A Handful of Trust

Chain of tears

Handful of trust

In the world of dust

Chain of tears

Handful of dust

--No Blind Eyes Can See, Lacrimosa

For a long time, it was dark in the diary. He wasn't sure how much time had passed; time in the diary was different from time in the rest of the world.

He didn't mind. He slept peacefully, quietly, unresisting, knowing that his time would soon come. Knowing that he would soon be receiving the energy that would bring him to life again.

It had happened many times before. So many different people had picked up his little black book and written in it, and he had drunk them in, relishing their flavour. Each person had tasted different, and he had loved it all. He had never wanted it to end.

Of course, each time, it had ended. The people had got suspicious, thrown him away, and it would be dark again. But he knew a new person always came along. There was always someone curious enough to pick up his book and write him a line or two.

Sometimes he wished that they weren't so skeptical of him. That they would trust him, let him charm them over, drink them up until there wasn't anything left.

But all that could wait. Thoughts came and went when it was dark, and he couldn't make much sense of them. Soon enough, someone would come along, and he would be alive again.

~

He had known she was different the moment he felt her touch on the little black cover. Different how, he couldn't tell, but he could feel it in her, the subtle quality that distinguished her from all the rest of his victims.

That was how he thought of them. They were his victims, each and every one of them. He had never kept one as long as he wanted, but they were his victims just the same. He took things from them, things that could never be replaced, and many of them didn't even realize it until afterwards.

She didn't open him the first moment she knew he was there, like a lot of them had. She just kept him with all her other books, waiting until she had got home.

She also didn't realize that the diary was magical, as a lot of them had. When she first opened it and he had felt the warmth of light again, it was only to study the binding that was almost falling apart, the pages of parchment that were still rich and creamy.

As she reached for something on her desk, her arm knocked over the bottle of ink. The thick black liquid spilled onto the pages, then disappeared. She looked on, utterly amazed. When some of her surprise had passed, she had then gone on from there, first dotting ink on the page, then drawing shapes and letters, and finally writing a cautious "Hello?"

He had caught a glimpse of her when she had penned her first words to him. She was lying on her stomach on her bed, her legs kicking around gently in the air. Her chocolate brown eyes were brimming with curiosity, as her fingers carefully felt the pages again, almost as if to make sure they were real. Her bright red hair fell across her face and she brushed it aside impatiently. Her cheeks were lightly dusted with freckles, her lips slightly pouty. She still had traces of baby fat but looked almost shockingly skinny. Her clothes weren't in the best of shape - hand-me-downs, he guessed.

Ah, he thought from the depths of the pages. She looks about as young as the rest of them. Slightly older than some of them, maybe. How much more perfect could this get?

He wrote back to her, as polite as could be, answering all her questions, mostly to the best of his knowledge. His thoughts in the diary were abstract; he couldn't remember anything, just bits and snatches. She was easy to satisfy, not doubtful of him, she seemed to trust people until they gave her a reason not to. And maybe even then...

He sent her a glance of his memory, something about Hogwarts. She seemed delighted with such a bit of simple magic and wrote back saying that she was going there in September.

I guessed right then, he thought to himself. She's eleven or so, not yet experienced with magic and such, it should be easy work.

~

By the time she did go to Hogwarts, she was practically head over heels in love with him. He smiled at how easy it had been, just listening to all her petty problems, offering a piece of advice here and there, and he had her complete trust.

He convinced her to let him out. She had been uneasy about the idea at first, just like she had when he had suggested it to her before, but agreed nonetheless. He gave her the necessary instructions, and the next thing he knew, there was a blinding light and he was real again.

He remembered tasting her for the first time. Like with all his other victims, it had been in the form of a kiss. Her eyes fluttered closed as his lips met hers, as he drank her sweet nectar. She tasted of

[Cotton candy bubble gum strawberry ice cream honey]

innocence and naiveté with a sense of purity he had never experienced before. It reminded him of a sunny day, without any clouds to obstruct the light. There was the sharp tang of blood in the mixture; he knew it was from her nervous habit of chewing at her lip.

She looked years younger than she was right then. He was delirious with what he had taken, he wanted to dress her up in dolls' clothes, work her gorgeous red hair into braids and tie them with satin ribbons. Or maybe just let it loose like it was, tendrils of hair curling around the silky white of the sheets, the silky white of her nightgown, almost matching her porcelain skin. He watched her toes curl in pleasure, her arms rise up and then fall again, as if wanting to do something she was afraid to do. She looked so fragile, so vulnerable, so very breakable.

He took from her until he could take no more. She had fallen into something like a swoon, a sweet little smile lining her lips. He watched her for a moment, then left.

He wandered the halls in a drunken stupor. She had tasted almost sickeningly sweet, but oh so addicting. He wanted more, he needed more, and he was going to die if he didn't get it.

He stumbled over something and slid to the floor, his back against a wall. Sweat was pouring down his face from wanting her and he sat there, immobilized, until all his energy was gone and he dissolved again, into a ghost, into a memory.

~

He almost couldn't stand the solitude of being trapped in the diary after that. When he had experienced being able to feel and taste and touch and see the world so vividly, the loneliness was almost a hell. But still he waited, knowing that he had to be patient if he wanted more.

She was more than he could have ever dreamed of. She did as he told her, no matter what risk it took. She wasn't enthusiastic about it, and sometimes she didn't want to, but all it ever took was a bit of convincing. With her help, he managed to Petrify two students, a ghost, and a cat, convincing the school that the Chamber of Secrets was open once again and that the Heir of Slytherin was here to kill off the inferior ones.

She let him out a lot more than she let on, than anyone knew. She always waited into the dark depths of the night, when her roommates were sleeping deeply, unlikely to wake until morning.

And he drank. He took his fill and more, never knowing that anyone could taste so sweet, so good, so refreshing.

But something had changed. She was looking at him more warily now, and he could taste a difference in her. She was changing. Once, she had tasted luscious and rich and syrupy; it was thinner now, just as sweet but much more diluted. It as if he had somehow tainted her, corrupted her, taken away everything good and pure about her and replaced it with something wicked.

And he knew he had.

One day, he felt the words on his pages again, only to notice that he wasn't with her anymore. Someone else had gotten hold of him. And this person was male.

~

The male was different from her in many ways. For one thing, he was constantly around his friends, who called him Harry.

He supposed Harry was a name. The girl had had a name too, only he hadn't used it, she had told him while he was in the diary and when he was in the diary, his thoughts were jumbled and isolated and never stayed with him for long. He had called her 'sweetie' instead, because of how she tasted.

Harry was wary of him from the start. It was another way that he was different from the girl, though they were also very alike. They both seemed to long for something, something that he later learned was love.

Still, he had charm and charisma on his side, and soon, Harry trusted him almost as much as the girl had. Not the same amount, no one was as trusting as the girl had been, but close enough.

And one day, Harry let him out.

~

He felt the same burst of light, the same sudden feeling of being a solid being, and he knew Harry had done it. He smiled.

"Tom?" Harry asked.

Tom, he thought. Who is this Tom? Then he remembered that it was his name.

"Yes," he answered, savouring the feeling of words on his tongue. "And you're Harry."

He had never seen Harry before, like he had seen the girl. No pictures had come to his mind when Harry had written to him. Now, he noticed, the boy was flushed, his dark hair tousled, bright green eyes standing out from behind his glasses.

Why, he noticed, this Harry looks almost like me.

"Is something wrong?" he asked. He pushed Harry's hair back from his face, like he had done so many times with the girl's, noticing that his face was beaded with sweat. Using his long fingers, he combed through the tangled hair, his eyes on Harry's face as he was doing it.

Harry turned even redder.

He remembered tasting Harry too. The boy had protested at first, struggling slightly, but he had sunken into it once he felt the pressure of another pair of lips on his own, just like they all had. He had even done something the girl had dared not, wrapping his arms around the body above him.

Harry had been even more addicting. He tasted of

[Alcohol dark chocolate butterscotch coffee]

a sort of power and the deep bitterness of responsibility, yet there was still the sweetness of childhood within him. It was rich and velvety and didn't slide down easily like the girl's had, it drizzled and coated his throat. The boy definitely had his battles cut out for him. It was utterly intoxicating.

He got to drink from Harry twice more before he was stolen away again.

~

It was the girl. This time he remembered her name, Virgina, she had said it was, though she preferred to be called Ginny. She let him out the moment she had him safely in her hands, he could tell from her hurried expression and heavy breathing.

"Did you tell him anything?" she asked as soon as she saw him. "I can't believe you left me, I thought you liked me, you wouldn't believe how much trouble I went through to get it back, I had to sneak into his dorm and steal you from his trunk, and there were always people there so I had to leave and try again, I was so nervous the whole time, I thought for sure I'd be caught, tell me you didn't tell him anything."

He was confused for a moment as he unraveled her words, before he made the connection. The Harry boy he was just with was the same Harry that she had talked to him about, gushed about, obsessed about.

He burst out laughing and she glared sharply at him, not thinking that any of it was funny. "Is that what this is all about?" he asked. "You went through all that trouble to get me back because you were worried I would tell him something?"

"No," she confessed, refusing to look at him. He could see a flush beginning to creep on to her face. "The thing is, well, I've missed you Tom."

And then her arms were wrapped tightly around him and her face buried in his shirt. She was crying, he could feel the warm wetness of her tears through the thin fabric, and crying rather hard.

Unsure of what to do, he combed his fingers through her hair, partly because he loved to touch her hair, then lifted her face up to look at him. He touched his lips to her forehead, then both cheeks and finally her chin, catching some tears as he did. She shivered at his touch, he could feel the goose bumps rising from her skin, the slight movement that travelled through her body.

He had broken her. He knew he had. He had taken so much from her before that she should be been completely torn apart, yet she was still so glad to see him, so glad that he was by her side again.

He didn't understand it.

He didn't bother to try.

Instead, he focused on his main goal. He got her to do a bit more for him, then stole her down to the Chamber, making her leave a message for the ones who would surely try and rescue her.

She had protested, in a voice that was truly heartbreaking. He could still see the hope in her eyes, hope that this was all a joke, perhaps, or maybe just a bad dream that she could wake up from. Her lip was bleeding again, and he bent down and wiped it away with his finger. Absent-mindedly, he brought his finger to his mouth, sucking on it gently. Even her blood was sweet.

The whole scene was almost hauntingly beautiful. She was so skinny now, so listless, without the energy she had possessed before. She looked almost like a wraith, drifting between the worlds of the dead and the living. The shine was gone from her hair, her face, her whole body, and her eyes were the only things that still sparkled with the belief that he would save her.

Pathetic, he thought. She's been given all the proof she needs to see that I'm not the angel she thinks I am. So why does she still believe this?

It was almost a shame that he had to do this. He had grown rather attached to this girl, this girl who had risked so much just so she could have him back, even when he had done so much to hurt her, done so much that had hurt her. He could still see her lying on the bed as he circled around her, a shudder passing through her body as his breath met her face, squirming as he touched her in places no one could see, yet still wanting more.

Yes, he mused. She had been a rather delightful victim to have.

Still, he drank her dry, using her remaining strength to forge himself a body. He had come to far to give in to paltry pleas and puppy dog eyes.

Her rescuer was none other than Harry.

He was a bit surprised at this, he admitted, but terribly pleased just the same. When he had taken the rest of the girl's life, he had absorbed all his former memories and all that both her and Harry had told him from the diary. And he knew that Harry was indeed the infamous Harry Potter who had reduced his future self into not much more than a phantom of his former self. And for that, Harry would have to die.

It was a shame. He had rather liked Harry. Harry had been like no other, Harry had let him do things he hadn't done to any other of his victims. Harry was special, Harry who had tasted bitter yet sweet, who had been more addicting than any of them. Harry who had loved the roughness of it, loved the little games they played, loved the bruises that had been left on his body, though he refused to admit it.

Harry who was also ruthless. Harry almost didn't seem to care about what had happened between them. There was one moment when he first saw the girl lying on the floor, and his eyes searched the Chamber, an almost lost look of pain and betrayal in them, before they hardened with the resolve of what he knew he had to do.

The battle didn't go at all the way he had planned. He had planned to immobilize Harry and suck him dry, just like he had done to the girl. So he could get just one more taste.

However, Harry managed to kill his Basilisk with the help of the Sorting Hat and that stupid phoenix of Dumbledore's. And when he had tried to kill Harry, completely abandoning his original plan, Harry had driven a fang from his own Basilisk through his diary.

With a wail and shriek he had felt himself evaporate, dissolving from the body he had worked so hard to create. Harry was ecstatic. Harry thought he had died.

Harry was wrong.

After all, he was a memory.

And memories never die.