Chapter Text
It wasn't painful.
It was surely poisonous and slowly killing me. But it didn't hurt when it happened. At least not in the way I thought it would. It wasn't physical.... What hurt was being unable of knowing what's next. Ginny was laying in the ground as Tom got stronger by the second. Ron... he was probably still trying to open a hole to the wall of stones, in hope Harry would return with his sister.
Hoping he will return. At all.
And need that hole to get out.
As I try hard to stand considering the poisonous bite I just got from the Basilisk. Slytherin's guard dog, I call him. Friend of the brutal.
I could sense the smirk on Tom's face as I slowly collapsed. Such an angelicly handsome face in the hands of a monster. I couldn't believe I was thankful for my blurry vision, so I won't need to see his sickening expression. Not sure if is it because of broken glasses as it broke, hitting the floor when I collapsed in front of the handsome man, soon to be Voldemort. Or because of the posion taking effect.
Nor did I need to know. It was no matter in the time being.
I know I should be more in a panic, as the poison threatens my life. But, there was a calmness to it. It actually was too good to the point I questioned if that was how dying is like. If that's the case, I couldn't believe the fear of death. Couldn't be me. Not after everything that happened.
What a joke of a life.
Being bullied and supressed my whole life, just to die like this. And as if it couldn't be worse, in the very place of Salazar Slytherin, which he hid so well.
As if the first thing I hated at all, in the wizarding world, was not Slytherin. The house of dark magic. The same house I tried so hard not to get put in. The very house my parent's killer, the feared dark magician was from. Which was also gonna be my killer at this moment. Not sure if he would realize it before it's on the newspaper.
I was hoping to at least die the way I was supposed to be. I wasn't supposed to know it yet, as I could tell, but I knew I was supposed to die in the hands of Voldemort. Or he dies from my hands, according to the prophecy it seems. I wasn't sure if that counted since he's the younger and hotter version of him. Him. The boy from the diary. What a shame. What a waste of a pretty face.
It was no secret he was handsome but that was the least thing that mattered right now, so why couldn't I stop thinking about it? That was stupid. It was. But that seemed like the only important thing at the moment, or so I thought. Because otherwise, there was no explanation on why I would think about it at this very moment.
Him being a hot 16 year old meant nothing in that moment, right?
Right?
Now, I couldn't stop my brain from overthinking everything. Why would that matter? Would it be the same– 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 if he was the Dark Lord everyone knew? Everyone feared? The very killer of my parents? Because, when I looked at that man, I couldn't see the man who was the murderer of my parents. No. No, he wasn't that man. At least not 𝔂𝓮𝓽.