We're All Alone

He drowns in his dreams
An exquisite extreme I know
He's as damned as he seems
And more heaven than a heart could hold
And if I try to save him
My whole world would cave in
–Kelly Clarkson

The snow fell steadily, encompassing the group in a feathery dusting of white, so that if one was looking from a far distance, the black would stand out like tiny pinpricks of dirt. Now however, Voldemort was standing very close to the group, sure that if it had been in his time, he would have struck terror in all of them. People near him shivered, but it was merely because of the bitter cold, though he could not feel it. Little things like weather never seemed to bother him anymore.

Then again, staring at his teenage self, weather didn't seem to bother him as an adolescent either.

Tom Riddle was standing very tall, away from the group in an aristocratic fashion. The familiar smoke was billowing from his lips in the frigid cold, but his pallor was near the same. There seemed to be two very unlikely red patches on his hollow cheeks, but the sickly sight of him was troubling many. Numerous muggles around him were glancing at him rudely, but with blind curiosity. He met them with a curt nod, as if he was rightly justified to be there, dressed in horribly plain black slacks and a white dress shirt he had worn at funerals in the orphanage. He had borrowed Faris's dark wool coat to wear over them, who had been questioning annoyingly as he was dressing.

"So your actually going?" he had asked Tom, while sitting on the four-poster bed, not a trace of his usual Cheshire grin on his pointed face.

Tom had been combing his wavy hair, but it had grown so long that the neat part was somewhat mussed. He answered the question irritably.

"Of course." he replied harshly, examining his reflection in the mirror.

"Why?" Faris said, for what seemed to be the fiftieth time.

He felt himself want to scream and bang his fists against the wall. If he could answer that question, he wouldn't be so damn frustrated. He remembered Dumbledore's foolish words after it happened.

"Tom, you mustn't do anything rash. You can't be afraid to feel."

What did he know? Tom had spent seventeen years not feeling anything, and it had worked our splendidly for him.

Then he remembered the first time he'd screamed at her.

"I was ready! I was ready to be the person I really am! You-you know nothing! I don't show any emotions, because, GUESS WHAT? I don't feel, Dianthe! I refuse to feel anything but one emotion... I HATE YOU!"

"I hate you right back."

That had been his first kiss as well. Irony was ruthless.

Why did he want to go? Maybe to 'make amends' but he knew that wasn't why. Maybe because she had helped him with the potion. He wasn't sure. The complexity of the situation was daunting, he was still yearning to grasp it, to let his thin fingers clutch it madly and shout, "I UNDERSTAND!"

He couldn't possibly tell Faris Willins this. The boy would think he'd truly lost it. Instead, he simply responded.

"I want to."

Faris's eyebrows went so high, Tom was sure they were going to disappear in his fair hair.

"Why the bloody hell would you want to?"

"I don't know! Maybe I'm a decent person." Tom scoffed, somewhat sarcastically.

Faris laughed, but immediately stopped, looking sickened with himself. He watched diligently as Tom put on the coat. A disgruntled expression passed across Tom's face as he buttoned it.

"It's far too short."

"Well what do you expect? You gotta be like six inches taller then me."

An awkward silence roared in Faris's ears. Tom barely noticed it.

"You shouldn't go." he said abruptly.

Tom bit his lip, but didn't turn to glare at Faris. Instead he continued to dab a hint of cologne on himself as he answered tonelessly. "I have to go."

"You weren't even invited-" he persisted.

"I'm going." Tom replied, feeling the burning anger lift like stomach acid into his throat.

Faris had straightened his back, a wave of fearful anger gathering in his eyes. Tom briefly searched his memories for a time when Faris had actually spoken against him. Oddly enough, there wasn't one. He seemed to harbor the same pathetic fear that the whole school had on him. Like they knew something wasn't quite right. He felt livid just thinking about it.

"If you were a decent person, you'd respect her in death." Faris hissed, but with a hint of uncertainty.

Tom spun around, his blood pounding in his ears. It took him the utmost effort to remain expressionless, but he had made a definite impact. Faris looked as if he had the wind knocked out of him. Inwardly, he felt a tiny bit of satisfaction, as he snatched up his want and pointed it at Faris.

"Since when were you all about humanity, Willins?" he said, as Faris shrank back all dignity forgotten. The wand was now giving off involuntary sparks. "You filthy rat. How dare you question me? If I want to go to a sodding funeral, I'll bloody well go! What's it to you?" his voice was barely a whisper, as Faris swallowed hard, regaining to courage to retort.

"Calm down," he began, but adverted his eyes from Tom's own boring into his skull. "You don't get it, Tom. I mean, you guys were gone for days. We-we were all sure you were dead... the teachers were going mental... and then you show up with the mudblood all messed up... she was screaming. Christ, I've never seen either of you that scared. It was frightening, honestly. Then Grindelwald comes in, starts talking to her like she's his little pet or some shit. Being tortured... luckily I was sitting at the Slytherin table, so I didn't get the worst of it. But the Gryffindors..." he trailed off softly, looking stricken.

It was true, the hospital wing had seen many patients, and many students had gone home for an early break. The beds were all taken even now, and many still refused to speak to him, ever since a run in with a certain Patil demanding to know what happened. Tom didn't mind. It was easier not to talk to people.

Yet now he maintained his cool demeanor, never lowering his wand, only responding sarcastically.

"Thanks for the recap."

Faris's looked back up, gazing at him.

"Look, I just don't think it's a good idea. I mean-as far as I know-you hated her, she hated you... what are you trying to prove? I know lots of people say differently, but all in all, what kind of relationship is that?"

They stared at each other for a few moments, stewing in his last words.

Finally Tom lowered his wand and stuck it back in the coat. He smoothed his hair and glanced at Faris's crumpled figure.

"As much as I loved this chat, I must say I have no interest in your rambling about relationships with a dead girl," he said coldly. "I'll be back later, not that you need to know."

With that, he had shut the door firmly behind him.

And now he was here, and Dianthe Costa's funeral.

It hadn't been near what he'd expected. Apparently her favorite flowers had been lilies, for they littered so randomly across the snow. God he hadn't really known her at all, had he?

The procession was a bit of a blur. He examined the muggles all around, and realized that he was one of the few people who wasn't crying. Yet, there had been so many people there, he was sure that they had been invited because they were friends of parents, or had a sick fetish for funerals. He couldn't grasp that so many people had come to see her off, and that so many were touched. They couldn't be.

Finally, it was over. The casket was open for those to say their last goodbyes. Tom waited as the loved ones each took turns whispering softly down into the coffin. He crammed his hands in his pockets and watched stricken classmates he knew vaguely from afar. He was positive they wouldn't be pleased to see him, and he honestly didn't feel like dealing with the unfounded insults.

When they had all left, he had walked forward, his feet crunching in the snow. He frowned down into the coffin, realizing that all the preparation he had made, was useless. He hadn't needed it.

She lay there, paler then she'd ever been when she was alive. She had been dressed in a dress that she had secretly hated, but worn for her mother's sake. Her hair seemed darker, even though Tom was sure it wasn't. Someone had put small flowers in it to make her look like a fallen angel. Her black eyelashes and obviously drawn pink lips jumped out from the white paste that was her face now. They had cleaned her of blood extremely. They say that when people die, they look beautiful and peaceful. To Tom, she just looked dead.

Death suits you, he thought to himself, refusing to say anything aloud to her.

"Excuse me, young man." a soft voice pierced him, causing him to be uncharacteristically surprised. He turned around.

Inwardly, he groaned.

A petite woman with small pink lips and pretty blue eyes was staring up at him. Her hair was obviously dyed blonde, her bone structure quite feminine. He recognized the way she stood more then anything.

His mouth was quite dry. Say something you dolt, he thought wildly, finally resigning to formalities.

"Mrs. Costa," he said in a hushed voice, trying to sound as polite as possible. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

She sniffed, and wiped her eyes quickly. He'd never seen a picture of her, but he knew her expressions well.

"Thank you," she said shakily. "How did you know Di?"

How did I know her? He might've laughed if it hadn't been such a tragic experience.

"We went to school together."

Her eyes widened. Tom felt his stomach drop uncomfortably.

"Oh so... you're another..."

"Wizard." he finished lamely.

She glanced around.

"Were you close with her?" she asked sadly, on the brink of tears.

Tom felt as if his feet were much to big for his body. Awkwardness was a feeling he certainly wasn't accustomed to.

"Well, we weren't in the same house... but she was a good person."

What makes a good person?

Her mother nodded fervently.

"You're a polite lad... what did you say your name was?"

"I didn't. I'm Tom Riddle."

Her eyed widened.

Oh God, he thought, Dumbledore didn't tell her!

Of course he did... she fucking died mate.

"Oh my!" she gave a squeak, staring, utterly abashed at his name. "You were the boy who was... I mean-you were there..."

He was kicking himself. Why hadn't he just left with everyone else?

"Yeah... I was there."

The woman gave a dry sob, wiping her face with a lace handkerchief. She held it to her mouth, and whispered so faintly, if Tom hadn't had impeccable hearing, he would have likely missed it.

"I just wish... she hadn't died alone..." she was staring up at him, searching for words of comfort.

You're barking up the wrong tree lady.

Suddenly, it seemed to daunt on him. The blow struck him in his chest, and spread to his fingertips. It was a burning whitehot pain that one only experiences when he is sure of something to his knowledge. He heard the words leave his mouth.

"We're all alone."

TADAA! Next up, what happened when Tom returned that night, and where is his potion? Dun dun dun!

Please please please review!