"But its all relative,
even if you don’t understand.
Well its all understood,
especially when you don’t understand.
Well it's all just because,
even if we don’t understand.
Let’s all just believe."
-Jack Johnson

It was dark for the longest time.

Not that his former world wasn't, but this was a different kind of darkness. He floated inexorably trapped between one world and the next, in this dimensional form of purgatory.

Nothing accompanied him, here- no light, no one, not even a molecule of air shared this world with him. He didn't mind sharing.

On days when he could think clearly- when something unseen and unheard allowed him to grasp this world- he wondered how it was that he could be here. How it was that he couldn't breathe, but still live; couldn't function, but still think; couldn't feel, and yet felt everything that was lonely and wrong about this place.

He didn't do much except for wondering nowadays, and even that ability wasn't granted to him often. Most of the time the world was hazy, like a dream that didn't seem to exist until he could wake up and think back to it. Most of the time he didn't wake up. Most of the time it was as if this place never existed.

All his senses were stripped from him, and it seemed a justified punishment for past ocurrences. He didn't know if he was meant to be punished this way, or if anyone else knew what his punishment was. Maybe they would be glad to see him like this. If it could grant her a smile, then so be it.

He was dead on the surface. Inside, his mind still raced and dreamt; his heart still beat and wrenched in an awful pain whenever he thought about the events that had sent him here; his eyes still saw the neverending darkness that wrapped itself around him, coiled around his body like a snake, hugged every corner and nook and then choked and ate away at him until he wished he really could die.

It was dark, and cold, and lonely for the longest time.

Until, one day, someone came along and freed him.

--

Ginny thought of him every now and then.

It felt like blasphemy the first time she did it, the first time she thought about him after the incident in the Chamber. She wasn't supposed to think leisurely about someone who had decieved her so easily.

But time had passed, and the extent of his wrongdoings didn't seem so wrong. So she thought of him, not in the same way she though of him four years ago, but in the way one might think of an old aquantaince- a memory.

She was thinking about him now as Snape asked some question likely relative to the lecture she wasn't listening to; the Gryffindor fifth year Prefect, Sebastian Seicraft, raised his hand for the fifth time since class started.

Snape sighed wearily, ignoring the young Prefect's hand. "Does anyone know anything about Potions?"

Sebastian waved his arm frantically in the air as thought it weren't completely obvious Snape was ignoring him. When no one else responded and Snape returned to his lecture, he lowered his arm in disappointment and sat attentively, waiting for the next question.

Tom was a lot like Sebastian. He was a Prefect in his day, too, and knew a great deal more than anyone, even going as far to annoy some of his teachers with his overextensive knowlege. Tom, she remembered, never seemed to tire of learning everything there was about magic, and every time she'd asked for his help on a potion or a spell he would explain it far more extensively than her teachers ever would.

The thought of Tom was brief. When Ginny bent her head to take notes it left her, as though it never even existed at all.

--

"Who are you?"

"...I don't remember."

"Why have you come back?"

"I wish I knew."

"Are you still the way you were before?"

"Who was I before?"

"Do you remember anything?"

"I remember darkness. Coldness. Lonliness. And whenever I tried to close my eyes, there was always you."

"Do you remember who I am?"

"No, I don't."

"Do you recognize me at all?"

"No, I don't."

"Good. Very, very good. I think you are ready."

--

It should have made her a recluse.

It should have caused her to curl up into a ball and open up only when strong hands pried her open. It should have made her stronger, more aware, more unwilling.

But it only made her desperate.

Her experience with Tom made her want another "Tom" all the more. Not the type of Tom that had been with her in the chamber, nor the one possessing her, forcing her to do all those terrible things. The Tom in the beginning. The charming Tom. The Tom who had built up the trust, feigned kindness, filled her with that warm sense of having worth- having purpose.

She hadn't found another "charming Tom", but she sure had found enough of the others. Her Tom that possessed her came in the form of a third year who had talked to her for a week straight and then ignored her everyday thereafter. Ginny was strong enough to cry and move on, but not strong enough to avoid making the same mistake twice. Next was another third year, a Slytherin. He kissed her and touched her for a night, and the next day he was already advancing on another girl. She didn't scream or throw things at him like she'd wanted to. She just smiled, nodded, and left him.

No matter how many boyfriends she'd had, none of them were "her Tom". It took her until her fifth year to finally realize that the only one who could fill those shoes was Tom himself.

She should have given up altogether.

But the idea of having, for just a moment, what she had with Tom four years ago kept her trying. And one day, finally, she finally met a boy who fit the criteria.

She finally met her Tom.

--

It had to be winter. Thick snow piled heavily onto the ground, so much that it resembled a sea of snowflakes, a gathering of waves frozen in place and time, like a picture. More snow would drift to the ground; the picture, slowly, would change, but now instead of a picture it was a snowglobe being shaken, awed at, and shaken again.

He sat cross-legged on a bench outside one of the towers, wearing the same clothes he'd worn the day that his memory was disposed of. His arms shivered and he could see some of the more prominent veins in his wrist turning a rather pretty shade of purple. His skin almost matched the color of snow, and had he not been wearing the dark Slytherin colors and black cloak he was sure he'd be almost invisible against the contrast of the vast white backdrop. Anyone who might have been watching him would have thought he was crazy to be out here like this, in nothing but a thin cloak and regular clothes.

He thought it was wonderful.

He didn't know how long he had been in the dark prison, but it was almost long enough for him to forget what it meant to feel. He was freezing, but he was feeling. He could feel some of the ice melt in reaction to his slightly warmer skin; feel his blood slow down and feel the cold take him over. He knew that if he stayed out here any longer he might cease to feel any more, but right now he was enjoying himself too much to even consider going inside.

He shifted his position on the bench, pulled his legs closer to himself so that they would find shelter under the cloak, and then went back to staring out into the white lonliness. He was told that she would be here, soon; he didn't know how, and wasn't sure if he could even trust his source, but nevertheless waited with the devotion and dedication of a family pet.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a small object soar out of a nearby open window- just why it was open eluded even his brillaint mind- and land softly in the snow. Tom slowly stretched out his legs and stood, realizing just now how close he was to frostbite; he made his way over to the dark spot in the snow and then slowly picked it up. It looked familiar, seemed familiar: leather bound, brownish gold pages, a worn out inscription on the back. He stared at it for a long while before someone yelled loudly, "Hey!" and broke his train of thought.

It was the red-haired girl.

She trudged over to him gracefully over the snow as though she were walking on water- which she was, in a way. Her cloak, much thicker than his, billowed in the storm but held fastened over her shoulders. Her face was straight and dashed with freckles; she was still very plain. Dark brown eyes, so brown they were almost black, focused on his. He tried to stare back, harder, but her eyes never wavered; never broke the stare. When she finally reached him, she held out her hands expectantly.

"I believe you have something of mine."

He glanced down at the book he was holding and, reluctantly, handed it to her, briefly brushing his cold, skeleton-like hand over her warm, vibrant own. "I'm sorry. I was under the impression that, since it fell out of the sky, it had to be a gift from above."

She cracked a smile, a small one, which sent a chill up his spine and a feeling that he could not place. She frowned again; he relaxed. "Why are you out here? Your hands are freezing. You might catch pneumonia and die."

He peered at her and shrugged, brushing a hand through his hair. "It's nice out here. There's so much you can feel just by standing in a snowstorm."

"Yes. Like, feeling your toes freeze over, or feeling your heart stop," she muttered derisively. The sarcasm caught him off guard; it was something he did not expect. Nor did he expect her next gesture: quickly, almost stealthily she slipped her hand into his and led him inside.

The rush of warmth was something so unexpected, so pleasing to him that he had dropped her hand and stopped in order to take it all in. All the wonderful feeling of the freezing cold was now being counteracted with the wonderful feeling of a burning warmth. They were in a hallway, now, surrounded by an endless hallway of flaming lamps. It was much brighter, and he could see her features more clearly, now, in the new light.

She stopped to stare at him as he brushed the snow off his shoulders and cloak. He was well aware that she was studying his movements, his face, even the outline of his body. He shifted his leg uncomfortably and pretended not to notice, and couldn't help but glance up at her every now and then.

"Are you a student here?" she whispered quietly.

He nodded toward the insignia on his cloak. "Wouldn't have this if I wasn't."

"Yours is different from mine."

He glanced at her cloak; he noticed that, while his bore a detailed and aesthetic 'H', hers was directed towards the specific house she was in- Gryffindor. "Why, it certainly is." He suddenly felt uncomfortable, and, having nothing else to say, decided to do some exploring. "Now, if you'll excuse me..." he brushed past her with smooth arrogance. "I need to go see Professor Dumbledore."

She didn't move to stop him, but he noticed that she shivered slightly as their shoulders touched. She stared at him as he walked away down the hallway- he felt her eyes boring into his back- and whispered, just audible enough for him to hear, "Professor Dumbledore?"

--

Ice stared into ice; fire, into fire. He was holding the black book out just within her reach, but she was sure if she tried to grab it it would rip and tear. He sneered, jeeringly, "So, you recognize it?"

"Of course I do." Her lip trembled, but she bit it to keep from cursing muggle explicatives at his cool, presumtuous face. "If I'm not mistaken, it was just in my room a day or two ago."

"Ah, yes," Malfoy drew the book up to his chest and brushed his fingers through the precious papers. She stood, waiting, anxiously holding herself back from taking the book from him; afraid that, if she did, one of the cherished papers would be ruined. "Such a silly little thing, isn't it? Dull and blank. Useless, really."

She held her head up. She didn't need to tell him why she had recreated the diary from scratch, from memory. She wanted a diary to write in again; no matter that none of the pages would ever answer her back, no matter that it was nothing more than just a representation for something much more. All that she wanted was something to pour her soul out to, something that wouldn't manipulate or hurt her like the last time.

"Of course it isn't really blank, is it?" he grinned. "What kind of invisibility charm did you put on this thing? I tried every revealer spell I could to see what sort of dark secrets little Ginny Weasel held in here, but nothing worked."

"Just give it to me, Malfoy. It obviously means nothing to you," Ginny hissed, stepping forward.

He shrugged, and then pushed open a nearby window. She froze in stricken horror as the wild storm blew in icy tufts of snow, all over the precious diary. "Of course it doesn't. It's not real. Tell me, something, Ginny. Why do you hold on so fast to falsehoods?"

She didn't take her eyes off the diary, even as she spoke to him. "Because I don't have truth anymore... I've never had it."

"Now, now, that isn't true."

"You don't know anything about me," she took her eyes off the book for only a moment to give him a cold-hearted, fiery stare. "Don't act like you do."

He smiled and released his grip on the book. "Your so-called "truth" is closer than you think."

"NO!" she screamed. She spun around and raced down the steps in a vain attempt to reach the book before it was lost within the endless expanse of white; or, before the pages were ruined by the damp cold. She found the book.

She found something else as well.

--

"Pretty, isn't she?"

"I had no idea."

"I always thought she was rather plain myself, but you thought otherwise."

"So what if I have a thing for freckles and red hair?"

"You conversation didn't last very long. Clocked at hardly even five minutes."

"Didn't have much to say."

"Seemed that she had more than enough."

"She's... different. Much different than what I expected."

"People change."

Tom's eyes lowered. "No. I never do."

Tom smiled thinly. "Yes. Yes, even you."

"Everyone knows what went down,
because the news was spread all over town.
And fact is only what you believe.
And fact and fiction work as a team.
Its almost always fiction in the end.
The content begins to bend.
When context is never the same."

End.