XIX:

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Ophelia wove fluidly in and out of consciousness. To fall asleep would be so painfully, so blissfully easy. It would be the warm embrace of a mother who actually loved her, the joyous laugh of a father who didn't have his life cut short criminally young. It would be comfort and then nothing at all.

Something about that felt off. Unreal. The concept of peace just seemed so entirely foreign that it propelled her to open her eyes again and again, even as what she actually saw grew dark and it felt like she was falling and falling and falling to a bottom that always remained just out of reach. Chaos was a grudging friend; peace, an unknowable stranger.

At times, she could hear angry, frantic, desperate shouts, but then at random the whole world would fade away until she wondered if she'd gone deaf, or if, perhaps, she was already dead and merely imagined the noise.

"Albus— Oh, thank heavens you're here. I've tried everything— blood replenishment, my strongest healing charms, even resorted to muggle stitches, barbaric as they are— nothing worked!" The school nurse continued breathlessly, "And even if they miraculously did, I fear the wound is poisoned. I haven't enough time to concoct all the potions necessary to identify and nullify the correct one."

Am I going to die?

There was a rush of movement and then a hand bit into her shoulder. "You are not going to die if you tell us what did this. There is no time to waste."

Ophelia hadn't even realised she'd spoken aloud. She wished he'd let go.

"What... did this?" her mouth formed the words but she wasn't sure if any noise actually moved past her throat.

The fingers dug deeper. "Quickly."

She opened her mouth again. Basilisk. That wouldn't be so hard to say. Basilisk. Just a single word.

And still she couldn't do it. She could never explain away being bitten by a Basilisk, not when they'd been extinct from Britain for several hundred years.

"You see, Dumbledore, I was in the bathroom when one leapt right out of the toilet. It was a wild time. You would have to have been there."

Something told her he probably wouldn't believe it, which left only the truth. The truth she would never tell. He couldn't know she was a liar; not after all he'd already done for her. To feel indebted to someone is a curious thing. She knew she'd repaid his good faith with deceit. He didn't, however, and she couldn't bear to be the object of his disappointment. Even in her own head it sounded pathetic. What a stupid reason to die. The entire situation was unbelievable.

She settled on a near inaudible, "Thank you."

As far as last words went, they weren't so bad.

Thank you for believing in me. For believing I could be better when no one else did.  For searching out a scared child when the whole world hunted her like an animal. For offering her a new home. For pushing her to make friends even if the idea of rejection scared her almost as much as being alone. For guiding her to Tom. Me. Thank you for guiding me to Tom, even if that was never your intention. Thank you.

A new weight pressed down on her chest just as a swath of brilliant crimson blurred across her unfocused vision. She couldn't breathe. The effort was too monumental. The last of the air in her lungs slipped out between barely parted lips until nothing was left.

Ophelia's heart fought on. It beat. Beat.

Beat.

Stopped.

But the pain didn't. Where it should have vanished entirely, it spread up her arms, across her chest, down to the tip of her toes.

And dissipated.

i am lord voldemort • Tom Riddle Where stories live. Discover now