Drowning

From the time that Ginny Weasley was eleven years old to fifteen years old, she had not been afraid of drowning. Then again, she never really had been particularly afraid of it; she was more afraid of splinching herself when she learned to apparate when she got older. But during those years, she had not been afraid of drowning at all -- she had wished for it.

If she had to die in any way other than old age, that was the way she wanted it to be.

The pressure on her body, the air trapped in her throat, the dark blue color surrounding and consuming her.... Yes. That was the way she wanted it to be.

The last time she had been afraid of water had been just before her first year began, as the small boats containing a number of first years had started floating daringly across the lake. She could remember silently praying that she would not get thrown into the lake and get eaten by the giant squid. But after that year, everything had changed.

All she had left were memories. Memories of what had been everything to her. Memories of her deepest darkest secrets. Memories that she so desperately wanted to relive, but was unable to. So she got as close as she could possibly get.

She could remember when she had just turned twelve, and Ron had asked her to squish a spider that had been crawling around in his room. She had flopped a rag over the tiny insect and crumpled the entire thing up while Ron had sat on the bed, watching her.

"What are you most afraid of?" he had asked. Ginny had tossed the rag containing the dead spider out into the hall and had sat next to him.

"What do you mean?" Ron stared at the floor with a blank face.

"What frightens you the most? Your greatest fear?" Ginny had looked at Ron, and as he looked back at her he immediately looked resentful. "Aw, Gin, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. I didn't mean to... to remind you of anything, I was just thinking of that spider, and I - it was a stupid question-"

"No," she had said, taking his hand in hers. "No, it's fine. It's not a stupid question at all." Ron relaxed and she rested her head on his shoulder. She couldn't be sure of how long she had sat there on Ron's bright orange bed with a pensive expression on her face. She only knew it was a long time.

"Change," she had finally said. Ron had jumped. She figured he must have been daydreaming, but she did not care. He pulled away from her and looked at her with quizzically.

"Change? That's it? I mean, after last year, you're not afraid of You-Know-Who, or death, or even heights or drowning-" Ginny interrupted rather loudly at that.

"No," she said, startling Ron into silence. And then quieter, "No, not drowning. Just change." She had then looked up at her brother. He was watching her with something close to awe.

"After last year..." he mumbled. "Gin, that's great." She was completely bemused, and looked at Ron in such a manner that suggested so. "No, I really mean it!" he said. "You got over what happened last year so fast... I'm proud of you, Gin." He gathered her up in a tight embrace. "Really proud. You're braver than a lot of people I know. That's great," he repeated.

But as he held her there, she had wondered if it really was.

After she had gone back to her room she sat on her bed, holding a tiny book. She stroked it fondly, and simply stared at the cover. When her mother had knocked on the door telling her it was time for bed, she had put the book gently back under her dresser and had turned out the lights.

That night she had dreamt that her breath was trapped in her throat, that her chest was being pushed upon by an enormous weight, and surrounding her was a beautiful, deep blue.

The next morning when she woke up, she cried into her pillow.

When she was just a few months away from being thirteen, her family had gone on a trip to Egypt to visit her oldest brother, Bill. They rented a room in a beautiful hotel. It was run by wizards, and was the same building that Bill lived in. In it was an enormous swimming pool, which was there to keep the tourists happy. They spent their Sundays there, when there was nothing to do but sit and relax.

Ginny had decided to see what it was like to be deep under the water. She swam over to a deeper area, and sank to the bottom.

She sank until her feet brushed the floor, and the bodies of other swimmers were high above her. She watched as the air was forced from her chest in tiny bubbles. They swirled quickly to the surface, causing it to ripple and make odd shadows crawl over the bottom of the pool.

Her hair swirled around her face, and for a moment all she could see was black. But it did not matter. The pressure on her body was uncomfortably right and her breath was caught in her throat, but the shade of blue was too light, and she was cold.

Suddenly, she felt warm arms wrap around her middle begin to lift her. She did not struggle, but she did not kick either. Her chest was gradually lightening -- the weight of the water was being taken away with every stroke that carried her closer to the surface. The world became brighter, and then she felt her head break the surface of the water.

She gasped in the moist air as she was pulled to the edge of the pool. She was pushed up against the wall, and she saw Bill looking at her, panicked.

"Ginny! Ginny, are you alright?" He pushed her hair hurriedly out of her face. "Are you okay? What were you doing, I thought you'd drowned, I-"

"I'm fine, Bill!" He looked doubtfully at her while getting his breath back. "I'm fine, really." Then he took a deep breath and sighed. She put her arms around him and hugged him tightly. "I'm almost thirteen now, remember?" Bill chuckled humorlessly and somewhat breathlessly.

"I keep forgetting," he said resentfully. "I'm so used to my little baby sister being a baby, that I forget you're growing up." He pulled away from her and smiled sadly. "I just don't want anything to happen to you."

"I know."

"I love you, Gin."

"I love you too." Ginny hugged him again, and then got out of the pool. She wrapped herself in a towel and as she walked out the doors, she thought about what he had said.

But something already had happened to her. What could he do about that now?

When she got to their room, she sat on the floor and pulled out the small black book from a compartment in her suitcase. She did not hug it, for fear of getting it wet, so she kissed the dull cover. She paused, and then dug out a quill and ink from her suitcase as well. She opened the ink bottle and dabbed the small quill in. Her hand was shaking.

She opened the book to the first page. She stuck a finger through the large hole in the cover, and then ran her fingers over the gaping hole in the middle of the book. She took up the quill again and wrote around it.

The ink stayed. She wrote once more right beneath it.

There was no answer, and the ink still did not seep into the paper, like it was supposed to. She waited for a full minute before standing up abruptly and throwing the book against the wall, yelling out in agony and frustration. She collapsed on the floor and sobbed.

A short while later, she had put the book back into her suitcase.

When she was fifteen, she had been dared by some of her friends to jump in the lake on the Hogwarts grounds. It had been during October, and the water was an icy cold. They insured that they would be right there when she got out, and would dry her off immediately. What's there for me to lose? she had thought to herself as she stood on the frozen bank.

She had jumped in.

The coldness of the water hit her like a strong blow to the stomach -- it knocked all the breath out of her and large air bubbles escaped from her open mouth. The dirty lake water swirled in, and she choked. She closed her mouth, the water still inside since she was unable to swallow, and began to thrash wildly. She had foolishly left her robes on, and they were weighing her down. She watched helplessly as the light of day got farther and farther away.

After a few more moments she stopped moving, and began to sink slowly but steadily into the icy depths. Her chest was beginning to ache, and she felt dizzy. I'm going to die, she thought. It gave her a sort of calm feeling. I'm going to drown, just like I wanted. Her chest began to contract, trying valiantly to get air into its deprived lungs. I didn't know it would be so painful.

She looked around her, for what she figured would be the last time, and watched the sun glint off of the top of the water.

The water was too green.

This fact sent her into a wild state of panic. No, she thought desperately, this isn't the way I want to die! It's all wrong! It's not what I wanted, it's not what I thought it would be like!

She began to thrash again, but the pangs in her chest became so painful and forceful that she opened her mouth involuntarily and water rushed in. She choked and spluttered, but more and more water poured down her throat, burning it and freezing it at the same time.

She blacked out.

She had woken up in a brightly lit room shivering. Numerous faces were bending over her, their expressions anxious and fearful. She coughed and everyone seemed to sigh in relief simultaneously. She noticed that she was in a bed with white sheets, and there was a tray with an assortment of potions next to it. She was in the hospital wing. She glanced around, not quite sure how she had gotten there, or even why she was there.

"Oh, Ginny," said her friend Orla, her face tear-stained. "We thought you drowned. We were so worried!" Her voice was small and timid, and full of guilt.

Suddenly, the door burst open and her brother stomped in, followed by Hermione and Harry. They all looked desperately worried.

Ron ran over to her side, and she saw his face turn from distraught to relieved. He sat on a chair that was placed next to her bed and took her hand gently in his own. His hand was so warm.

"Gin," he said quietly. "Are you okay?" She nodded. "God, Gin, I was so worried! When I'd heard that you fell into the lake... I didn't know what to do." Ginny watched him silently for a moment, and then bolted up, gasping loudly. Her mind flooded with the memories of what she thought would be her last moments, and she sobbed. Ron quickly sat on the bed and held her to him, rubbing her back gently and whispering into her ear.

The water, so icy cold.

Too dirty, burning her throat.

The color, much too green.

The pain.

She sobbed into his shoulder loudly. "I thought I was going to die," she said in a strangled voice. "I didn't want to die like that, it wasn't right. I didn't want to drown, I don't want to drown, not ever, not ever." Ron shushed her and ran his hands through her hair.

"Shh, you're just not feeling well. I'm right here. You're not going to drown. I'm right here."

She continued to cry for a good few minutes, and then she hiccoughed lightly when she was done. She was shaking, and Ron pulled the sheets more tightly around her. She rested against the pillow and looked at the others, who had been standing there awkwardly during the sentimental moment. Orla spoke quietly again.

"We're so glad you're okay," she said. "When you -- you didn't come up right away, we'd thought... and when we saw you rise out of the water, it was just..." She stopped and tears streamed down her face. She seemed unable to speak.

She'd looked at Hermione, who also had tears flowing freely down her face. She walked briskly over to the bed and sat down next to her, opposite of Ron. She pushed some stray strands of hair out of her face and spoke in a voice that was clearly trying to be calm.

"The Giant Squid pushed you out of the lake, Ginny." More tears traveled down her face, but her expression was comforting, as a doctor's is to a patient. "It's the most amazing thing, it really is. That's why you're here right now." She paused, gave her a watery smile, and then closed her eyes tightly. "Oh, I'm so glad you're safe!" she said, her voice breaking, and she wrapped her arms around her.

Harry walked over at that point. His eyes were dry as he sat down behind Hermione and took her hand, his thumb brushing over the back of it in a soothing manner. His face was exceptionally pale, she noticed.

"We're all glad," he said. She felt her eyes brim with tears again.

Her best friends, the ones she loved most, were all sitting around her. All she should ever need.

But it wasn't enough.

When she was allowed out of the hospital wing the next day, she went straight to her dormitory and pulled out the small book from her trunk. No matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried, it just wasn't the same. It wasn't the same at all.

She smiled sadly at the book and put it back right away.

She had her memories, and that would have to do.

Now, at sixteen, she sat on her bed and stroked the small book in her hand once more. Ever since that day she almost drowned, she would take out the small book at night and caress the cover. She no longer wrote in it, hoping for an answer. She no longer opened it to stare at the blank pages. She simply sat with it in her lap, as she would fall into her memories.

The feeling that she was being crushed, that the life was being forced out of her.

Her breath being stuck in her throat, as though she was choking on the very air. How she had dared not to breathe, not to even move.

And the dark blue color, the beautiful blue that entranced her, frightened her, made her never want look away.

The feeling of being ruled over, dominated.

She missed it.

She wanted it.

She needed it.

She rested on the wall behind her bed and closed her eyes for a moment, only a moment.

She ran her fingers delicately over the over the bent corners and over the ink-stained hole that pierced the entire book all the way through to the back. She opened the book to the front page as she had not done in years. There was the writing that she had scribbled in it when she was twelve. She flipped slowly to the second page. The black ink she had used had seeped through the first page and onto the second. A wave of emotion rushed over her.

She shut the book with a snap and hugged it to her tightly. She screwed up her face against the wail of misery that had been building up ever since she had been woken up by Harry in the Chamber of Secrets.

Hot tears dripped out of the corners of her tightly shut eyes and traveled down her face, gathering underneath her chin. She began to shake as more tears leaked out and fell from her face. They fell onto the book.

They rolled down the cover, using cracks in the leather as guides until it reached the hole in the middle.

As the ink and tears mixed, it sizzled.

The ink began to bubble, as if it were boiling hot, and it dripped down and made a small puddle on Ginny's arm, causing her to drop it in surprised. She watched, unable to move, as ink started flowing from the small book, overflowing onto the floor.

She jumped as the cover flew open of its own accord and gasped as a small droplet of boiling ink landed on her face. It burned.

Then, the book was still. It stopped sizzling and bubbling. The ink that had surrounded the hole, that had stained the cover, was gone. She bent over the small book on her hands and knees, her hair hanging around her head and barely brushing the paper. The words she had clumsily written when she was twelve sank into the paper.

Below the hole new words began to form, in the beautiful flowing script that she had once loved to see.

The words formed slowly but surely, and she scarcely dared to believe her eyes.

Ginny let out a strangled sob as she watched the words form and disappear. More tears dripped onto the pages, and they, too, sunk in like ink.

But she did cry. She could not stop. Was she going crazy, or was this really happening? How could it be happening? Why was it happening? Why did it matter?

Ginny scrambled to find her quill and ink. They were resting on her dresser, and she almost spilled the ink well in her distressed state. She placed it on the floor and dipped the quill in hurriedly.

The writing was messy, and splotches of ink littered the page, along with more tears. They sank in, leaving the paper as blank as ever. The response came agonizingly slowly.

At this, a bright light shone from the small book, and Ginny felt herself plunge forward into it. It all seemed so familiar, and yet so distant.

She landed on a cold, damp floor. It was dark, just as she remembered. Just a simple room. No doors. No windows. Just four walls, a ceiling, and a floor.

"Ginny," said a deep voice from the corner. She gasped and sat up, her eyes red and puffy from crying. There he was, standing in the corner, as he would do every time she went there.

"Tom," she breathed, and then started sobbing again.

"Yes, I'm here Ginny. I'm back." His voice sounded faint.

"How?" she managed to rasp out. He walked over slowly, grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet. He seemed blurry, but it must have been her vision. She was crying, after all.

"My dear Ginny," he said softly, full of affection. It was like honey. "You and I are bound together. Our souls are one, as I wanted it to be. You own a piece of me, and I a piece of you." Ginny sniffled and looked at his shirt. She couldn't bring herself to look at his face. She felt so ashamed, to cry in front of him. "Your tears," he said quietly, softly. He wiped one away with his finger. It was cool. "They have their own magic. You made them -- they contain a small part of you, a part that you can allow to give. But they are also a small part of me. When they dripped onto my diary, it brought my life force -- live and fresh -- back into it." Ginny struggled to straighten this out in her mind.

She had the power to bring him back all along. But she hadn't. If only she had known...

"It is you who I owe my life to, once again." He brushed a strand of her flaming red hair out of her face. "Thank you," he said. Ginny then looked up at him, and let out a long breath. She felt calm, and yet scared at the same time. That was the way she always had felt with Tom.

Nothing had changed.

It was like coming home again.

Tom looked at her, as if studying her. "You've grown." She nodded.

"I'm sixteen now, Tom," she said, as if this proved something.

"You're beautiful." Ginny blushed, but did not look away. She could not if she wanted to. She did not want to.

He ran his hands across her cheeks, down her throat, over her breasts. "So beautiful," he whispered. She shivered as she felt his breath on her face. She was defenseless against him. She always had been. Suddenly, he backed away, standing in front of her with his arms behind his back. He looked down at her, but, Ginny noticed, she did not have to look as high up as she had used to. He was only about five inches taller than her now.

She remembered him standing back, watching her like that when she was eleven. When he wanted her to do something.

She knew what he wanted.

She sat down on the ground slowly. She lied down on her back, still looking up at him, and watched as he lowered himself over her. He stopped with just an inch between them, and he looked into her eyes. Her own eyes were wide, fearful and pleading at the same time.

"Ginny," he whispered. She stayed perfectly still.

He rested on top of her, almost to the point of hurting her. He was not as heavy as he used to be, but his weight on her was enough to make her chest feel tight. Her breath was short, and for a moment she could not breathe at all. She was nervous and scared and relaxed, and there was a lump in her throat that was preventing her from breathing.

And then she looked into his eyes.

The perfect color, because they were it. The very color she had longed for, the deep, dark blue. She stared into the two deep pools of water, falling into them, losing herself in them. Such a beautiful blue...

He held her just as he used to, buried his face in her hair, and she felt his hands on her. They were always so cold, and it was so strange the way his body was so warm, so unbearably hot against her, yet his hands were like ice.

Tom kissed her fiercely, as if trying to suck her soul out right through her mouth, like a dark, hooded creature. But he already had done that, hadn't he? The hands on her shoulders tightened mercilessly and his long, articulate fingers dug into her skin.

This is what she had been striving to relive - the feel of him against her, ruling her, using her. Was it wrong

to want it? Was it wrong to feel this was about something so... evil?

This was the boy who would eventually become one of the most feared wizards of all time. He would kill without a second thought. He would strike terror into the hearts of those who were against him with just the mention of his name...

But it wasn't his name. Not yet. This was Tom. Tom Marvolo Riddle, and he had not changed. Nothing here had changed.

He would not become that man. She wouldn't let him.

Their breathing became heavier as their bodies shifted against each other. She felt his hand slide up her thigh. She shivered at the cold touch.

And then her skirt was down, and she was defenseless once more. She looked up into his eyes. They never left her own during these times. They never closed, they never wavered. They just stared into her own, as if looking past them and into her mind.

She felt him shift his weight against her, and she waited patiently. That was the way he wanted it.

Suddenly, she felt heat, searing hot friction, and pain, so much pain. He pushed into her and broke her, like every time she went there. She saw his face, a small, triumphant smile upon it, and then threw her head back and screamed.

Ginny gasped and bolted up into a sitting position. Her breathing was quick and uncontrolled as she tried to figure out where she was.

She was back in her room.

She had fallen asleep when she closed her eyes just -- was it moments ago? She didn't know. The only thing she knew was that the weight upon her had gone, and the hands she had felt on her just moments ago were no longer there. Tom was not there.

She looked around frantically, and spotted the book on her bed.

The book she had bought at Diagon Alley when she was twelve. The book she had plunged a knife into to make the hole that went through its middle. The book she had poured ink on, that she had so desperately held during her hardest times. The book she pretended to be Tom Riddle's diary.

Still, she denied this and grabbed the book, clinging to unrealistic hope. She opened it quickly and looked at the front page.

The words she had written when she was twelve were still there.

He was not, and she wept.