Love
Disclaimer: All materials belong to J.K. Rowling
A/N: The improved version of love. Re-reading the original and reading reviews, I realized the many mistakes I had made, some minor, some major. I hope I don't screw this up.
My childhood had been mingled with that of boyhood; quidditch games had replaced tea parties, and the cliché pink was replaced with the signature color of the Chudley Canons: blinding orange, much like the color of my hair. He loved my hair.
I first met Tom the day we went to the bookstore with Harry. I instantly found comfort in the words he wrote and how he wrote them. His beautiful words and his beautiful handwriting pulled me under. His handwriting was made up of long, neat, thin slants, but they seemed to be almost scribbled across the vanilla colored sheets. I always wondered, but never asked what he was anxious about. I loved his handwriting.
After months of taking comfort in the words we exchanged, I met my pen pal. Upon seeing him for the first time, I was surprised to see he looked a lot like his handwriting: he was tall, thin, and had a neat appearance, but they way he presented himself, something about him seemed impatient. Something in his eyes wanted more than an eleven year old girl; it was a hunger I couldn't satisfy. I loved Tom Riddle.
Now he is gone, killed, destroyed. But I can still feel his touch, his handwriting tattooed to the back of my eyelids, and I can hear his voice whispering my name, "Ginny." I love to hate him