Title: Love you, Love you not.
Summary: "Let me show u something beautiful." He whispers. Slash HP/TRLV
Warnings: SLASH (male/male) pairings if ya don't know what that means, swearing, violence in, Evil! Slytherin! Harry! Self harm, a lot of agast!
Pairings: HP/TRLV
Disclaimer: What are u looking at me for? I don't own it!
A/N: Ok, this maybe a little confusing… in Hp book number 2 instead of Ginny getting tom riddles dairy Harry gets it, and then Dumbledore saves Harry and destroys the dairy. Umm yea so please tell me what you think!
Chapter 5:
"You want me here now?" he taunts.
"I do."
"Then it's done."
And suddenly I am falling, falling, there is no hole in the ground, there is no ground, Tom, how could you, how, oh why, you're not with me, not at all, you said you would be...
His voice sneers in my ears, and my head, and all around me, ringing, silver bells off in the distance, "You are never alone...I am always with you, whether you want me or not."
Suddenly my passage is halted-
I'm a marionette again. He's got the strings, I know it- but I cannot look up and see him, I cannot move of my own will. My eyes are glassy, and I feel light. My wooden figure dances and skips and whirls across the stage...
Tom- I love you- I hate you- how – why- how could you- but every word is caught up in my wooden throat.
Finally my mouth opens, to scream, I think, but it's him speaking, through my mouth, in my voice, the words he wants me to say but never will.
"Tom, I hate you. Leave me alone. You're evil; no one will ever hold you. Leave me."
That's not truth, but he doesn't want to hear it- he throws me threw the air and my strings snap. I'm no longer his marionette.
"You will never make me leave," he says icily, "Let me show you something beautiful."
And he whispers- "Crucio."
And my mind is screaming and I 'm burning and I'm crying and sweating and cursing his name, Tom, oh, Tom, Tom...
And the fires die down and I settle into ash, and Fawkes flies out, like he did last time, but no more phoenix song- instead there is a violin, a violin played by a wretched child who has not put enough rosin on the bow. It cannot sound a pretty thing, it only squeaks and Tom is laughing and crying and I am sobbing his name again...
"Harry! Wake up, sweetheart, it's only a dream!" Mrs Wesley yells, and hugs me. Belatedly I realise I have tears on my cheeks. When she leaves I get ready to sleep again...not before I've seen that my sweater is green.
Harry danced, his eyes glazed over
Strings attached to arms and legs
Promise me you will behold him
And will never look away
Riddle watched, his eyes aglow
As Harry fell into the icy snow
His blood, his blood of purest red
Fell like a ribbon from Harry's head
Your wrists held back by rusty chains
You must bear witness to their pain
Tom locks his pain up inside
Harry's pain he cannot hide
Although Harry curses through bleeding lips
And scratches with bloody fingertips
Harry cannot hope to contain his rage
While Tom's, contained inside a cage
And when Tom's laughter dies away
And Harry's screams begin to fade
And shackles drop from your throbbing hands
You touch your hair- the dripping strands,
You feel hollow and cold inside
You cannot bear it, you must cry,
All of this you can't abide,
You feel tainted within your mind.
No, none of this will you abide,
You feel tainted within your mind.
The pages torn out by bloody hands and stuffed in a bottle, thrown to the seas of Harry's mind...here is Harry's second diary.
Dearest fucking diary,
Nobody ever would think that little Harry Potter would ever write in a diary, not after Tom. But if Tom's not around anymore, what is there to fear?
I used to have a diary. My first diary. This is my second, and probably not my last. You see, diary, I poured half of my soul into my first diary. I shall now pour the rest of it into this one.
For safekeeping. Not to keep it safe from anyone else, but to keep them safe from it.
Tom was my friend. My betrayer. My poison. The thing keeping me alive and slowly killing me. No one could ever understand. He used to possess me. And that is true in more ways than anyone could ever know. I was his possession.
Tom used to talk about my blood. My pure blood.
"Surely my blood is not different from yours, Tom?"
"Oh, it's much different, Harry." He took a small knife from his sleeve and cut himself.
"It seems the same as yours, but not all if it is magical, it's diluted. But yours-' here he cut the boy's hand. He gasped, but more of surprise than pain, for Harry felt more numb when he was with Tom.
"Your blood is full of old magic. I can see it. Feel it." Tom held Harry's palm up to his mouth and licked it, like a cat licking a wound.
"I can taste it. It's as potent as serpent's venom." He let go of Harry's hand gently. Harry cradled it, and look down at his hand. Harry was magical. Special. Different. Pure.
"It's pure. Like you."
I once dreamed that he cut me, told me about my blood, pure blood. I woke up, startled; then I crept to Hermione's trunk as if in a trance and took out one of her razors.
Not one of the ones she uses. Tom says her blood is dirty- I can't let it taint mine.
But a razor, a sharp, silver one; Tom always liked silver. I sneaked into my bed and shut all the curtains, and whispered, "Lumos," to my wand.
It lit up, and I carefully took the razor and slit my arm, just to see my blood. I gasped at the sight of it.
Special. Different. Pure.
I washed the razor and put it back with Hermione's things. I know she doesn't use them often, but sometimes she needs to.
I never touched a razor again, and here I am, fifteen, still having never touched one. Tom's hold on me disappeared, or at least became more subtle, when the diary was ruined. I never purposely looked at my blood again. I was afraid that I might become like him, thinking my blood is any different or better than someone else's.
But every once in a while I get a paper cut and I wonder...
xxx
Top of Form
"Harry?" Hermione asked cautiously. Harry was sitting alone on the floor of the room, quiet. Everyone else was downstairs, listening to the Order, but Hermione felt as though Harry could not have fit in, even if he had wanted to.
"Yes?" came Harry's voice, small and timid. Hermione shuddered.
Because Harry only sounded like this when he talked to Tom Riddle in his sleep.
"Are you alright?" Hermione asked, shutting the door behind her softly and creeping up beside him. "You've been very distant lately."
Harry did not reply for a moment. Then he turned to look at Hermione with hollow, hollow eyes. "What's the different between your blood and my blood?"
Hermione stared at him blankly, then glanced over to see where Harry's hand rested. It was a diary. One Harry had bought shortly after his third year.
Hermione had found it strange that Harry had wanted to own a diary after that, but she never pressed it. Obviously Tom was on his mind a lot- he even dreamed of him nearly every night for a few months after that, and Harry had recently begun having those dreams again. So had he recorded things he remembered about Tom in there? Hermione didn't doubt it.
"Well," Hermione said slowly, thinking. She had thought about herself during their second year, when Draco had first called her a mudblood and she had discovered its meaning. "I suppose that it means that the blood in your veins is the same blood, in a sense, that was in the veins of witches and wizards since... in essence, eternity." Hermione took a deep breath. She wasn't fond of this next part. "And my blood was never in the veins of any witch or wizard, ever."
Harry nodded. "Why do you think the Malfoy's and the Blacks care? Why them and not the Weasley's?"
Hermione tilted her head. "The Blacks, Sirius once said that they thought of themselves as almost royalty, like the Malfoy's, and most families with entirely wizarding heritage. In a sense, they are- they are of purely wizarding blood. It's an honour thing."
Harry's face was as stone. "Then have the Weasleys have no honour?"
"The Weasleys do not believe that honour can be determined by the deeds of those who came before you, or by the purity of those who came before you, because purity comes from the heart," said Hermione simply.
A thought that came to her mind she did not mention- the heart is the organ that pumps the blood. Pure blood. Dirty blood.
"It must be a Slytherin thing," said Harry half-heartened.
"No, no," said Hermione soothingly. "It's a thing that goes with certain mindsets. Pure blood is not a quality the Sorting Hat goes by- it's the other traits."
"Shouldn't all Slytherin's be pureblood, isn't that why it wanted to put me in that house because it knew of my blood that flows through my veins?" asked Harry.
Hermione laughed, although she did not really find the matter amusing. "That's like saying all Goths should be white, Har. Slytherin is an attitude- gothic is an attitude. Physical differences mean nothing."
"But they can affect your mind," added Harry.
"No, they can't; what you think can affect your mind, but thinking something completely physical separates you- that warps a mind. Tom Riddle was warped, Harry. Dwelling on him won't help you figure things out."
Harry stared at Hermione. Hermione knew it pained Harry to hear- and it pained Hermione to say. But he needed to hear it.
Harry put his face into his hands. He wasn't crying, but he was shaken. "Oh, Har," whispered Hermione, wrapping her arms around Harry. She had a younger brother, but they were as of two different worlds, and it was difficult. Her brother never had to deal with those things. Hermione felt closer to her best friend to her own father, and she often wondered about it. Was it betrayal?
No- it was only betrayal if she let herself think that. Another one of those blood things.
Finally Harry and Hermione broke away. "Hermione," Harry asked, "I'd like to see it. See that our blood is the same."
Hermione was a bit puzzled. "How?"
"Your- your razors."
Hermione's eyes widened in shock. She hadn't known Harry knew.
"Oh- okay."
Hermione got them out and handed Harry one, and took out one herself. It was her favourite one- the one she used for all her worst problems, in times of dire need. And Harry was in dire need of reassurance.
"Ready?" Hermione asked.
Harry nodded, tight-lipped.
They cut a slit on their arms. Their blood flowed out, calmly, red, bright red.
Hermione held her arm up next to Harry's.
"Is it really so different?" Hermione asked. Harry stared, from his blood to Hermione's.
"No," he whispered, voice hoarse. "It's not at all."
They sat in silence for a moment, before taking care of things. There is not enough silence in the world. It is never there when you need it to deaden the misery that surrounds you. And it is always there just when you need a sound.
A/N: MWAHAHAHAHA CLIFFY! smiles innocently at her readers
'Wah?' laughs it might not seem like a cliffy but it is !
Tilllll next time and
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