Riddles Of Expectation

I hereby dedicate this piece of fanfiction to the misunderstood.

Riddles of Expectation

You wouldn't get it, would you? No, I don't suppose you would. Didn't expect you to, anyhow. And if anyone knows anything about expectations, it's me.

Expectations: they're tricky things, you know? Sometimes they even turn out to be nice little surprises laying atop a freshly fluffed pillow on your bed for you to find. Most times, though, they just plain suck. Want to know why? If you do, chances are you don't know a whole lot about expectations.

If you're sitting there, comfortably and patiently, curious for a further explanation but knowing that without one your life won't be change: if you fit into category A, you're one of the lucky ones. Nothing lasts forever, though, and the further you read your mind will start pondering and your fingers will shake and the very depths of your soul will stir within your ribcage to indicate that you’ve far surpassed even the highest level of inquisitiveness and entered into something much stronger than that.

It's the expectations that do that to you, you know. And you’re doing nothing about it.

There comes a time in every boy's life when he is subject to his first riddle, just as there comes a time in every man's when his first is to be spoken. The only riddle I was ever told started with the first name of Tom. It is appropriate, therefore, that the first I tell be patterned accordingly.

Tom Riddle me this,

I'll Riddle him that,

Twiddle me this,

I'll fiddle him that,

Ding-dong ditch is fun to play,

Ring the bell and run away,

Tom Riddle he is no more,

`Tis Voldemort forever more,

Forever more it is, you see,

In his and mine eternity,

This is what my father taught,

This is the future that I sought,

And it is here that the Riddle is mine,

For I am the wizard next in line,

The Follower is my name,

Being devotee is my game,

Master's orders I must follow,

I must survive until tomorrow.

Look at that, Father: I took your Riddle to heart. You instructed me to obey everyone I ever came into contact with, Father, and I have. I have gone further than that, even, and given in to the type of demands that a person can ask of only from himself. I have followed my own orders, and turned from the world of which you have grown accustomed.

Didn’t expect me to do that, did you father? It’s too late for expectations.

Here is where my riddle begins,

Here is where I hope to win,

Not bell ringing and running away,

Even the followers lead this game,

Wondering, oh is it not fun?

No it isn't, `til you've won.

And so I turn to my fellow riddlers: have your expectations paid off? I doubt it. But, then again, one must not go as far as to expect.

Why is it, then, that you riddle with me?

Don't you get it, don't you believe?

You must fight those expectations you weave,

Because now they've faulted, now they're gone,

I am Vincente Crabbe, and you are wrong.