AN: Don't hurt me. I get it- I'm not very good. But nonetheless I promised my friend a fanfiction and here it is.. this is for you Kate. I'm sorry. You weren't expecting something so screwed, were you? Sorry to anyone else who reads it as well. It makes NO sense. Even I admit that.

Disclaimer: They belong to J.K. Rowling, blah blah. Now stop reading this dumb disclaimer and read the story.

"You mean nothing to me..

"No.."

Pale, bony hands running down my cheek, small shocks generating. It is an unfamiliar feeling and not warm at all.. it' so uncertain. So unsure.

Your nails scratch me, they are so long.. long.. scarring me..

You try but your fingers aren't soft and satin like so often they are expected to be.. I won't lie to you.. I respect you too much to that. To lie is to assume that the opposition can't handle whatever excuse you make and I dare not insult you that way. You turned eleven years old and on the inside you bleed with the maturity of an adult.

I chose you.. you were special

"I don't love you.."

"You don't mean it."

Fingers creeping closer towards my abdomen, trickling in rhythm with your pulse. You pray I can't hear your heart rapidly beating but I do.. it's my bitter lullaby.

Your touch is so frigid, so cold.. cold.. my comfort..

You pacify me to a level where I could almost fall into a deep sleep but every time I close my eyes your trembling hands awake me again. Such a naive girl on the outside. You are surely mature but have so much to learn before I can admit you a woman.. my woman. Your hand suddenly jerks, leaving a lengthy scratch above my waist but you continue still. You try to prove that you can be who I want you to be.

I had told you my list of demands.. foolishly you abided

"This doesn't change a thing.."

"It changes everything I've ever known."

Nervous eyes are immersed in mine, begging me to deliver praise. I disconnect her by closing my eyes.. shutting off her circuit and now she is surely unleashing sobs inside that innocent, brave mind she has.

Your eyes scare me, they are so solemn.. solemn.. changing me.

You refuse to let out a single word, resuming to your previous task, and now have lodged your fingers strictly below my outer thigh. My head rests numbly on the uncomfortable, chamber floor and perhaps that is why I take such a liking to it. I dare to open my eyes and find yours watering up with tears but you don't let out a single drop. More than just her arms are shaking now and you can tell by just glancing at her for a second.. she's terrified.

I never fell in love with you.. I just experienced undescribable lust.

You don't mean a thing.. you've never meant a thing.. I don't love you.. silly girl.. I never loved you.. stop crying.. don't you dare cry.. tears are a sign of weakness.. you are weak.. you are worthless.. you are nothing but a pawn in my game.. stop crying..

You can't expect me to believe that.. you told me yourself.. you have changed our lives.. let me stay with you.. don't make me go back.. I'm so unwanted.. I'm so unneeded.. I can't be Ginny Weasley anymore, Tom.. I can't.. let me be yours.. please, let me stay yours..

She talked to the journal, and I listened. I provided sympathy, words, and love.. she need compassion and I was willing to give it to her.. I remember when I told her I loved her.. that we would meet.. that we would run away together.. she believed me. She needed me.

I need her.

An eleven year old girl, trailing now down my ankles with narrow fingers finally unable to hold her tears anymore, looks up at me, her salty tears streaking down her face. She slowly reaches the end of my form and gets up, knowing this will be the end.

Knowing that what we had was no more than a journal entry. No more than a kiss. No more than loving words.. caring words.. hateful words.

Now the bloody Potter boy will save her from this supposed death.. this torture and madness.. and I let him. I let him play the hero- because it hurts her. It hurts her to leave this chamber.. to leave me. I am apparently her soul mate.. her lover.

"You are everything to me, Tom." she says drowsily, once again curled up at the bottom of my feet. I look down at her. What is this strange thing I feel? Lust? Love?

It didn't matter.

"Obliviate."

For I am no more than an illusion that she made up to make herself perfect