A.N.: This was a new idea I wanted to experiment with. One shot.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is copyright J.K. Rowling. No money is being made off the production of this story. The idea is still my own.
Tom's Farewell Gift
I was eleven when I made my pact with the Devil.
I had the fears and hopes of any child beginning to grow into maturity. I had the odd interests. I had the supposedly deep thoughts. I had the longings and wants.
I was given a Diary that offered me something no one else could. For Tom's understanding and compassion, I sold my thoughts. He used them. He turned them against me, inveigling my trust. But I couldn't know that at the beginning. I couldn't even fully understand what his intentions with me were in the end.
I was eleven and my petty ideas were what mattered.
I had a morbid fascination with Death. I had a morbid fascination, period. Tom understood that. He helped feed my obsession. That was the strength found and turned against me. I thought I wanted Death. How could I truly know what I wanted at that age?
I know what I thought I wanted. I didn't want to die. Dieing was too passive for my tastes. I wanted to be consumed by Death. I wanted Death to spread through me and take me utterly and completely. I wanted to fight something tooth and nail. I wanted to fight with everything I had so that when I did fall, whatever had felled me would have proven its worth. If I were to die, as we must all, I would not be taken down by some weak foe.
I was eleven when I learnt that there was nothing noble about Death. Its intensity was brought to bear on my soul. There was no profound struggle for life led by qualities like bravery. Death had a Slytherin's bite not a Gryffindor's swagger. There was nothing valiant in my fight.
Death preyed upon all your weaknesses. It exploited every ounce of power within you and turned it to its own good. It was cruel and harsh. It didn't prey solely upon the weak. It made you weak. It knew every pressure point and the most effective means to apply pressure.
Tom took my hand and led me down Death's path. I was consumed. I fought every moment. I savoured every moment.
I was eleven when Death nearly took possession of my soul. I was eleven when I was liberated from Death's grip. When my weaknesses had yielded me up, I was wrenched away by a mere boy.
I was freed from Death. I was freed from Death's pull. I took Death's strength with me. When Death and I stalk one another once more, I will be free to fight back with its own underhanded fierce techniques.
Death had nearly conquered me. With all my fear, I had savoured it. It was no longer a conqueror. It could be challenged by a mere boy. It could be conquered. It had been.
In the same manner, my hunt for the Dark Lord's fall would consume me. I was always consumed by ideas in this manner. This new consuming passion was Tom's farewell gift.
Moranar