Hello, Ginny Weasley

Hello Ginny Weasley

By Ginnysdarkside

Time passes differently inside the pages of a book. It wasn't as if I was a real person in there. Think of me more as a memory. A dark swirling of thoughts and emotions, a vague stirring of consciousness, seething inside the pages between bound leather covers. Not a single new thought or experience to shape me, only what I had known, hatred and resentment, turning into a cesspool of pure focused malice. Teen age angst left to stew for fifty years.

It was little wonder that when Lucius Malfoy found the book in a box and opened it one summer afternoon that his hatred should meld into mine, becoming a razor tipped poisoned arrow aiming for a pure heart. His copperplate script had melted into the paper, his words becoming part of my consciousness. And when I had answered back, the evil joy he took in telling me of all that had come before was matched only by the viciousness of the plan we concocted together. To rid the world of the boy who had killed my elder self, and in the same process bring me back to life.

Lucius didn't plan to give the journal to the littlest Weasley. I think perhaps, he had been carrying it around for days, trying to find the best possible person to give to me. I can't postulate why he picked her, but I like to think it's because he saw within her a certain - darkness - an edge if you will. A burning to be unlike her family, and so, unwittingly in her bid for freedom, she would be led astray. But I get ahead of myself.

Why am I telling you this you may ask? Because it is my only other memory. The time I spent with her, intimate moments both written and in the flesh are the only time besides my first sixteen short years I have to think on. And I think. For the Potter boy did not rid the world of me with his primitive weapon, as he so brazenly thought. Instead he sent me into another kind of limbo. For memories exist still in the minds of those who've lived them. So a part of me still lives on, in the mind of Ginny Weasley. And though I cannot affect her day to day life, I still see what she has become. I see what I have made her.

It began that night, when the Weasleys returned home. Ginny opened the journal and, with childish glee, began to write. Her surprise was great when the ink sank into the page, the words vanishing before her eyes. Even greater was her shock when I responded.

My name is Ginny Weasley. I am eleven

years old. I will be twelve, October 21^st.

Hello, Ginny Weasley.

Three simple words. They changed her life. More than she ever saw coming. I wonder if she thinks on those words sometimes, thinks on what would have happened if she had slammed the cover shut and ran screaming for her mother. Instead, she repeated the error of her far off ancestress Eve. She gave in to her curiosity and listened to the snake.

Are you enchanted then? Are you a special diary?

Yes. I'm your special friend. Yours and yours alone.

You can tell me anything and I'll never tell a soul.

My name is Tom.

It was too easy. She fell into the trap before she'd even known it had been sprung. From then on, I only had to lure her, to draw her further and further under my spell until she would do my bidding. Until she would do anything.

We're going to Hogwarts today Tom. I'm all finished

packing. I can hardly wait to arrive. I do so hope I'll

be in Gryffindor. Imagine if I'm in Hufflepuff. Ewww.

I'm so happy for you Ginny. You are going to do so well at school. Trust me.

Thank you Tom! I have to go now or we'll miss the train!

She wrote me on the train, endless ramblings about her brother and Harry Potter. How they had missed the train, and she was oh, so, worried about them. It was boring, treacly sentimental rubbish. But I listened, and I waited. And I learned. Lucius hadn't told me everything about this Harry Potter, and the more I heard, the more anxious I became to meet the boy who had defeated my adult self. To hear Lucius tell the story it had been a nasty trick of fate, but I wanted to be sure. My ego couldn't bear to think of anyone besting me, least of all a little boy and his Mudblood mother.

Mudbloods. Now there is a subject I could go on and on about. I won't here, only suffice it to say that my hatred for Muggles and the wizards that arose from them had reached a fever pitch in my confinement. It was my father's fault that my mother died and that I lived a life of penury, alone and friendless. It wasn't until I reached Hogwarts and Slytherin house that I was in my element. Here I had friends. My charm and polite manners, beaten into me by the priests at the orphanage, helped me ally myself swiftly with the rich and influential. No longer was I victim to the older boys at St. Bart's, having their fun as they held me down in the dead of night, when fear left me mute and helpless, tears running down my face until I had no more left, until I had nothing left. I came to Hogwarts hard, polished and sharpened by the Muggle world like a well honed blade, ready to cut and maim and kill.

But I digress. When Ginny reached Hogwarts, her first entry was about her sorting. She told me how the sorting hat had tried, almost insisted she be put in Slytherin.

How could it do that, Tom? My mother would have killed me.

But wouldn't it have been fun, just a little, to see their shock?

Yes. Yes it would have. I can just see my brothers' faces.

I knew I had her then. The potential for an evil, lying, little Snake was inside the lioness's heart. Through her I would get to Harry. Through her I would get life. Ginny adored Harry. That was clear from the start. She would prattle on about him for pages and pages until my head ached and my eyes spun from focusing on interpreting the words. But I was patient and listened and whispered soothing words until I sprung my trap.

He's so unutterably wonderful, Tom. But he doesn't

even notice me. I wish I were pretty, like Parvati Patil.

I'm sure you're beautiful, Ginny.

You're only saying that because you can't see me.

Well ... There is a way we could change that.

Once again, Ginny's natural curiosity betrayed her. During my time at Hogwarts I had stumbled on a special room, a room where what you wanted or needed most desperately would come to you. Ginny Weasley, alone at school, forgotten and ignored by her older brothers, needed a friend. When she entered that room, she got me.

One moment I was in the book, then, when she stepped across the threshold of the room, I felt myself coalescing. There was brilliant light and a buzzing in my ears which confused me for a moment until I realized I was seeing and hearing the room around me. I looked at my outstretched hand in awe and flexed the slender hands I had not seen in half a century. I was real. The first taste of it in my mouth hit me like sweet wine, and instantly I knew this wasn't enough. I must be freed from the diary and born into the world once more.

A startled gasp awoke me from my contemplation, and I looked up and finally saw her. She was and always will be a vision to me. For she was a startlingly beautiful child, her adult features just beginning to show their shape. She would grow to be a stunning woman, but if I had had my way she would have remained like that always, never growing any older, never decaying. A prisoner in my memory, forever at the blossoming brink of womanhood, a white rose stained black by my quill.

"Tom?" Her full pink lips formed the question with wonder.

I smiled in my most charming way and knelt before her. "Ginny." I held out my arms, an older brother hugging a beloved younger sister, and she rushed into them with a cry. Her arms were sweetly wound around my neck and I could feel a stirring inside me. How long it had been.

I pulled away and smiled at her again, pushing a lock of her flaming red hair out of her eyes. "I knew you were beautiful," I told her.

A pleased pink flush colored the fragile skin of her neck, and her eyes widened. "I can't believe you're real," she said. I couldn't help but think of the impression I must be making on her, a handsome older boy, charming and devoted to her alone. I would use that fact to my advantage.

I laughed softly and pinched her cheek affectionately. "Oh I'm real, Ginny. And I'm here to stay."

She couldn't stay long, but she wrote me all the next day in the diary, full of excited plans and thoughts and dreams. Not too strangely, she spoke of Harry Potter less that day, a fact which pleased me no end. I would be the only man in her heart.

It started out so sweetly. She would come to see me before her curfew or on the weekends. We would talk for hours curled up on a soft cushiony couch before a blazing fire. It was homey almost, and in some ways I think I enjoyed it as much as she did, but I never forgot my plan, and as I told her stories and she confided her secrets in me, I felt myself growing stronger, day by day.

The rest of that month passed uneventfully. Until the night of Halloween. That night, little, friendless Ginny was to seal her doom.

Oh, Tom. I don't want to go to the Halloween feast. Can I come see you?

Of course you can. I'm always here for you.

When she opened the door, I once again left the diary and emerged into a world of light and noise. But this time I felt a difference. I felt stronger. I noticed Ginny's face looked paler than before and there were shadows under her eyes. I stepped in front of her with a look of concern upon my face.

"Are you feeling ill, love?"

She smiled up at me, a tired little smile. "I'm feeling better now. It's just ..." A tiny sob escaped her and a tear ran down her cheek. I caught it with my hand, a sparkling, liquid jewel. I placed my fingers under her chin, gently cupping her face. Her skin was so hot, so alive. I could feel the warmth seeping into me. Giving me life.

"Tell me."

"I'm just so lonely. Ron doesn't even talk to me anymore. He's too busy with his friends."

"It's normal to feel sad, Ginny. You're used to having him all to yourself and now you have to share him. It must be terrible for you."

Her birthday had been that week, and though her parents had remembered, her brothers had forgotten. All of them had. We sat down on the couch, and she cried on my shoulder until she was wrung out and then laid limply against me, my arms around her, stroking her hair.

"They don't love me," she said.

"I love you," I said. It wasn't a lie. I did love her; I wanted to possess her, to devour her, to crush her till there was nothing left.

She smiled up at me then snuggled her head against my chest. "I love you too, Tom. You're my best friend. Nobody understands me like you do."

"Nobody ever will," I told her. "You and I are cut from the same cloth." I toyed with her hair, running the gleaming red strands through my fingers. "You have such beautiful hair. Would you let me brush it?"

"If you want to," she said. A tiny hint of pink mottled her cheeks, and she looked away quickly. I touched her hand lightly with my fingers and she trembled just a little. Such a sweet innocent child, I was looking forward to this so much. For what better way to break her spirit then to possess her fully.

I picked up an elaborately embossed silver back brush that suddenly appeared next to me. Slowly, slowly, I began to run it over her hair. The ends of her hair curled around the bristles like clinging hands and settled in silken waves down her back. Stroke. Stroke. My breath rose and fell in my chest in time with the rhythm of the brush. My fingers touched the nape of her neck from time to time and each time they did I felt a tiny shudder from her.

Finally I sat the brush down and pulled her back against me. Her backside was warm against my groin, and I wondered if she knew what the hardness pressing against her was. I kissed the top of her head. "There, you're all beautiful now, like a Princess."

"Oh, Tom. I'm no Princess."

"Yes you are, and someday you'll be my queen. And we'll rule over all the land, would you like that?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Don't be silly Tom, you're not real."

I'd been waiting for this moment. "There is a way to make me real."

"Really?" She turned around. Her wide brown eyes stared into my own and held me, pinioned, in their intensity.

"Yes. If you truly love me, if you prove to me you love me, one day I'll become real. I promise."

"Oh, Tom, I'd do anything -" she started.

"Anything?" I quirked an eyebrow and gave her my most charming smile.

And so she gave me her wand, and I used it to cast the spell. It was a spell we'd used in Slytherin to help each other cheat on tests. It allowed the consciousness of a person to temporarily take over the mind of another, but leave the victim with no memory of the time, just a vague sense of unease. It's failing was it only lasted for an hour, and once used, couldn't be used again for a certain period of time. A simple spell, a child's spell, and what could be more appropriate in that situation?

I uttered the incantation, and, with a rush, I was sucked into her body. I looked out at the world through her eyes and felt a sudden surge of powerful malice. I stood up and tested out my new legs. How strange it felt to see the world from the viewpoint of someone shorter. Then again, to see the world through any eyes made me giddy with desire. I stepped to the door and left the room of requirement. I would see Hogwarts again.

The familiar stone halls had been a solace and a prison as a child. This place had rescued me from the tortures of the Muggle world, but no matter how much I enjoyed my time here, there was always the knowledge that at the end of the year I would have to go back to the orphanage, back to the place where I could do no magic to defend myself, to avenge myself. But like any Slytherin, I used cunning to survive. It was not only text books I took back to the Muggle world, and if St. Bart's had a sudden rise in its mortality rate during the summers I was there, no one ever fit the pieces of the puzzle together. The doctors told the priests they had no idea what was killing the boys, only that it had no cure. The priests had not pressed the matter, what was one less mouth to feed in the scheme of things? What was one less Muggle? And so, one by one, I slipped the potion in their tea, and they fell into a death-like sleep. There was no one to hear them screaming in their coffins when they awoke underground. No one to dig them out. The grave keeps what it takes. The grave tells no tales.

I walked slowly down the marble staircases, Ginny's hand running along the smooth railing. People passed by without seeing her, and I reveled in the panic that would overtake them if they knew Lord Voldemort was walking these halls again. The only thing that could have made this any sweeter would have been to pass by Dumbledore, in the guise of Ginny Weasley. How I hated that man. When he looked at me through his calm blue eyes I knew he saw the black rock that was my heart. But great wizard not withstanding, he was still a trusting simple minded fool; he treated me like all the others, as if I should be pitied, as if by kind words and foolish Muggle sweets handed out at prefect meetings, he could change the man I would become.

I paused in the entrance of the school and looked around with satisfaction. The sounds of the Halloween feast echoed from the nearby Great Hall, hundreds of students chatting, laughing, stuffing their faces with sweets. Once I had been one of them. I had been a golden boy here. Once, I had owned this school, had thrown it into disarray. The time had come for me to finish what I started. The night air was chill, and little goose pimples came up on Ginny's arms as I walked toward the gamekeeper's hut. Little Ginny had been the one to tell me where the chickens were, had written rapturous entries in my diary about the cute baby chicks and how Hagrid had let her feed them. That the great oaf had grown to care for poultry was not a surprise in the least. It was oddly fitting that he should play a small part in this current drama, given the role I assigned him in my last production. I would take pleasure in killing his charges and even greater in knowing the soft sweet hands that had cuddled the fluffy little chicks were the same ones twisting the rooster's necks. To free my pet, which, to set my plan in motion, I would do tonight, I would have to assure there was no chance a rooster's crow would cause an untimely and devastating setback.

The low deep bark of Hagrid's dog echoed in the night and then was silenced. The chickens were sleeping, nestled under their wings in the dark, cobwebby hen house. A few stirred when I entered, but they looked up, and seeing a familiar face who'd given them grain in the past, they clucked contentedly and settled more firmly on their egg boxes. The Rooster was perched on a low railing, his body relaxed as he dozed, his brilliant tail plumes like feathery spatters of blood against the wall. I smiled and stretched out Ginny's hand.

Dear Tom, Something strange happened last night after I left. I'm not sure what's going on, but I woke up in the morning in Filch's Broom Closet, covered with red paint and feathers. Do you suppose it was some kind of Halloween prank?

Maybe. You don't remember anything?

Nothing. But the strangest thing is last night someone attacked

Filch's cat. You don't think that had anything to do with me do you?

Of course not, Ginny. How could it? I wouldn't worry

about it if I were you. They'll find out what happened.

I suppose you're right Tom. Still, it was scary.

The weeks passed, and still she wrote me during the day and visited me in the room at night. I decided to wait a little longer before summoning the basilisk again. I wanted to give the people in the castle a false sense of security, I wanted them to think perhaps the first time was just a horrible prank.

Ginny seemed to have forgotten the scare, though every time I saw her, she looked paler and thinner. I started to ask her about her friends. What were their families like? I asked. Ginny told me everything. About Hermione Granger and Colin Creevy, Mudbloods, both of them. I took pleasure in knowing that Ginny would make these children she was getting to know my victims. Colin was the first. I took advantage of the quiet castle the night after the Quidditch match and sent Ginny on her rounds. Once again I stepped into the girl's lavatory. The sibilant words in Parseltongue were sensuous in Ginny's voice.

I felt the familiar rush of power when the basilisk slithered out of the pipe. It projected an aura of evil that I bathed in like sunlight. Ginny had told Colin to wait for her outside and that he should have his camera ready. Little did I know the moronic Gryffindor would have it poised to take a picture. Another petrification instead of a death. It was a grievous disappointment. Still, it succeeded in once again throwing Hogwarts into chaos.

The next night, Ginny came to me. She'd awoken in her bed this time, fully clothed, with a vague memory of Colin. "I'm afraid, Tom," she whispered.

"You don't have to be afraid, Ginny. You were with me last night, how could this have anything to do with you?" I smiled and drew her into my embrace, stroking her hair and whispering comforting words. Her body was warm and soft under my hands, my thigh hot where her hand rested so innocently. I lifted her face with my fingers and looked at her intently, wiping the tears away. "Do you know how beautiful you are?" I asked.

Our faces were just inches apart, and she ran her tongue across her lips, nervously. I knew what she was thinking. Twelve was old enough to start thinking about kissing a boy. I made my moves deliberately, carefully. I wanted her to think this was all her idea.

"Harry's a very lucky boy to have such a pretty girl who likes him." I told her. "Someday he'll see how beautiful you are."

Her neck flushed a little. "Tom, I think I like somebody else now," she said.

"Oh, really, and you didn't tell me? Shame on you for keeping secrets from your Tom." I spoke the words like a caress, and now her cheeks were sheets of scarlet.

She looked down, her expression demure. "I can't tell you who it is."

It was hard to keep a straight face, she made this so easy. Her innocence was so delightful. I ran my hand along her arm, as if comforting her, and took her hand, entwining our fingers together. "You can tell me anything."

"Well ... It's you," she blurted out.

"Me?" I laughed at her, and her expression grew confused. "Oh Ginny, you're sweet to say that, but don't you think I'm too old for you? Besides, I'm not even real."

"You said you could be real," she argued, her temper finally flaring. "And you're not that much older then me. How old are you, anyway?"

"Sixteen," I said. "Four years older then you. You're just a little girl."

Her eyes grew wide and hateful. Finally I had pushed the right buttons. "I'm not a little girl, Tom. I know what I'm doing."

"Ginny, you've never even kissed a boy. You told me so yourself."

Our hands were still linked together and I squeezed hers gently in my own. As I knew she would, she brought her lips to mine, a quick peck only.

She raised an eyebrow and smiled, looking suddenly older then her years. "I have now."

It was my turn to play the innocent. I raised a hand to her cheek, ran my fingers along her flawless skin. "You're having a jest with me aren't you? Naughty girl, are you sure you're not a Slytherin?"

A shiver ran down her spine and she leaned into my touch. "The sorting hat wanted me to be. My brothers all think I'm just a little girl. I'm not." She reached her hand up and let it rest trustingly on my chest.

I cocked my head to the side and looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. "No, I suppose you're not after all."