Disclaimer: Don't own them, don't claim to. They belong to J.K Rowling.
Author's Note: Actually didn't intend to write this but it just came to me.
I've been wanting to write this pairing for a long time and was finally
able to. Hope I did a decent job with it. *winces* Please don't flame.
Constructive criticism is ALWAYS welcome.
Possession By Kavi
"W-where's Riddle? The last thing I r-remember is him coming out of the diary-" -Ginny Weasley, Chamber of Secrets
Ginny can feel him coming.
It's a cold filthy feeling in the pit of her stomach. And as she lies there on the wet stone floor, head growing lighter, body, weaker, she listens for his voice. It's harsh now, not soft or understanding, like ink on parchment. "Poor, foolish little Ginny."
She drinks it in, letting that dark and terrible voice wash over her. "They won't come. You know they won't."
She'll die here. Here, with him, just like it's supposed to be. Because he's Tom, and he thinks she's beautiful. He's not Harry. He'll never be Harry, because Harry's awkward. Tom's so sure of himself, so confident.
"You're mine now," his voice lowers, soft and silken, and he lets it carry through the empty Chamber. "You're *mine*."
She wants to agree, wants to say that she's his, say *something* to show that she's not a silly little girl. But her breath is short and tight in her chest and she just slumps down, letting her feverish cheek press against the black marble.
He crouches down next to her, gazing intently with an odd red gleam in his eyes that wasn't there before. "Just a little longer," he breathes, reaching out a ghostly hand to trace his fingertips down her cheek.
Her last thoughts are ones of ink, and lies, and blood. And above her he whispers, "It's time," and she feels the coldness seeping into her bones, and the last of her breath expelled from her chest.
She shudders in response, eyes closing.
He resurrects the darkest parts of her.
Possession By Kavi
"W-where's Riddle? The last thing I r-remember is him coming out of the diary-" -Ginny Weasley, Chamber of Secrets
Ginny can feel him coming.
It's a cold filthy feeling in the pit of her stomach. And as she lies there on the wet stone floor, head growing lighter, body, weaker, she listens for his voice. It's harsh now, not soft or understanding, like ink on parchment. "Poor, foolish little Ginny."
She drinks it in, letting that dark and terrible voice wash over her. "They won't come. You know they won't."
She'll die here. Here, with him, just like it's supposed to be. Because he's Tom, and he thinks she's beautiful. He's not Harry. He'll never be Harry, because Harry's awkward. Tom's so sure of himself, so confident.
"You're mine now," his voice lowers, soft and silken, and he lets it carry through the empty Chamber. "You're *mine*."
She wants to agree, wants to say that she's his, say *something* to show that she's not a silly little girl. But her breath is short and tight in her chest and she just slumps down, letting her feverish cheek press against the black marble.
He crouches down next to her, gazing intently with an odd red gleam in his eyes that wasn't there before. "Just a little longer," he breathes, reaching out a ghostly hand to trace his fingertips down her cheek.
Her last thoughts are ones of ink, and lies, and blood. And above her he whispers, "It's time," and she feels the coldness seeping into her bones, and the last of her breath expelled from her chest.
She shudders in response, eyes closing.
He resurrects the darkest parts of her.