She Writes

by epiphanies

She’s supposed to be doing homework, but she’s not. She’s writing, all right. They all see her writing fervently and assume she’s thinking just as fervently. About runes and spells and muggles and charms.

She Writes

by : epiphanies

She's supposed to be doing homework, but she's not. She's writing, all right. They all see her writing fervently and assume she's thinking just as fervently. About runes and spells and muggles and charms.

She scribbles with her deep black ink that shines blood red in the chandelier light, 'I've never felt so alone here.'

It is truly her home, it is her life, they are her people. She's drowning in the familiarity of it all, and yet she is alone.

'Always alone.'

She's very observant, but she's not quiet like the rest of the observant. The quiet ones glare at her, curse her for being so unlike she is supposed to be. The smart ones are the quiet ones, don't they say. 'They hate me for my stupidity and my need to be recognized,' she writes. She spills her heart to him every once in a while. He never does quite the same to her, but all the same. She figures he has lesser problems.

'I stay awake long enough to watch the sun set,' she scrawls, avoiding glances from across the room where her best friends sit, 'and then my mind slowly lulls to sleep.'

None of them know about it. About the dreams that she has. Those where she is accepted for who she is. Where she can do and say what she wants and not get called a know-it-all. Where she can display her true colours without persecution.

'Ravaged, I am, with these temptations just to scream into the night,' a tear drops onto the parchment, and she yanks it up to the desk again before a fifth year can steal a glance, 'Unshed tears weigh in on one's soul and eventually drowning begins to occur...

And then the darkness comes.'

She is familiar with the sight of blood, just as the rest of them are. She fought in the battles as they did.

'Nobody knows about me and you,' she whispers in her head to him, and feels he can hear her, 'Nobody knows that you still have a voice.'

He kisses her through the wind, 'I am still here, waiting.'

'I should hate you for what you've done.'

'But we are misunderstood.'

'That we are, Tom.'

The parchment is rolled up and stashed away into her trunk. Nobody knew that extra bit of work Tom Riddle did. The extra bit she found in the library right before the Basilisk found her. The extra bit she was going to report on, until she fell into her slumber and he spoke to her through the dreams. Through those dreams.

'We are misunderstood,' she writes, smiling a little smile and watching her common room, 'and they will never understand.'