Petrifyed

I had a diary once. It was an old diary that was second hand like everything else that I owned. Of course, that was the point of that particular book.

I had never had a diary before, but at the time, I was nervous. I was going to be starting school soon. Going to be leaving my mom and dad and I didn't know whether or not I could do that, no matter how much I wanted to. Oh, and let's not forget the fact that Harry had been staying with us for a month! God that summer was nerve wracking.

It was during the summer that I had found the diary hidden away in my 'new' school book. It did blend in well, with its worn cover, and yellow pages. I found out later that it was fifty years old, but by then I didn't care that it was old, I knew that it was special.

Almost as soon as I got it I started writing in it. It was after we got back from Diagon Alley the day when I defended Harry so stupidly, right after my dad was rolling around on the ground in a fist fight, and after I was insulted for being poor. I could think of nothing else to do, after I was left holding that little diary.

That, of course, was when I found Him. For the people at school who know the story, even my own family at home, it's easy to think that all I did was write in it, and that was all. No one ever thinks of the meaning, no ever considers what I wrote. There had always been a meaning though. Every word meant something to me. Every word helped bring Voldemort back.

I wrote in the diary at least once a day. I couldn't leave it alone that long; it was all I had, after all. Sometimes I would write for hours and I don't want to even count the number of points I lost for writing and reading in class.

I couldn't help it!

When I wrote in that diary I wasn't afraid. I didn't cry as much for home. I learned how to feel confidant about myself, and I believed that I could be something wonderful. That diary was the reason that I sent Harry a valentine, disastrous as that was.

After a few months I realized the truth about my little book, but I wish it had been sooner. I'm not going to say that I wish I had listened to my father. He'd warned me before, but never against making a friend.

I thought I had made a friend, one I wished I could keep forever. I never wanted to lose that little diary and all the memories inside it.

I was shaking as I carried it down the hall at school. I held it out before me like a priceless treasure. My hands shook as I held it above the toilet in moaning Myrtle's bathroom, and I almost couldn't let it go, but then it was soaking in the water.

"Goodbye." I whispered quietly. I pushed the lever and hurried away. I didn't want anyone to know Him the way I did. That diary was dangerous, and besides, it was mine.

Through the next few days I wanted to shout out to everyone He's gone, you don't have to worry anymore! Of course I was still here, so I didn't say a word.

I still don't know how to explain what it was like discarding my best friend. What it was like leaving him alone in the dark forever. I wouldn't be able to bear that myself, and as cruel as that was, I didn't have the heart to destroy him, and cut short his sufferings.

I said good bye, and that would be the end of Tom Riddle.

When I saw Harry with the book on Valentine's Day... I was afraid, truly and honestly. I ran to my dorm and didn't realize I was shaking until I saw myself in the mirror. I was as pale as snow and my body was trembling so hard it felt like I was full of ice.

Later that year, I wrote my own goodbye on the school wall. The writing was there for days and I saw the blood, and I knew my own hand writing. Every time I passed it, I said goodbye to the little girl lying on the cold ground of the chamber. When the blood was washed away, I knew she would be gone forever. She would be gone with Tom.

I don't want to go into detail, all I have to do is write this once and stop thinking about it finally, stop dreaming. I never saw His face, so thinking of Voldemort I never make the connections that I should. Voldemort wasn't the one I poured my soul out to. I did that for Tom, and Tom died in the chamber. Harry killed him. He killed him for me.

Writing here, like this... it's so different. I keep waiting now to see his long hand writing speaking back to me. I thought it was so beautiful back then and tried to copy it for months and nearly did. Now all I have are pages and pages of reminders that don't sink back into the parchment.

Everyone's so nice about it, though. They all know how I was an innocent victim and how Voldemort used me. They don't know that I still have the urge to cry out Tom, you should see this, like I used to.

I loved him. Why would no one believe I might still be dangerous? I do.

I almost wish I hadn't written for so long, and then none of that horrible mess would have happened. Once the writing had started, however, I couldn't hold it back, and I still can't. I still can't stop remembering the wonderful person that no one else seems to know. I'm still trying to tell myself that it isn't true. That nothing about it was real. That even He wasn't real.

He was just a sixteen-year-old's memory, like he is now. Tom was never just a memory though. Memories don't capture you the way he did. I suppose it's because he was never truly here to begin with... that he was only there when I wrote to him. That must be why it feels like he's waiting in my room for me to talk to him. I've stopped running back to the dorms to get him, but... I feel like he's still waiting for me. God, I can't get away from him! He won't leave me and just let me be in peace. He's still holding on to me so tightly that I can't move, I can't even breathe.

Is this what it felt like to be petrified?