Disclaimer: I don't own anything but my imagination and whatever else is in this story that doesn't make sense. I was inspired by J.K. Rowlings wonderful world. This is not meant to be a long story only a short one I've been waiting to post. Enjoy, and please read and review! I love reviews!
Page 4
Spellbinding
The hallway was large, and it lead into the drawing room of the Malfoy Manor. In the drawing room would be where they would gather in discussion for their plans. Several had already been seated and their talk, circled as they always had; around the capture and destruction of Potter and his allies.
The drawing room was bath in darkness, the meeting being held was illuminated from a roaring fire, beneath a marble mantlepiece.
Darkness always suited Voldemort best. He never cared much for bright lighting, not even as a boy in the orphanage. Often as a child, if he was angry enough, or bored enough he would make the bulbs within the fixtures explode.
The other Death Eaters carried on their discussion, but in hushed, private conversations as they waited. But he, Voldemort sat deep in thought and spoke to no one. More death eaters slowly arrived. Each of them entered and looked up as the witch's body hovered above their meeting table.
As always they came as commanded. For this meeting, just as with the last, Voldemort had summoned only the selected few, only those he trusted the most to see his new plans through.
His youthful boyish disguise gone. And now the pale silhouette of the true Dark Lord sat at the very head of the table. He had not been to visit the girl for several days now. This displeased him.
A visit to her was not entirely impossible, but if he hoped to charm her, to win her spirit then he first must have the magic that was hidden in the horcrux, so that he may once again capture the image of the boy she knew as Tom Riddle. If there was any part of his former self dwelling within the diary's pages, he would have to draw it out.
But, was it possible to reclaim a portion of his one's own soul? once torn away and for so long, for so many years? The creation of a horcrux was tricky magic indeed, but it's purpose was to insure one's ability to maintain life after death. Not to be reclaimed during his living state. This was a form of magic most unheard of; even for the likes of his kind. But it his was is intentions to see it through. He was Lord Voldemort, and with him the most phenomenal of all magic was possible.
He remained silent, his attention was drawn upward to his captive revolving slowing above head and he was deep in thought his mind wandering, searching for the girl . . .
A long appalled silence ticked by as he blocked out the voices of the surrounding table. . .
Something was blocking him now, something had change or more it was someone had change it for him. Why did so much have to ride on the life of one boy, or on the death of his own? Why could it not circle around the life of another? Another boy per say, another dark lord, another chosen child. Yes, something other than the tiresome saga of he and Harry Potter. These sudden random thoughts puzzled him and he ended failed connection to Ginny. He himself wondered why. Was he at long last exhausted, tired or simply getting old as they say? What troubled him even more was a separate factor that he could not seem to set aside or forget for some time now.
Severus had told him that the girl, Ginny, was not the same after her encounter with the boy, Tom. And that she mourned after Harry's believed destruction of the diary.
The details of this paid no real tribute to any of his plans of course, non other than the mere fact that Dark Lord wanted to know as much about the girl as he could. Severus spoke of that year with great detail, of how she had confessed to Dumbledore that Tom would have never harmed her, and that it was only Harry he wanted. This relayed the direct message to Voldemort that the horcrux had done just as it was designed to do. To destroy anyone or anything that would in return cause it harm.
But, the boy of the diary had form some sort of alliance with the girl, the merger of another soul in desperate search for more power. Or had he become attached to the company of another's soul simply being there, and that he had actually attempted to protect her, once she became a part of it.
No thought Voldemort, that would be impossible. Tom was only a memory, a portion of his soul, not mortal, not truly living. And certainly not capable of the wanting the very thing he had never once desired in his entire life.
The door opened and Severus entered the dark drawing room, his eyes adjusting to the sudden shift in lighting from the hallway, and slowly his attention was glided towards the head of the table, where Voldemort instructed him to be seated beside him.
The Dark Lord knew he held information not only of Potter, and of the Order, but also news of Ginerva.
Severus came has always with news to convey to the Dark Lord. He informed him of the approaching evening in which the Order had planned to move Harry.
"Good, Very good. And this information comes -" said Voldemort.
"-from the source we discussed," said Severus.
Their source, the one Severus spoke of, was of course Ginerva. She was as easy to pick as a morning daisy once under the Imperius curse. Voldemort's red glowing eyes narrowed and filled with satisfaction to the news. He didn't care where the boy departed after the Order's so called rescue party. However, he had received word that Potter's was to take room and board with the Weasley family, and he could not allow that. Potter had ruined so many of his plans, he could not allow him near the girl before his own work was done with her.
The battle between he and Potter had taken a new turn and Voldemort now fought for the girl.
Late in the night and long after the meeting had departed, there, in a softly lighted room, the words bleed along the charred surface of an open book, sketched with such a sharp haste, it couldn't be mistaken for anything short of anger.
Voldemort's demanded to be heard. It was late into the night now and the halls of the Manor, once again settle down to a meager crawl. Thick bold words took form, filling the first of the remaining three pages.
I have given you all that I know. There is nothing more - and if so, I suggest you come and find them out for yourself, I have told you before I can not reenter the confinement of these pages, and that thing lurks beyond your chamber; it is death. It called out my name. Wrote Voldemort
Silence fell, between the two Tom's. The younger one and the eldest delivering messages between their two worlds of existence. The constant rhythm of the wind outside, rattled the window panes to Voldemort's chamber.
Tom knew of the beast Voldemort spoke of. It was the Grim. The thing of death that now lurked among his pages each night. Tom had spoken to the creature only once, it had told him, that he sought the dark wizard Voldemort; the beast told him of his future being, and of the monster he had become, beyond the boy. And now Tom relayed the message back to the older man.
This particular horcrux had been his best by far. At the start of its creation he had been so young, and so it was more alive than the others. Voldemort could see that now. The smooth page of the diary appeared blank for some time before words once again reappeared.
Tom's words faded in and out of the page. I have done no crime… I did not ask for this life…but I suffer from it because of you. I only wish to see that she is safe….
Stop your whining, no crime….have you forgotten you are the starting creation of what I am. Have you forgotten your hunger, your thirst for greatness against all, you have forgotten who and what you are… Wrote Voldemort.
No, I have not forgotten…. I am Tom, Tom Riddle that is all.
It had been days now and Voldemort could not find a way to summon the fragmented piece of his soul from the pages. It was as if it had taken on a life of its very own, capable of thinking for itself. He would have no choice but to force the foolish boy out. But this task proved to be possibly fatal. Each journey into the book left him ill and dreadfully weak. He was living, not a whole man but alive enough to suffer pain when he encountered the poison each time he enter and left the book. His only chance would be to coax the boy from the pages willingly. If he had to use magic to force him out it would destroy, perhaps even shatter the remains of the already battered soul.
Somewhere in the lower dwelling of a insolvent darkness sat the memory of a young Tom Riddle. Clenched tightly in his grasp, he held a single photograph. Tom kept the secret of the portrait to himself; He'd not share that part with Voldemort. He trusted no one, not even his future self. Tom sat crotched alone, upon the poorly made bed that Ginny had created for him. He sat reliving the only memory he fought to keep alive anymore, the face of a friend, a red-haired Gryffindor girl. He had forgotten everything else, everyone else. If the years had past like the old fool above said they had, then she was no longer the girl in his photograph, but a young woman now and even more lovely. The old man above said it was not possible for a memory hold a memory. But that was his problem if he didn't believe, because Ginny's sweet kindness came to comfort him each night in his dreams.
Pulling from the seared seams of his cloak pocket was a torn page, a slip of parchment. She had given it to him one day. The silly girl confessed to him that she charmed it to keep the words from fading away; she wanted them to always be there for him, to have when he needed her. He'd never cared for anyone in his life, least of all a Gryffindor, not the way he cared for Ginny.
"A Hundred Ways to say I love Tom Riddle, by Ginny Weasley," he read the title again and reread the slip of paper everyday they had been apart, until he had them memorized by heart. But each day now they began to grow fainter as the charm was wearing off, now half the page had vanished forever. He'd gone back into the ruins of the diary partly because he had heard voices. He had foolishly hoped it was help at last or perhaps his long lost Ginny, but no it was the pale snake like man and a crazy eyed witch. The wizard had told him that he too was named Tom Riddle.
After that encounter, he'd became trapped here in the chamber and he placed a soldering spell upon the doors to keep the poisonous venom at bay. And to keep the pale snake man out.
He was all that remain now. He, this room, her page and something else. That something was the Grim, the walking hound of death. Tom was sure of it. It followed him on Voldemort's last venture into the book, growling and snapping at both their heels, they had barely escaped.
Voldemort's words trickling down from the tarnished page.
Do you dream of her boy?…wish for her?…your precious Ginny. I can give you whatever you desire. If you trust me. I will lead us to greatness.
Tom wrote back. Liar.
Tell me, how will you ever touch her…ever love her? Think of it, I shall have finally beaten Potter, and you, you shall have your Ginny and I shall have my son, our heir….
-No, you will not touch her...
Voldemort gave an evil grin, had he found the boy's weakness. He placed his quill upon the diary. ...And who shall stop me? He wrote.