Queen of Hollywood

You thought it would be different, this time. You thought it was just mild curiosity, and was flattered that she wanted to know everything about you, about Ron, about what Ron had done to you. After all, she was Ron's sister, and your friend, and it made sense for her to be concerned. You told yourself if was part of the healing process, getting it all out, to convince yourself that Ginny would not, and could not be like that. That in learning your weak spots, Ginny would know exactly how to prop them up.

You didn't notice, didn't want to notice the faint abstraction in her gaze when she saw you that night, the slight impression she gave of not being there; mostly because you couldn't bear to imagine she might be bored with you, or interested in something (someone) else. Because she was your salvation, your 'Anti-Ron'. Like the Anti-Christ but with wings instead of torment. An interesting use of imagery that you congratulated yourself on and analysed over and over later. So you never asked her where she went night after night, never pondered how it changed her. She became more adventurous, and part of you didn't mind that. More prone to experimentation, more prone to going further than the old Ginny seemed comfortable with; yet the innocence was gone and then so was some of the attraction. You'd loved Ginny because she was a saviour, pure and kind and innocent, and as that slowly departed, you stayed because she wasn't Ron.

And you didn't question her because you were frightened it would push her away, and really, what was innocence anyway? You'd lost yours how? Half bent over on the floor in Ron's bedroom, and you were the one doing all the work. As always. Hardly romantic, by any standard. Ginny could do a lot worse, you told yourself, so you hardened yourself to the gradual changes. Her physical contact become more brazen, more sure of herself. Her smiles stopped touching her eyes, and she seemed to look at everything with a hunger, and if you admitted that, you'd have to admit you were scared.

Have to admit that maybe Ginny was another Ron after all, and maybe it was your fault, for letting it happen. Maybe it was you who changed people, turned them bad.

Maybe you were the rotten apple, the snake in paradise. Complete with a disturbing fixation on Christian imagery, and you had no idea where that came from.

And then when she finally stopped going for her nightly 'walks', you finally drummed up the courage to ask why she wasn't going, and she smiled at you. That little girl smile, which seemed so wrong now, with those adult, mocking eyes. She replied, "I have everything I need, now."

Then she took you to bed and you fucked, and wasn't that a blast.

She did things you didn't even know were possible, and fuck, Ron probably didn't even know they were possible. She might have had the body of an innocent girl, but her hands and mouth were those of a whore, and even as you came, and lay there, and she nestled against you, happy, triumphant, you wondered exactly who she was, and where she'd been, on those dark lonely nights.

Now seemingly content with her confirmed prowess, her grades (which had been on a steady rise for a while) leaped, and she strode through the corridors of Hogwarts like a lioness on the prowl. Mid way through Sixth Year, and most of the teachers were a little bit leery of her. She even gave Dumbledore condescending smirks, and eyeballed Snape, as if he had committed a sin. She spend hours in the library, researching: mostly history, but she'd always make time for you.

For you and her to fuck, anyway, and when the War came, she did her best and her country proud, coming up with several new derivates based on herbology to stimulate our side or confuse enemy troops.

When Voldemort was finally killed, Ginny insisted on seeing the death-place, and spat on the ground. When you asked for an explanation, her answer puzzled you. "All that promise, come to nothing. He didn't deserve the legacy of Tom Riddle."

Then, shrugging off her maudlin mood, she asked you to marry her, and as you could think of nothing better to do, you said yes. Soon after the ceremony, you moved into a small apartment together just off Diagon Alley, and Ginny had quickly garnered a job with the Ministry, and was on the fast track to promotion. Some suggested she'd be a potential Minister; some suggested she'd be ruling half the world by thirty-five, at her rate. She, as always, laughed it off, and simply claimed she was efficient. Nothing more, nothing less.

You remembered that Ginny had never been efficient, not at first. But she'd changed, so maybe you'd never known her well. Your own verve and fire was gone: most of the days seemed grey, and you seemed grey as well, as if drained. Incomplete. Lacking. But you shuffled about the house, and did your best to be a good housewife, and didn't complain when the sex got more brutal than you'd like, and when Ginny didn't come home.

That was a year ago.

Now, you are lying on the floor, the harsh weave of the carpet against your skin. You thought it would be healing, telling her all your secrets? Perhaps, until she started to use them against you. Until she broke you emotionally, and then started to break you physically, as well. Your skin is a mess of bruises, and you can feel the parched, scabbed skin on your lips. Your left eye is nearly swollen shut, and the very process of dragging yourself across the carpet almost makes you scream, because some of your fingernails have been torn out of late, and the flesh is black and gangrenous. You want to reach the fireplace, to firetalk to someone, anyone, to make them hear. To make them see what she's done to you, and tell you it wasn't your fault.

To say that no-one could have seen the young, carefree girl end up like this, and to absolve you for not mourning her properly when she was swept up by the thing she'd become.

But part of you doesn't want to be absolved, because you still stayed, even though everything you loved about Ginny was gone.

You know who she is now. You just know. You don't understand the how or the why, but you know that Tom has gotten inside her again. Or maybe he never left. There's no proof, and that very fact goes against everything you used to believe in, but you're not quite the person you were a few years ago. Educated guesses, and the kind of certainty one feels in one's bones are a lot more likely nowadays than conclusions gained and tested by reading Hogwarts: A History.

Besides, you caught Ginny burning your copy one day in the fire.

She's got all his powers now, presumably, and all his secrets. You almost cry when you hear the key turning in the lock, and lie limp on the carpet, hoping you won't be noticed, thought unconscious, non-threatening. Ginny enters, and sets down her handbag, surveying the sprawled mess on the floor. With a broad smile you can feel without seeing, she walks over to you, and prods you gently with a foot. You start shivering cause you can't help yourself, cause she's here, and she knows, and she's going to have some fun.

And Ginny kicks you hard, with one steel capped boot, and smiles further when she hears ribs break, and you force out a groan through parched and bruised lips. "Hey, Hermione, I'm home," she coos, and you curse yourself most of all for telling her that. You are nothing to her, of course. Perhaps you never were, even when she was Ginny, so she steps over you, into the kitchen. "What's for dinner?"