Close Your Eyes, Cover Your Ears, and Pretend

The existence of a memory is not a particularly happy one. For the majority of the time, it's like being a ghost, a spirit of some kind, stuck halfway between heaven and hell. There are no fluffy clouds or angels, yet there are no eternal flames or howls of utter misery. It's much, much worse than that.

Basically, there's nothing, no options really except to watch yourself collect dust. You begin to find that you're easily entertained by something as bland and ordinary as the sound of your own breathing, merely because of the fact that you don't have to but can.

Memories never die. They can't be destroyed. They can only be forgotten and weathered, and many have been, much to their dismay and delight.

A part of Tom Riddle was but a memory now. He once resided in his own diary, not knowing beforehand (of all things) that he'd be stuck there for fifty or so years, either watching the living or reliving his own life up until December of 1942.

Many foolish souls try this, blindly entering a dismal fate they cannot escape. This sixteen-year-old memory learned this quickly, going through so many things and being so helpless that he could only listen to his surroundings. Once trapped inside, he waited as the human version of himself, who was weakened ever so slightly, picked up a quill and began to write to strengthen the memory.

Within this diary were no windows, no view to the outside world. Tom could only rely on the sounds he heard and the entries Voldemort wrote, which became fewer and fewer as he gained power. The last time he heard him was when he left for the Potters'. Next, his Death Eaters would come along, and one of them would be the next to obtain him.

As time went on, he became weaker and weaker, starving for input. Sometimes, in his own little world, he would scream and sob for an end.

But even he knew that would never come. Memories don't die.

Right before a series of events that would send his memory vulnerably out into open, he's spent the better part of eleven years in a desk drawer at the Malfoy manor. By the next year, the diary had been destroyed - by that blasted little Potter, no less - and his memory, floating aimlessly without a host, was then securely attached to the nearest individual to whom he had the most connection.

Ginny Weasley.

How about that? The very little girl he'd been sweet-talking just months before, trying to use her to finish off that insufferable little Potter. His patience had been almost infinite, after spending so many years in silence.

She had hung on his every word. He'd almost had her, he'd almost been free, and she'd almost swapped him places. But no. Potter the Boy Wonder saves the day once again and ruined everything. The only difference in his new host was that he could now see.

Otherwise, there he was once again, nothing but a fading memory.

Meanwhile, of course, Ginny was without a clue. Occasionally, there were hints that she was conscious to his presence. Every now and then she'd hear a sigh that wasn't her own and looked around to see an empty corridor. Sometimes, she'd be all by herself in her bedroom after hours, she'd whisper silently to him in the night air as she rocked back and forth and hugged her knees to her chest.

"Tom? Are you still there?"

He never answered. He'd already played out his hand with her. He'd already lost her trust. He couldn't really control her if she didn't comply because she was in control now. She could simply ignore him. At any moment, in fact, she could dispel him from her body and send him back out for a new host.

There was, however, no such luck since she didn't know he was there. Even so, she wouldn't know what to do.

But someday, someday soon, things would ultimately turn.

And a fading memory would have his chance once again.