Work Text:
You don't blame a rose for pricking you; if you're foolish enough to become so intoxicated by its bold fragrance and radiant beauty that you carelessly overlook its thorns, then you deserve to be pricked.
I deserved to be pricked.
Tom was my rose. From the very first time he wrote to me in flowing, elegant script, I knew he was no common daisy. There was just something about him—something extraordinary—that set him apart from everyone else. To me, he was the manifestation of everything I had ever wished for in a friend; he was mysterious, charming, witty, sarcastic, and...sweet.
Yes, I just referred to the Dark Lord's evil, plotting, sixteen-year-old self as sweet. If anyone ever found out, I have no doubt that I would find myself shipped off to St. Mungo's faster than you can say "Harry Potter," but that doesn't make it any less true. Tom was the sweetest person I have ever known. Whenever I was feeling down (which was often during those early days at Hogwarts), he was always there to offer me comforting words or distract me from my childish concerns with highly amusing tales of the mischief he and his companions caused while they attended Hogwarts. When I struggled to master a charm of some kind or found myself unable to understand a Potions assignment, Tom was more than happy to give me a few pointers and guide me toward success. The best part of having Tom around, of course, was that when I just needed a friend to help erase the loneliness I often fell prey to, he was there. With just a few simple words, he could make me feel really and truly loved.
I know his kindness wasn't all an act just as I know the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.
Tom was cruel and manipulative; this is a statement of fact and I won't deny it. I never tried to overlook this truth—not after being rescued from the Chamber of Secrets, and not now. Even during those first uneventful months of our correspondence, I was aware that my beloved Tom had a bit of a mean streak and that it was best not to rile him. His kind words were quick to turn harsh and cutting on the few occasions I refused to heed his unspoken warnings and proceeded to press him on subjects he was loath to discuss—like the reason he was trapped in the diary, for instance. But still, there is much evidence indicating that he was not quite as terrible as the entire wizarding world would have me believe. If all Tom wanted was my life in exchange for his, then why did he waste so much effort in trying to help me solve my problems when he knew I would have been more than content with having someone to merely listen to them? Why was he always so patient with me, even when I was behaving like a spoiled, selfish brat? And why did he become more and more frantic to find a way to free himself from the diary as the year progress, though he already knew he could claim my life for his own? No one knows this (mostly because no one has ever bothered to ask), but Tom had me scouring the library for ways to release him from his paper prison almost every night. I left no book untouched on my quest to give my friend back his life, but it was to no avail...
I always hated reporting my failure—especially in person. When he drew me into the diary, there was no way I could ignore his obvious disappointment. True, his handsome face would appear as stoic as ever to the casual onlooker, but his eyes revealed all. His eyes, such a stunning shade of warm chocolate brown, would darken considerably upon hearing my regretful words. He would look at me with such sadness that I would near tears myself. How I wish I had managed to find the answers he so desperately sought!
I have a theory regarding Tom and his intentions—a theory which would doubtlessly be put down as the wishful thinking of a girl who would rather not believe she had been betrayed. You see this theory suggests that Tom was not nearly so terrible as everyone claims. It is my opinion that he didn't actually want to hurt me; it's just that he had no choice. In the end, when the search for an alternative method to restore him to life proved fruitless, he was left with a terrible decision: my life or his?
We all know what he chose.
Tom cannot be blamed for wanting to life, however; most would make the same selfish choice under similar circumstances. I know I would, and if you were honest with yourself, you'd admit the same. It's called natural selection—survival of the fittest. Only the strong survive in this dog eat dog world of ours, and it's every man for himself. Once I grasped this certainty, I realized I could never truly hate Tom for what he did to me. I felt betrayed, at first, but I understand now. I understand better than anyone.
Tom Morvolo Riddle. Lord Voldemort. As Shakespeare once said, "A rose called by any other name would surely smell as sweet." At one time I would have agreed; now I'm not so sure...
But I have strayed from the point, haven't I? The point I'm trying to make is that what happened was not entirely Tom's fault. If I had wanted to, I could have escaped. I knew, deep down, that there were things he wasn't telling me and that he would not hesitate to hurt me if it became necessary. I placed blind faith where I should have placed caution, and I was pricked by his thorns. Even if Tom didn't really want to hurt me, the fact remains that I let him. I shouldn't have. I will forever bear the scars of experience.
And I will always hold a special place in my heart for roses.