Acute Awareness

Ginny hugged the stack of worn, hand-me-down books closer to her chest, the voices of students she passed echoing like ghosts in her ears. On either side of her towered the huge, stained glass windows that lined the hallways of Hogwarts' first floor, scarlet, green, yellow and blue. Patches of distorted light fell onto her hair and shoulders, striking her eyes like small, stinging knives, hissing and adding to the chaos that was her state of consciousness. Everywhere, their eyes followed her. She swore that sometimes she could even hear their mirthful whispers, giggling and gawking at the short, awkward girl with a mass of red curls and a splotch of ugly freckles. And no friends. She was certain they picked up on that charming particular. Salty tears brimmed her eyes and she bowed her head, not able to bear the evaluation of her peers.

She felt trapped, as if every attempt to reach her was made out of pity or was dreadfully insincere. Fred and George had even tried to lighten her up, in their own way, useless though it may be. It was Ron that had frightened her the most, though. He had always been her favorite brother, with innocent blue eyes and a comforting presence.

"You're scaring us, Gin, it's not like you to be so withdrawn." Awkward had become part of his nature, exuding from his lanky build and sweet persona, but with Ginny, he was always painfully honest. "Mum thinks you're loosing your marbles, and she's scattered a few of her own around here some place, in the process of looking for yours. She's worried sick."

An icy cold irritation gripping her heart, Ginny kept her face carefully blank and regarded him with disgust. "I'm fine," she snapped. "It's no wonder I'd seek a little privacy, what with you nosing about."

Hurt, he had shuffled out of the room, murmuring a rare apology with a strange expression on his face. It was saddened and angry, but mingled about with it was... grief? That had given her a good push toward the edge that she now precariously teetered from. She had cried that night, the moonlight illuminating her shabby but cozy bedroom and caressing her face. Tears still soaked her pillow when she had risen the following morning.

The emotion that had so tightly entangled her in its inky and obscure web was unlike any she had ever experienced, and long lasting, to boot. She had thought, at first, perhaps it was depression, a sickening plea for companionship in her quiet, lonely life; but weeks, months, a year went by and still her eyes were dark and haunted. It was the middle of her third year when realization finally hit her like an iron fist, chilled and frozen in the most bitter of winter colds.

She missed Him.

After all this time, after all her hoping and praying that Harry would ask her to the Yule Ball, that Harry would suddenly look at her the way he looked at Cho, that bloody Harry would sweep her off her feet, out of this void, and take her to a lovely castle on an enchanted island where he would be Prince Charming and at last she would awake as Sleeping Beauty. After all this time, it wasn't Harry that she lusted for, after all.

It was Him.

Tall, thin but muscular, with a violet and inquisitive gaze; always willing to hug her when she was upset, kissing the top of her head and smoothing her hair. At first, they would only write, and through that writing, Ginny had offered him her soul on a silver platter, eagerly receiving a few tidbits in return. But after the first month, a window popped up in the center of her diary, and through it she could fall, light as a feather, and drift into his residence.

It was the Slytherin Common Room, she supposed, as he had known it, some fifty years ago. It was empty, of course, but an emerald flame always glittered in the grate, casting eerie but beautiful shadows like flickering butterflies about the long, rectangular room. High-backed velvet chairs always waited for her, not nearly as comfortable as the squishy scarlet couches in her own common room, but then again anything squishy would look ridiculous amongst the gloomy, sophisticated décor that was so vast it threatened to swallow her whole. Giant oak tables with polished, claw-like feet rested neatly atop ornate oriental rugs, their tops glittering with ink bottles, fancy quills, and other trinkets, alongside china of the very fine sort. A few cups were even brimming with tea. Smaller, circular tables sat faithfully at the side of the armchairs, though no less shiny or gaudy than the rest of the room. Silver and green tapestries poured from the low ceilings and pooled onto the cold stone floor. Most of them depicted the more gory scenes of Greek Mythology, but the one closest to the door bore only a gargantuan silver snake, so silky and cleverly sewn that often Ginny could not stand to stare at it, for the strange, gnawing fear that it was gazing back. In the far corner of the room, there always stood a mounting stack of parchment, glowing gold and casting a clashing light against the green and black atmosphere. A single peacock quill scratched frenziedly against the top paper, writing down her actions, and whenever she spoke golden sparkles would hover around her head.

He always sat in the second chair from the left, and would not turn his terrifyingly beautiful face to her until she sat in the seat next and commenced conversation. He would fold his hands and stretch out his legs, listening intently while she chatted lightly, stirring tea from one of the cups that magically appeared at her side whenever she waved her hand. Once she had asked him about the glowing parchment and the hovering sparks, but he waved off the subject as though it were insignificant.

Now older and wiser, she knew those splendid times were actually the ghastly hours of the night during which he would possess her, and the sparks which were so cheery and teasing were actually devices of his plan to steal from her life source. She could cast back in her memory and pinpoint the exact moment he had revealed his secret, and the exact millisecond her heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

And no matter how she tried, no matter how much Spell-o-tape she applied and Cementing Charms she executed, those pieces could not be mended together again.

It was sickening to her, that anyone would so freely manipulate others, more so, children, and innocent children at that. It tore her up inside, picturing his friendly face as it shifted into a malicious sort of sneer that bore no resemblance to his breathtaking but rare smile. Every trusting part of her, every twinge of naiveté or inner child was driven away, leaving only an empty shell of bitter hatred, longing once again to be full. Full, regardless of the price.

She had to obtain that diary.

And obtain it she did try, though none too pleasantly, and certainly none too discreetly. She had approached Draco Malfoy. Not only had she approached him, she had begged him, pleaded with him for any information about the whereabouts of her beloved book. Haughtily, he laughed in her face, making sure to twist every knife that had worked its way under her skin, and after weeks of torment and postponing, he still told her there wasn't a chance in hell that he would ever assist a Weasley, and a poor Weasley at that. Although, he had noted with malevolence, "Every Weasley is a poor Weasley. So much for inheritance, eh?"

Tossed once again into the vortex of perhaps unnecessary disdain that was her dark and sketchy existence, Ginny had just begun researching Dark Arts methods of restoring her quickly developing obsession when it all came together, the pieces of the puzzle perfectly aligned.

She was fumbling for Newts' Eyes in a dark storage closet one afternoon when she stumbled upon Draco. A very much shirtless Draco, in fact, and with him, none other than Blaise Zabini, who was very much in a relationship with the son of the French Minister of Magic. Considering she had already lowered her standards to begging, she rather thought that blackmail was a step up, and it worked surprisingly well. Not only, she discovered, was the diary repaired, it was carefully catalogued in the Malfoy Library, and all Draco was required to access it was a letter to his butler, Marcus.

Ginny caught her reflection in one of the display cases she passed, and shuddered. Dark circles loomed under her eyes like shiny bruises, glinting amongst the sallow hue of her skin due to many sleepless nights. She bowed her head, wondering what Tom would say if he could see her like this.

"Ginny, you look terrible. What happened, are you alright?"

That's what he had said to her when the attacks started. And he had known, the whole time! All the concern, the comfort, it was all a façade! But, she couldn't help feeling that he had used her with some reluctance, as if maybe, in the smallest of ways, she had meant something to him- a faint flicker of hope that could not be extinguished.

Sighing, Ginny slipped unnoticed into the trophy room, pausing as her eyes adjusted to the thick darkness. The heavy curtains had all been drawn, and the huge shapes of cabinets hovering about her in the tense blackness gave her a quick flash of gathering Dementors.

She hastily pulled out her wand. "Lumos" she whispered, and instantly the room leapt to life. In the corner, some feet away, Draco stood, silent and stony, his cold gaze flickering lazily up and down her thin figure. A knot tightened in her stomach. How long has he been here?

"Jesus, Weasley," he muttered, gracefully rising from his position of leaning against the wall, his eyebrows knit. "What the hell happened to you?" It was not a kind remark, and, wordlessly Ginny wondered how he made it sound so insulting.

"Nothing happened to me," she snapped, glaring. "Do you have the book?"

Warily, Draco pulled it from the folds of his robes, clutching it for a moment before turning his eyes to her. "I don't think you should do this," he said quietly, gesturing widely.

"Do what?" Ginny grimaced, a sharp and achy longing striking her as she saw the book so closely within her reach.

"This. I don't think you should reanimate this book, Ginny. Look what it's doing to you. You're a heartbeat away from St. Mungo's, for God's sake."

Startled at his usage of her first name, Ginny took a step back, looking for the entire world a deer caught in headlights. She slowly regained composure, a feeling of unease settling inside her. "What would you care if I went insane, Malfoy? What's it to you, really?" Her chocolate eyes settled upon him hard.

Fine strands of silver fell into his eyes as he bowed his head and was silent, fighting some internal battle she knew nothing of. Just when she thought he would not answer, his shoulders tensed abruptly. "It's nothing to me," he said through clenched teeth, curling and uncurling his free hand into a fist. When he turned his face to her again his lips were pursed and there was a strange flicker in his eyes. He threw the book at her feet. "You were warned, Weasley." With an unearthly stealth, he moved to the door and clutched the knob, but not before turning to her. "I don't know what you believe you've found inside of him, but it's not real. Nothing about him is." His sparkling silver eyes were like carefully carved chips of ice, angelic and haunting at the same time. "He will kill you."

"It's a chance I'm willing to take."

"It's not a chance. It's a promise." With a cold nod, he whipped open the door and slid out into the hallway.

Ginny watched silently until he was gone, nausea swirling her vision and putting off her balance. She swayed violently, clutching a chair for support as her wand clattered to her feet and rolled across the floor. Breathing heavily, she pulled a quill from her pocket and pounced on the unsuspecting little book. It looked eerie in the half-light, appearing to absorb all color around it. Ginny shivered as its cool leather came in contact with her skin. Her mouth dry and her heart pounding wildly against her chest, she opened to the front page, blood rushing in her ears like river rapids after a heavy rainstorm. The familiar words "PROPERTY OF TOM M. RIDDLE" stood boldly against the worn parchment. She felt her stomach drop anxiously. Her hand shook as she touched the tip of the quill to the paper and her handwriting was twisty and foreign to her own eyes.

Tom?

I am here, Ginny.

Adrenaline surging like wildfire through her veins, she released the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.

Tom, everything has been so horrible without you. Every inch of her body shook as if it was receiving a necessity it had been deprived of for far too long.

I imagine so. It's been dark there, all by yourself. Ginny stared blankly at the page, her heart stopping in wonderment at his ability to predict her emotions so well. Hasn't it?

It has.

I must admit, I feared you would have misunderstood, and steered away from me. I'm pleased that you reawakened me.

Ginny blinked. Misunderstood?

Of course. Ginny, you never really thought I wanted to cause you pain, did you? Would you like to come here? We can talk it over. Let me make you understand.

A stinging tear of longing slid down her cheek. Alright. A window appeared in the center of the book, and with the desperation of a starved animal, she thrust her head through the center. She bit back a scream as it enveloped her and she began to twirl away from the poorly lit room and into the arms of her confidant. A nearly drug-induced expression lit her face as she smiled, her heart at last content.

She continued to spin, oblivious to the fact that years away, Draco Malfoy was backing from the trophy room keyhole in disgust.