shelves breathe me in and i sink into a chair, the hard wood soft as it shapes to my spine.

i must read.

i don't know how to live if i don't.

every night i make the journey from the dungeons to the library - i hate the cold.

i despise it.

why couldn't they have made the snakes pit heated? warming our scales so we can coil in comfort?

did they forget serpents are cold blooded?

we won't burn - we never will.

i hate the cold - so i find refuge in the warm candles of the library.

i must read.

not during the day - not in the harsh light of the sun. i know i say i hate cold but i don't like the sun either.

it doesn't make sense - i like it that way.

so i make my nightly commune - i sit up late - by back always hurts - but i like to keep the moon company.

he's so lonely.

i must inquire what the pages tell me, they whisper their words in lines of black ink - staining my mind and i love it.

i'll read anything, truly.

i've never hated a book - if one does not satisfy me, i find another - if i hate the ending, i take a new one - if the message is poor, a another title it is.

even if i don't understand what the ink is trying to tell me, i listen and watch and let the ink stain me.

there's a breath - hot - heavy - distant - somewhere else in the shelves.

i stiffen but then hear the snap of a match - i know its you.

usually i don't like people in my library - yes, mine - it may reside in hogwarts and it might be open to all - but it's mine.

you're alright though, i suppose.

you're quiet and you appreciate and you let the ink stain you too, i can tell.

i don't think you ever see me, that's alright - i don't want you to talk to me anyhow.

you're a book i have yet to read, the pages filled with riddle's i probably won't ever grasp.

when i watch you read - study - smoke - write - stretch - read - exhale - you never yawn - study - i can tell when you pour over the pages, the world's axis tips and reality is different for you.

i can tell.

you don't see the world like anyone else - not even me, i suppose.

i see the world in white slates and black lines.

you're calm - still - as i watch you.

a new habit of mine, i like watching your conviction.

smoke - read - write - smoke - stretch - you turn.

i stare, dumbly might i add like a child caught on christmas.

curiosity and amusement tilts your brow and you lean back in your seat, trying to see into my shadows.

hello?

should i reply?

we've been acquainted strangers for awhile now.

i know the idea of you - tom riddle, head boy, mr perfect - but not you - do i want to?

we've muttered quick and forgetful greetings over the years - perhaps a few silent sorry's if we happened to bump into each other in the hall - even perhaps a thank you or two at one of slughorn's dinners.

i stare a bit longer - gazing - my eyes burn - i see ink in yours.

yes, i want to know you.

hi.