#15. Sins, Not Tragedies
Title: Sins, Not Tragedies
Series: Harry Potter
Spoilers: Definitely for Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Maybe it's AU? I don't really know.
Characters: Ginny Weasley and Tom Riddle.
Pairing(s): None.
Author's Note: And no, I'm not a Tom/Ginny shipper though I do like the idea of her being Tom Riddle puppet simply because there is nothing more fun. (And yeah, suffice to say, Ginny Weasley is not my favorite character though I'm unsure if it shows in my writing or not). Initially I was inclined to keep it short and I had an ending I was happy with yet... I felt the need to further the piece. Yeesh. I can't yet decide yet if it was to the piece's detriment.
Prompt: #15. Sins, Not Tragedies. That makes it 3 down, 22 more (or 47?!) to go until December 31st.
. . .
She dreams when sleep is not yet upon her.
She dreams when she is still awake.
And in her dreams she hears whispered words, soft encouragement and she surrenders, again, to the requests laid before her.
The quill is dipped and she touches the nib to the page, watching as the ink blossoms black.
. . .
Her eyes are wide open but lately, her days feel like dreams.
Her eyes are blinking but lately, her nights are wrought with realities that are the stuff that dreams are made of.
In the morning she finds she is living a dream, a dream where a wall drips with her writing scrawled in blood, not ink and not water.
She wishes it were water, but there is water puddled at her feet, not dripping from the wall and she knows, clearly, that water is not red anyhow. This still somehow seems unclear, vague.
She wishes it would rain, but it cannot rain indoors and she knows, clearly, that her thoughts are like dreams. They are inconsistent, incomprehensible.
She wonders if she ought to stop thinking.
. . .
Blinkingly, slowly, quill raised she stares at the blank page before her and touches the nib down once more, watching as the ink creeps across the page.
It reminds her of fingers flexing.
He (because she knows the timbres of his voice now) asks her how it feels to know that she has been transformed. More than an artist, more than a sculptor, she is a creator. In soft tones he explains that she can wring life into that which no life breathed previously.
Yes he (because she can feel the warm touch of his words upon her ear now) whispers that because she can create words, yes, like the ones she is beginning to form upon the blank page, she can create other things too. She can create, yes, but more importantly she has the ability to erase that which is imperfect.
She is powerful, he says, and the words make her shiver long after his voice has faded away.
. . .
Hand raised, she touches the quill down to the page again and writes.
What she writes, she realizes, are not her own words. She remembers the ink like fingers flexing and she begins to wonder if somehow the roles have switched. Perhaps she is the page, the created piece, and he the ink, the creator. I am parchment, she thinks, I am diary pages torn.
Not torn, he answers, and she hears him even when she covers her ears with both hands, the black ink running rivulets between her fingers, and twining in her coppery hair.
Fingers flexing, she remembers, and she shivers again and wishes for rain to wash the ink away.
. . .
Her hand touches the quill to the page, but not of her own volition. The strokes, the crosses, the dots, these are not hers. How surreal it is to see thoughts not her own gathered there on the page before her. How strange it is to see writing that is not hers, the form stark and bold to her eyes, as every word blooms beneath the quill nib. It is hard, she recalls, to remember that this is all a dream.
"But it's not a dream," he whispers, and she shivers because she knows the voice is no longer in her head alone. "You are not a dream," he whispers, and her eyes are open, yes her eyes are blinking but they are focused on the blank page before her, not on the fingers curling around her hand. The black ink drips from the quill crushed between her fingers--or is it their fingers?
"My fingers," he murmurs as he flexes them.
Another drop falls.
The ink spreads across the page and it occurs to her suddenly that it is dark and ugly, a loathsome blemish.
It also occurs to her to tear the page, to rid the diary of a mark so unsightly.
If she is not a dream then she is a creator. If she is a creator, then she is powerful. If she is powerful, then she can erase this imperfection.
"Yes," and he smiles against the curve of her ear. "I am powerful."
The fingers flex and a new color mixes in with the black ink upon the page. It is red and it is writing and it is not water, not ink.
"And you," he says. "You are imperfect."
More Notes Now That You Made It This Far: I wanted this piece to reflect Tom Riddle of the diary as he grew in strength. I wanted this piece to show the transformation from mere friendly words on a page to something that has manifested itself into an entity beyond the confines of the written page. The more he gains in strength, the more tangible he becomes.
Series: Harry Potter
Spoilers: Definitely for Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Maybe it's AU? I don't really know.
Characters: Ginny Weasley and Tom Riddle.
Pairing(s): None.
Author's Note: And no, I'm not a Tom/Ginny shipper though I do like the idea of her being Tom Riddle puppet simply because there is nothing more fun. (And yeah, suffice to say, Ginny Weasley is not my favorite character though I'm unsure if it shows in my writing or not). Initially I was inclined to keep it short and I had an ending I was happy with yet... I felt the need to further the piece. Yeesh. I can't yet decide yet if it was to the piece's detriment.
Prompt: #15. Sins, Not Tragedies. That makes it 3 down, 22 more (or 47?!) to go until December 31st.
. . .
She dreams when sleep is not yet upon her.
She dreams when she is still awake.
And in her dreams she hears whispered words, soft encouragement and she surrenders, again, to the requests laid before her.
The quill is dipped and she touches the nib to the page, watching as the ink blossoms black.
. . .
Her eyes are wide open but lately, her days feel like dreams.
Her eyes are blinking but lately, her nights are wrought with realities that are the stuff that dreams are made of.
In the morning she finds she is living a dream, a dream where a wall drips with her writing scrawled in blood, not ink and not water.
She wishes it were water, but there is water puddled at her feet, not dripping from the wall and she knows, clearly, that water is not red anyhow. This still somehow seems unclear, vague.
She wishes it would rain, but it cannot rain indoors and she knows, clearly, that her thoughts are like dreams. They are inconsistent, incomprehensible.
She wonders if she ought to stop thinking.
. . .
Blinkingly, slowly, quill raised she stares at the blank page before her and touches the nib down once more, watching as the ink creeps across the page.
It reminds her of fingers flexing.
He (because she knows the timbres of his voice now) asks her how it feels to know that she has been transformed. More than an artist, more than a sculptor, she is a creator. In soft tones he explains that she can wring life into that which no life breathed previously.
Yes he (because she can feel the warm touch of his words upon her ear now) whispers that because she can create words, yes, like the ones she is beginning to form upon the blank page, she can create other things too. She can create, yes, but more importantly she has the ability to erase that which is imperfect.
She is powerful, he says, and the words make her shiver long after his voice has faded away.
. . .
Hand raised, she touches the quill down to the page again and writes.
What she writes, she realizes, are not her own words. She remembers the ink like fingers flexing and she begins to wonder if somehow the roles have switched. Perhaps she is the page, the created piece, and he the ink, the creator. I am parchment, she thinks, I am diary pages torn.
Not torn, he answers, and she hears him even when she covers her ears with both hands, the black ink running rivulets between her fingers, and twining in her coppery hair.
Fingers flexing, she remembers, and she shivers again and wishes for rain to wash the ink away.
. . .
Her hand touches the quill to the page, but not of her own volition. The strokes, the crosses, the dots, these are not hers. How surreal it is to see thoughts not her own gathered there on the page before her. How strange it is to see writing that is not hers, the form stark and bold to her eyes, as every word blooms beneath the quill nib. It is hard, she recalls, to remember that this is all a dream.
"But it's not a dream," he whispers, and she shivers because she knows the voice is no longer in her head alone. "You are not a dream," he whispers, and her eyes are open, yes her eyes are blinking but they are focused on the blank page before her, not on the fingers curling around her hand. The black ink drips from the quill crushed between her fingers--or is it their fingers?
"My fingers," he murmurs as he flexes them.
Another drop falls.
The ink spreads across the page and it occurs to her suddenly that it is dark and ugly, a loathsome blemish.
It also occurs to her to tear the page, to rid the diary of a mark so unsightly.
If she is not a dream then she is a creator. If she is a creator, then she is powerful. If she is powerful, then she can erase this imperfection.
"Yes," and he smiles against the curve of her ear. "I am powerful."
The fingers flex and a new color mixes in with the black ink upon the page. It is red and it is writing and it is not water, not ink.
"And you," he says. "You are imperfect."
More Notes Now That You Made It This Far: I wanted this piece to reflect Tom Riddle of the diary as he grew in strength. I wanted this piece to show the transformation from mere friendly words on a page to something that has manifested itself into an entity beyond the confines of the written page. The more he gains in strength, the more tangible he becomes.