feeble witch proved the mighty Albus Dumbledore wrong. That one shard of her son's soul was enough to be healed, to be given a taste of heaven, all because the spirit of his mother filled him with real love through just a single kiss.
It filled him, more powerful, more thrilling than any dark magic.
It was beautiful. And for the first time ever, Tom Riddle cried. Not like an infant. Not like a widower. But like a man who just realized all the guilt attached to all the mistakes he made.
And he clung to his mother, the key to his humanity, the path to his redemption.
And she held him and carried him into the boat the floated on a gentle river that brought them to the afterlife that Tom longed for for so long.