Read the Diary (evilremmy) wrote in stagesoflove,
Read the Diary

No. 4 Depression - Harry Potter: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle

Title: An End to Depression?
Author: Evilremmy
Pairing: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Rating: R
Theme: Five Stages of Grief: No. 4 Depression
Notes: Has had several endings...but I'll settle with this one, because then we can go out with a bang.

As he lies there, Harry is aware of the darkness closing in around him. There is no point in fighting it now. He has lost everything to Riddle. He shivers in the cold air, wrapping his arms around his naked body. Riddle had gone; left him with nothing buy his misery. He is too tired and unhappy to even burrow under the blankets and get warm.

The night is long. When the day comes, with drizzle and howling wind, it is only a reminder of the emotions inside of him. Harry looks out into the grounds of Hogwarts, watching the rain fall hard, letting the dribble from the roof above him splatter down on the top of his head; icy cold. Occasionally he sees people below, and he screams out, but nobody ever hears him. Riddle doesn’t come that day; and Harry moves from the window only to relieve himself, and then curls up inside the blankets upon the bed, shivering fitfully.

The next evening is when Riddle arrives; he comes with a bag of food, but he doesn’t let Harry eat until he’s devoured him first. Harry’s discomfort brings a sneer to his features; and his eyes flash dangerously; threatening pain worse than death if Harry dares to resist. So Harry lies back and takes it – and for an hour after Riddle has left he swallows only tears. Why desire to live for this purpose?

Eventually, hunger pains take over, and he gives in, eating the food from the bag, and washing it down with tap water scooped up in his hands. It is a vile mixture of chicken scraps, toast and pumpkin pie, but the food gives him strength. When he’s done eating, he explores the room and seeks a way out. He pokes at cracks in the doors, climbs up into the rafters and peels back floorboards. But there is no escape. He cries himself to sleep all over again; half wrapped around the pillow, with the sheets and blankets twisted wildly around his limbs.

In the morning a feather drifts in through the window. He whittles it down and using his blood as ink, begins to tell a slow tale of his imprisonment on the floorboards under the bed; so that if he is forgotten, and dies here, the dead boy's remains will be recognised, and properly buried.
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