In a town in west Yorkshire, a woman is crouched by her baby's grave, wailing in distress for the child who has not lived even a year.
Lightning rends the sky in two as the heavens open upon her, drenching her and the man standing behind her. Thunder cracks and the wind whips leaves from trees in the winter storm of 1945.
The man is holding his cloak tight around him, and suddenly, his composure breaks. He falls to his knees, tears mingling with the rain on his face. His grey eyes are waterfalls as his sobs join his partners.
The woman is crying out for something, anything. Anything that will take the pain away.
The man is sobbing silently, desperately trying to be strong as he reads the etipah:
Mairead Lilith Riddle
Born: 8th March 1945
Died: 19th December 1945
Let those who curse you be cursed, and those who bless you be blessed
-Genesis
He traces the letters with his fingers, lingering over 'blessed', then pulls out his wand and creates a dazzling wreath of colourful roses. He makes it impervious to the rain, then lays it in front of the grave, his shoulders shaking.
For the first time in his life, Tom Riddle is grieving. Feeling actual remorse.
Or not.
He knows the dangers of feeling remorse.
The remorse hardens, and morphs into Hatred.
Revenge.
Suddenly the wind whips stronger than ever. A mini tornado seems to be forming just in front of them. It stretches down towards the wreath that was just laid. Something shining is making its way down the inside of the twister.
It squeezes out of the end, then, silently, the tornado vanishes.
The wind still attacks them with knives of ice, but the knives have been blunted.
The rain still pours down in sheets, but not quite so hard as before.
The thunder and lightning still dance, but more softly, showing respect for their dance floor.
The Riddles don't notice this.
They don't feel the freezing wind cut their exposed faces.
They don't hear the thunder clapping above.
They are engrossed in something utterly different.
That little bundle lying in the recently placed wreath.
That little bundle making cooing noises and giggling sweetly.
That little bundle of baby.
The woman smiles sadly. Then she laughs, and picks up the baby. She cooes, stroking the girl's dark mop, so much like her own daughters', when a flash of light catches her attention. On the girl's wrist there is a bracelet. The woman examines it more closely.
A silver bangle bracelet carved with: Eva Beatrix Lily 31st July. We live you forEva.
YOU ARE READING
Forever Riddle (Willow style) DISCONTINUED || Harry Potter ||
FanfictionDISCONTINUED I left this up as a reminder to myself never to produce such a monstrosity again.
