This isn't mine. It belongst to JKR, we are just inspired by her awe inspiring very goodness and make no money what so ever.
Reviews will be greatly appreciated, this is my first fic and I hope you like it. :-)
Tom lingered in the air like cigarette smoke. She craved him, needing him whenever she caught the taste of him in her mouth or the smell of him in her hair. He blinded and suffocated her until she could remember nothing but him. She stumbled around lost in his memories. Even when the diary was locked in her drawer he was still there, clinging to her clothes or maybe even woven into the very fabric of them. He held her hand too tightly, leaving angry red marks writing messages in her skin, reminding her that she could never escape him.
She sat alone in her homely room in the Burrow it seemed empty. Like she ewas waiting for someone else to come home. Her bright patchwork quilt seemed grey and lifeless. Tom had taken the life from her, nothing was real unless Tom was sharing it with her. Sometimes she felt that she could see him, hair as black as the ink from her pen and dark dark eyes which revealed nothing. Tom held her heart, and sometimes he held it too tightly and she walked through the world and was dead to it. Sometimes she tried to escape, but her heart could never be in it.
And Tom didn't care. He was, after all, nothing more than the whisper of a shadow, something that didn't need to think or reason, he just was. Or nearly was. There was no care in his touch or love in his kiss. It was all for some distant purpose, some plan that she was not, and never could be, part of. And he spoke too softly for her to hear. He wrote in another language, one that she could not read. She fell asleep in his arms and woke up without him. She was unnecessary, and he was the world.
When Tom stroked her hair with his ghostly hands, or when an ethereal caress moved down her body she revelled in his attentions, but felt nothing in his touch. Yet when she wrote to him, and he wrote back, it felt as though their minds melded completely and became one. She would flick through the notebook and see ink fading from all the pages and forget where the hours it must have taken to write it all would have gone.
Ginny saw the world as a faded photograph. The names of the people and places were long forgotten, only spoken at all when she could finally make out the identifying scrawls on the back of the page. The world as Tom saw it was her world, her own being melted into nothing more than a dream without any real substance or depth. He told her about the castle when he was young, only she thought he still was. He said he didn't like roosters, so she killed them for him. She tried to give them to him and he laughed.
Ginny found blood red paint staining her fingers. It didn't wash off, no matter how hard she scrubbed. Even as the last flakes of red were scraped from her fingers, in her mind she still saw it there and wondered from whence and why it came.
When she saw those words on the walls, menacing and dripping red, her heart froze. Tom made it better. Tom made her forget her pain, he took the waking hours of her day and left her with blank nights. She would sleep with white feathers in her hair and a red paint smudge on her cheek, dreaming of dark tunnels with mossy walls.
Tom didn't like blood. It pooled in ways he couldn't control, spread in ways he couldn't predict. It looked beautiful for a moment, contrasting on ashen skin or on pale stone. Then it dried. Dark. And Brown. There was no beauty in a bloody death. He wanted bodies he could revisit, scenes that held, captured in a moment.
He cut Ginny's hair, once. Watching the locks fall to the ground. Her last remaining contact with her family, it was all that was left of her. Like Samson she fell. He was all she needed now. She knew that he was.
Ginny had never been more beautiful to Tom than when she was lying cold on the stone floor, her lips blueing and the colour leaving her cheeks. Her skin was clammy and moist. Tom stroked the salty tear that ran down her cheek with his smooth thumb. He licked it, feeling the bitter taste spread over his tongue.
He explored her body with his long bony fingers, the fine, pale hairs on her legs, the tiny budding breasts and, glory of glories, the shining red gold curls. She was wasted in life.
Reviews will be greatly appreciated, this is my first fic and I hope you like it. :-)
Tom lingered in the air like cigarette smoke. She craved him, needing him whenever she caught the taste of him in her mouth or the smell of him in her hair. He blinded and suffocated her until she could remember nothing but him. She stumbled around lost in his memories. Even when the diary was locked in her drawer he was still there, clinging to her clothes or maybe even woven into the very fabric of them. He held her hand too tightly, leaving angry red marks writing messages in her skin, reminding her that she could never escape him.
She sat alone in her homely room in the Burrow it seemed empty. Like she ewas waiting for someone else to come home. Her bright patchwork quilt seemed grey and lifeless. Tom had taken the life from her, nothing was real unless Tom was sharing it with her. Sometimes she felt that she could see him, hair as black as the ink from her pen and dark dark eyes which revealed nothing. Tom held her heart, and sometimes he held it too tightly and she walked through the world and was dead to it. Sometimes she tried to escape, but her heart could never be in it.
And Tom didn't care. He was, after all, nothing more than the whisper of a shadow, something that didn't need to think or reason, he just was. Or nearly was. There was no care in his touch or love in his kiss. It was all for some distant purpose, some plan that she was not, and never could be, part of. And he spoke too softly for her to hear. He wrote in another language, one that she could not read. She fell asleep in his arms and woke up without him. She was unnecessary, and he was the world.
When Tom stroked her hair with his ghostly hands, or when an ethereal caress moved down her body she revelled in his attentions, but felt nothing in his touch. Yet when she wrote to him, and he wrote back, it felt as though their minds melded completely and became one. She would flick through the notebook and see ink fading from all the pages and forget where the hours it must have taken to write it all would have gone.
Ginny saw the world as a faded photograph. The names of the people and places were long forgotten, only spoken at all when she could finally make out the identifying scrawls on the back of the page. The world as Tom saw it was her world, her own being melted into nothing more than a dream without any real substance or depth. He told her about the castle when he was young, only she thought he still was. He said he didn't like roosters, so she killed them for him. She tried to give them to him and he laughed.
Ginny found blood red paint staining her fingers. It didn't wash off, no matter how hard she scrubbed. Even as the last flakes of red were scraped from her fingers, in her mind she still saw it there and wondered from whence and why it came.
When she saw those words on the walls, menacing and dripping red, her heart froze. Tom made it better. Tom made her forget her pain, he took the waking hours of her day and left her with blank nights. She would sleep with white feathers in her hair and a red paint smudge on her cheek, dreaming of dark tunnels with mossy walls.
Tom didn't like blood. It pooled in ways he couldn't control, spread in ways he couldn't predict. It looked beautiful for a moment, contrasting on ashen skin or on pale stone. Then it dried. Dark. And Brown. There was no beauty in a bloody death. He wanted bodies he could revisit, scenes that held, captured in a moment.
He cut Ginny's hair, once. Watching the locks fall to the ground. Her last remaining contact with her family, it was all that was left of her. Like Samson she fell. He was all she needed now. She knew that he was.
Ginny had never been more beautiful to Tom than when she was lying cold on the stone floor, her lips blueing and the colour leaving her cheeks. Her skin was clammy and moist. Tom stroked the salty tear that ran down her cheek with his smooth thumb. He licked it, feeling the bitter taste spread over his tongue.
He explored her body with his long bony fingers, the fine, pale hairs on her legs, the tiny budding breasts and, glory of glories, the shining red gold curls. She was wasted in life.