by She's a Star
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. Gosh, I've missed writing these disclaimers. *tears up*
Author's Note: I haven't been writing HP very often as of late, and I've missed it terribly, so . . . yes. Am very glad that I managed to write something, even if it's just a weird ol' Tom drabble-y thing. This was initially a challenge on my friends Storm & Dia's LJ community challengewhores, and had to use lyrics from U2's 'Stay (Faraway So Close)'.
Just the bang
And the clatter
As an angel
Hits the ground.
Terribly boring thing, fear.
He remembered, faintly, when he'd used to thrive off of it. Close his eyes and breathe it in as it subtly perfumed the air. But perhaps things so delightfully rich at times always lost their allure, like a book one loved the first ten times but didn't get the same rush from the eleventh.
In any case, it no longer thrilled him.
It simply became a given, something he learned to endure, but could no longer enjoy with the purity he once had.
Sad, he supposed, but such was life.
He flexed his fingers, and it felt almost far off as he did it. But no bother. He would grow stronger, as she weakened. And oh, she would weaken.
She was already weak, but not as much as he'd expected. She was a fighter, and he supposed he should have seen it sooner, detected it from the way her eyes sparkled with just a pinch too much life, the way her hair danced like flames around her face when she moved.
She was a pretty little thing, Ginny Weasley, if not foolish and lonely and terribly mortal. Finally seeing her had been an interesting experience, after months of swirly, childish script and i's dotted with alternating hearts, circles, and stars.
She would have been a beautiful woman, if not desperately pathetic. Oh, but hers was such a sad case - her brothers mocked her shamelessly, her mother babied her, and Harry Potter would surely never, ever love her. She was vulnerable; ridiculous; positively begging him to destroy her.
And there were some things one simply couldn't be expected to resist.
It was all beautifully ironic, and he laughed softly to himself. Her eyes were fixed on him, unwavering, sparkling with a dark sort of fire. Her breathing was shallow. Barely audible. Tears had streaked her face, but it wasn't satisfying the way it should have been. She was too strong. Too brave.
A true Gryffindor.
He scowled, and looked away from her. She was such a foolish child. It was painfully obvious that Harry Potter would fall in love with her, even if she might as well not exist in his eyes now. Even now, she was his damsel, and The Boy Who Lived would surely come attempt to rescue her.
Of course, he would not succeed.
Tom Riddle wasn't one for fairytales.
"Now, sweet Ginny," he said, softly, and allowed his fingers to brush against her hair. He barely felt it - the slightest sensation of caressing silk. She shuddered; her entire form trembled. She was such a tiny, fragile thing. "You are going to die."
She mouthed the word 'no,' but couldn't seem to manage saying it. It was a shame. He liked her voice. It was light, and melodious - positively sickening in its innocence. He wondered what she sounded like when she screamed.
"But it's all right, of course," he continued, and eyed her hands. Her fingernails were carefully painted pink. He wondered how she'd managed something so trivial while he'd been stealing away her very soul.
She really was an extraordinary creature.
"We're friends, Ginny," he told her. "The best of friends. Nobody understands you like I do."
"You don't understand me." It was a pitiful attempt at strength. Her voice shook, and cracked, and he thought of shattering porcelain.
"Oh, but I do," he countered. A tear trickled down her cheek. "Thanks to you. You told me." He leaned closer, close enough to smell her hair (like apple cider - he didn't miss the slightest trace of sultriness; cinnamon. Oh, yes, she would have certainly been a beautiful woman). "You gave yourself to me."
She was his. Completely, utterly surrendered to him, and she might flail, struggling to fight, but she would not win.
She would not win.
"Think of all the things you'll miss," he said, woefully. "Romance, and first kisses, and other unmentionable things. You're undeniably too chaste to know about them. You know so little, Virginia."
(He remembers, in the bushes, at the Christmas Ball, fifth year - a stolen kiss, "I really like you, Tom," - her hair was red too, he recalls, and her neck snapped with a whisper, so very sad, Headmaster, I just found her this way, I believe Professor Bristow was going out said it was for a smoke I always caught him looking at her in classes but I can't believe that he would----)
"Stop," she pleaded, whimpering. She reminded him a bit of an angel - poetic, sickeningly so, that seraphs and cherubs should fall at his feet.
And for the first time, her terror showed, alight in her eyes, and he thought he remembered, just a bit, how exhilarating it could truly be.