Disclaimer: Tom Riddle and Ginny Weasley sadly do not belong to me, but to JKR and others.
Authors Note: I got inspired so I thought I'd write this, so I hope you all like it. And I hope that you review, because that always makes me happy, but it's not necessary.
~WallPaper~
Image a sweet innocent girl, lying in bed, wrapped in maroon sheets lined with gold trimming. The canopy above her bed is partially open on one side, the side that's facing the wall. She sleeps here, in this room, along with her roommates; girls her age, her so called friends.
And though this girl is the only daughter and youngest child of all brothers, she holds no attention, she isn't special and other people do there best to ignore her.
She is loved, doted upon by mother and father and by her over protective brothers. Yet, she wants, she yearns, and seeks for more. And like before nobody notices, not until it's already too late.
You see, some things cannot be forgotten, and no matter how hard you try, they stick like glue in your mind. She dreams; sleeps without peace in a nightmare where images of her past haunt her. Feathers and red paint, black diary's and dark haired boys, and ink, and snakes and blood, and hers.
She lives now, lives and breathes and does all the things that they want her to, so that she seems normal. Because they're scared too, scared that it'll happen again, that He will win this battle. And she's scared because she doesn't want to be forgotten as just another casualty, as just another thing to be mourned and lost in memory. And no one speaks, and no one looks her in the eye, she finds that it's easier to look at the floor when they converse like normal people.
Her greatest fears do not match their own. Seldom does she think this, yet somewhere inside of her something knows that it is true and without a doubt in her mind does she realize that she hates them because they do not have this horrifying truth to face.
Casually, as if it's any other night; because it is like any other night, she opens her eyes, hands reaching beneath her bed, fingers grasping ink and pen and torn black books with faded letters spelling forgotten names.
Tonight is the night, because she just can't wait any longer.
She whispers Latin words and a light comes on, she opens the book with a sick fascination, carefully as if it were too precious in her minds eye to treat it as anything but precious. She shakes, her breath ragged and rasping, as she dips the pen in the ink and watches the black liquid swish and swirl, then she puts it to paper, and she writes.
Words; such pretty, awful words she writes, over and over again. The only sound she hears is the breathing of her roommates and the scratch of pen on paper. Nothing else matters as her fears become reality.
She writes, not stopping for a very long time. She writes of her search, the desperation she felt and how nobody understood her, even after He happened. She wants to understand but she can't, so she writes down every thought, every emotion she's had in the past years after He came into her life. All the details blur and her story doesn't make any logical sense, but she doesn't care because it doesn't matter. He will understand, he always has.
When given a choice, people are more inclined to believe those that make the most sense, the ones that persuade the most without making those being persuaded look like fools. She isn't one of those, she never understood why things were like they were, she asked and nobody answered. She wondered and nobody explained anything.
She saw Him as misunderstood, like her, He wasn't evil, he was confused, and He wasn't insane, he was brilliant.
She missed him, shouldn't have but she did and she does. She wonders if she was built wrong, like the parts of a squid, too few tentacles and too big a head with no real purpose in life but to be weird, just another duplicate gone wrong.
Well, too late, she's here and she's going to find her own reason to live and if that reason is him, if he will make her happy than she will just have to bring Him back to her.
The words turn to Latin text; verbatim from a book in the restricted section she memorized a long time ago just for this very occasion. She watches herself from someone else's eyes, watches as her hand keeps writing the words down, over and over again in a mesmerizing way. Her thoughts drift to how it will be to purge herself of all her fears, to be happy again, and how she will be able to see Him again.
Sunrise merely minutes away, an hour in reality. She begins to slow down, the words being set into paper at a slow languid pace. An eerie blue light wraps itself around her and the Diary that held Him. Her hand drops to the bed knocking a bottle spilling the obsidian ink that seeps into the bed and paper and into her skin. A phantom of an image appears from out of the black book taking the form of Him, and she sees him as utterly handsome and beautiful, yet she's frightened and happy and sad and content and confused all at once, and she doesn't understand.
His skin turns opaque as the time passes, she feels lethargic all of a sudden. She doesn't stop him when he takes her hand in his, placing a kiss on her wrist as he cuts it open, letting blood spill around them, mixing with the ink and Him and Her. And she really doesn't understand now, she doesn't know why he doesn't act like he had when she was His friend, His one and only in a very long time.
He doesn't care as he drops her hand reaching instead to grab her jaw and pulling her face up to his. He smiles and her fleeting thoughts tell her that he looks so very cruel and sinister, that she should stop him. She doesn't, she's so very tired that her eyes close without her meaning them to. She's trapped in the darkness now, consuming in its absence of shape and light. She feels His breath against her lips and she thinks that he's going to kiss her but he doesn't. Instead He opens her mouth and sucks the air from her lungs.
She feels pain but doesn't know that it's supposed to hurt. She tries to breathe in air but he doesn't let her. And if she had opened her eyes right then, she would have seen a wisp of black smoke leaving her mouth and into His, but she doesn't and it's too late now.
The sun breaks the horizon and He is flesh and blood and tangible. He lets her go and She slips back onto her bed, breathless, her red tresses standing out against her unusually white skin; she gave her life to him unknowingly.
He picks up the ruined book and as he does he looks around and with an almost disbelieving expression he laughs and disappears from sight.
Hours later She is found dead in her bed, Her wrists slit and Her eyes closed; suicide they said. Only the walls know the truth now, with their ink and blood splattered wallpaper, looking less than happy about being soiled.
If only the walls could talk, but they don't and everybody thinks of Her as a quitter, and she doesn't think and He hasn't any qualms about anything. He didn't make her do the spell, and he thanks her for that and the sunrise and for her blood and for her loneliness. But he doesn't care, and the walls don't talk, and she, well she can't.
At least she's not afraid anymore.
~Finis~