Ink
Disclaimer: All materials belong to J.K. Rowling.
The bookstore.
It had been mildly hot that day. She smelt her sweat and that of those around her. Worried about Harry (even the name, the thought brought that feeling. What exactly was that…thing?), her mother and she searched and worried. Worries were settled when the sight of that hair, those eyes glanced her eyes. Brown watched green; the green weren't paying any attention.
She was silent as she received everything second hand. Stranger's things. Haven't I been told constantly not to have any contact with stranger and here I would be wearing their robes, using and learning their books, using the wand, a discarded wand.
The bookstore was next. "Gilderoy will be there!" her mother squealed breathlessly. Inside the store the temperature seemed to increase ten degrees. Woman bunched together to see the blond man at the back of the store. The store reeked of sweat and false dreams. Soon Harry, Ron, Hermione, the twins, and her father all gathered around her and her mother, slowly moving towards the man she felt she had almost grown up with.
"Gilderoy said that………… Gilderoy wrote……………… Gilderoy thinks………………… mingled with her childhood memories seamlessly, as if he were just another Weasley, only greater.
They reached the front, how long had it been? Twenty minutes, forty, an hour? Time seemed non existent, only the sweet and sour scent of sweat. Flashes and pictures, and Harry's red faced happened in seconds. Than the tipping of the glossy books among the beaten ones in the rusty cauldron.
"Bet you loved that, didn't you Potter?" The voice belonged to a boy, and soon followed by this boy was a man, the man the boy would someday look like. It was The Malfoy father and son, Lucius and Draco.
The words they said made her blush; her face could have possibly matched her hair. Soon there was a fight, thrown over the bright, blinding red, but before that, there was a small bump. Was that it………..? A question tantalizing her in her dreams, dreams fusing with reality, as had reality did with her dreams.
Home. She searched among her things, searching for things that may need repaired (it seemed all of them). Among the battered books and the glossy Lockhart ones, she found a small book. A diary. Had her mother gone so low as to buy her a used diary; It was empty except for the initials T.M.R.
She took a quill, dipped it into ink, and wrote the date in shiny black letters. It disappeared. Where had they gone? Curiosity gripped her and began to write more but something stopped her. Words, but not her own.
Is that really the date, time seems to pass so slowly when your trapped in time.
She had been unable to write, fear and surprise paralyzed her, curiosity took control again and she wrote:
What is the date there? Out of the thousands of words she thought, thoughts racing and ranging, she wrote five words.
It answered back.
The year is 1942, from what you wrote it seems to be fifty years of entrapment. By the way, I'm Tom Riddle. Who are you?
From the point on she was addicted, his slave. She was a servant to Tom and the ink, the shiny black ink, like that of midnight.
Hogwarts.
She traveled on the train, away from everyone but Tom. He put her at ease with his words. He seemed to write them so carelessly, but each one hit her like a knife.
She stood among the other first years; she could smell their sweat, sweat and sour. Like the bookstore. Since the meeting of Tom, she tried to remember everything from that day. She could still smell the sweat. She was nervous; in her pocket, Tom seemed amused, she could feel it.
"Ginny Weasley!" Professor McGonagall shouted. She recognized her through the stories she had eagerly listened to when her brothers finally returned from the mysterious magic of Hogwarts; it changed them, she hoped it would changed her, too.
She sat on the stool, the hat over her eyes, her head buzzing, Tom was buzzing in her pocket. Was he laughing?
Eternity seemed to pass and start over again before the hat shouted, "Gryffindor!" Her brother's erupted in applause……… and Harry. She blushed; once again the color of her face matched her hair.
She stayed up, writing to Tom. His stories were funny, sad, a heartbreakingly honest. She wrote about Harry. He liked Harry. Something seemed to rise inside her. Jealousy. But he put her at ease with his careless words.
Days and months passed. Hogwarts was everything she thought it would be, but Tom was everything it wasn't. Tom was everything. Harry seemed to disappear from her mind, she had Tom.
But soon he began to change; he seemed hungrier, desperate for something, just not her. She was afraid of the loss she would suffer, so she gave everything she had to give. A priest's sacrifice to its God, hoping for a reward, something fruitful, something to cherish. Love.
She loved Tom Riddle. He wrote in that perfect handwriting that flowed across her eyes, clouding the world so she only saw his words. That was all he was, but more. I love you too, Ginny. Genuine or not, she treasured it.
But then Halloween night, nothing was the same, she gave everything she had, and her sanity and her memory went with them. Paint and Mrs. Norris were the aftermath, and she was the missing variable from the equation. The school seemed unable to do the math and she and Tom went on.
He came to her, out of the diary; he was fuzzy, but there. His black hair was combed neatly, his robes were neat, but somewhat frayed, and the shiny prefect badge she had seen on Percy. The diary lay forgotten as Tom touched her, kissed her, and showed her how much he really loved her. All the things she wanted to say summed up into one word she moaned repeatedly, "Tom."
After that she was afraid. She threw it away; Moaning Myrtle's was the safest place for it. He wouldn't hurt anyone else with his lies, and she would know that he was, still in some, way hers.
Valentines Day.
She sent a valentine to Harry, hoping to rekindle the fire Tom killed. Instead of love, she found the diary. Jealousy, fear, and anger gripped her all at once. She couldn't think, she couldn't breath, she ran.
She found her chance: Harry, Ron and the other boys would be gone. She would have to steal him back, for the sake of her peace of mind.
"Where are you," she moaned. She ripped savagely at the items; blankets, books, papers, clothes, flew around her, tears of frustration ran down her face, but at last she saw it. Tom.
She wrote to him, begging for forgiveness.
Of course I forgive you, but for being a bad girl, I need you to do something for me. He wrote.
I'll do anything for you.
The attacks continued. Where was I? She continually thought, six victims and I can't remember. She turned to the diary, but by that point it was too late. He came out again.
She painted the message, Haven't I've done this before? And they went down to the chamber.
She saw him; he was a creation of the ink, of her. All the words, the secrets, the confessions stood before her. He grew stronger; she gave up and blacked out.
She woke up again, not to Tom's dark blues, but to Harry's green. Brown met green and green met brown.
The End.
Authors Note: I know the dates and the victims are perfectly sewn in, if you will (some not at all), but Ginny could not remember, she was blinded by what she felt.And I know the title doesn't have much to do with the story, the original on paper but in got lost in translation. Death Flavored Cookies to those who review.