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He writes: No, I have no brothers. No sister, either. Just me. No. No. Just me. He writes: Yes. And you. She is, she is his. He has never had something just his, not in the orphanage, not at Hogwarts, not when he was bound to vellum pages. This life isn't his, these memories. He shares them all, he shares the conversation with Malfoy, the plan, the Chamber. He shares everything, until her. She is new, and her words are new, and belong to him alone. She whines a bit--a lot--and is rather annoying, but she needs him. Like a puppy, or a sister. A child. She needs him to guide her, protect her, teach her. She is his. He writes: I think there's honor in starting from nothing. Making something of yourself. He writes: Don't be ridiculous. You can do anything. He writes: You're just as pure of blood as Malfoy is. Honestly, Gin. She is, she is everything he wants to be. She is pure and clean and precious. She is alive, and intelligent, and willing. She is-- He writes: Tell me about Harry, Ginny. I promise I won't laugh. He doesn't. He writes: Well I should hope so--what do your twins know about it, anyway? He writes: You and me, Gin. The letters "Harry" sink into his pages, and he takes pleasure in their disappearance, in twisting that ink into something new, something that Harry has never been part of, that Harry will never know, in excising Harry in He writes: I think I know a way I can be real, be there for you for real. He wants to write, but cannot. He is nothing without being read. Then he writes, and writes, and. He stops. His words are watery, diluted. He soaks the pages of his diary with tears, anger, hatred. He is sullen. He meets Harry Potter, Harry who doesn't notice anyone, who's already made up his mind. He lies. He writes: I missed you. He writes a kiss against her forehead. He draws on her strength, for a little while, and Harry of the Preconceptions arrives and he laughs and laughs and Phoenix feather has always responded well to his touch. He laughs, and Harry will die, and no one will hurt her. He laughs, and stares at the basilisk fang, and screams and screams and screams and writes and then there's nothing left to say. back |