offer a smile - cigarette between your lips - i usually didn't get this close but now i can smell the nicotine - it makes me dizzy.

i don't know what my expression is - you don't either - i'm still hiding in the dark.

care to step out?

not really, but you sound like you want me and it makes me even dizzier - i know you don't.

i step out anyway.

you hum, smoke pluming and i want to cough but i don't and my eyes water.

miss berkley, correct?

why do you talk like that? you talk like the ink - it's strange.

and you're tom riddle.

everyone knows you, but not really.

i want to.

will you let me?

you're looking at me - i know the answer.

do i know you?

i know you did, we're in potions together. i know you don't pay attention to me, no one does. but you're tom riddle - it's your job to know who's who and where they are.

but i shake my head, not really.

my heart cringes, what sort of response is that?

but you blow more smoke and i want to cough, my chest is tight - burning - scraping - boiling - it hurts but you keep breathing into me.

you're still looking at me - you know something i don't.

of course you do. what is it? tell me. i need to know - let me read you.

it's awfully late for you to be in here.

i could say the same for you.

i'm head boy.

then give me a detention.

i smile - tugging and stretching and it itches - we both know you won't.

the next night i see you again and you see me.

we don't talk.

that's fine.

the moon hovers over my shoulder as i read to him.

your smoke makes me cough - getting closer each visit.

one night i look up from my pages and instead of a rock in the sky i see you.

your standing - peering down at me - it's very intimidating.

shadows lick your face and i can't read your expression but i see the ink your eyes and i find i'm not scared.

i should be but i'm not.

tom riddle something is wrong with you, isn't it? what did the ink reveal to you? sometimes it can be quite malicious. did you cave in?

you blink at me - startled - it's gone and i blink back.

what's your name?

i told you.

your first name.

you know it.

i don't.

i grin, liar.

you sit down across from me, leaned back and open - but not really. you're never open.

your features of marble were sharp and pristine - whoever sculpted you was clearly obsessed with perfection.

i don't lie.

there's another.

your cheek twitches - you're amused.

i sigh - reluctantly close my pages and i can already hear the ink calling for me again - if you didn't lie you wouldn't be real.

who said i am?

would you like me to make you bleed?

that seems excessive.

it leaves no room for doubt though, descartes for you.

i don't like descartes.

my brow arches, you know him?

vaguely.

you're lying again.

you grin - it's sharp and it stings - cutting into me when that's what i wanted to inflict upon you.

let me cut you open, tom. i want to see what's inside. is there anything at all? or are your organs stained with ink too?

you take out a cigarette, wetting it in your lips - i shrink back - i don't want to cough.

his attempt to prove god's existence is pathetic.

you don't believe in god?

i could tell you wanted to laugh but you don't.

do you?

not really.

you don't light it - it just hangs there - thank you.

you're welcome, diana.