Icarus

Icarus

Had she really dreamed him into existence?

Did I dream you, Tom? Have you really come out of the diary, just for me?

No, he was forced into coming to her, mind lost, without the understanding he was surrendering to her. Even in that dream world, she feared him without his defences; had he not been defenceless the first time she had met him? The baser instincts in her hungered for the possibility of the future, dreaming and scheming about how she could take that intelligence, good looks, and what she once saw as compassion, and turn him into her Adonis.

Once, when she wakes at night, he is there at the window, his hand outstretched and pleading to the rain. If he leans out any further, he will fall out the window, tumbling down with a yell and dying on impact, sinking into the mud. If he does, she calculates, there will be an investigation and the dirty little secret from her room will be made known.

He looks well in the moonlight. It makes him shine, and she can imagine again that he is powerful and strong, and she is not the one protecting him.

Don't worry, Ginny. I'll keep you safe. No one can do anything to you when you're with me.

Have any words ever sounded so sweet, imagined or remembered or not? She wants the burden of him off her back so he cannot drain her, but she also knows her obligation to the world and she must keep him from it. She is the only one who can do so, and she thinks this without arrogance, but a resignation she associates with Harry Potter.

She tries—she always does—her best to keep him from the world, but he weighs on her shoulders like the world on Atlas and she needs some reprieve. She just hopes that when she is weak enough to cast him away she is not so weak as to take him back.

Tomorrow she leaves Hogwarts. With Tom? She does not know. The only other alternative is to destroy him. His face is dreamy, like one of the poets or artists she once idolized, and she does not know whether she can.

She notices the way his head always turns to the window when she leaves and how his skin is looking more bleached than creamy, his hair a miasma against it, and she is unsure about telling him. She sees his restless face and roving eyes and makes a decision.

"Tom." It is a relief to be able to say his name now. She can almost be glad he remembered it. Pulling herself into his lap and letting him imprison her in his arms, she says, "Tom darling, we are about to do something very big."

He brushes his finger across her eyelashes. "Yes, Geneva?" he says, his head turned towards the window again. "It is raining."

So like him, the false profession of concentration while the mind delicately meanders into cold territories. She frowns but he does not notice. His grey eyes will not tryst with hers now. They have not for a long time. Still, his surgical hands snake their way through her hair, trying to straighten the tangled mess. It hurts. She has yet to teach Tom the concepts of pain and empathy. Teaching does not become her.

"Tom," she says to him again, not expecting his attention but getting it anyway. "We will be going very soon now. Outside..."

He turns to her. "Outside. Will we be going back in to another room?"

His only memories are of this one room. She understands that he does not know there is any more than a room. Maybe she can find a cottage where he can explore the flora and fauna, unhindered by boundaries. Maybe.

"In good time, Tom. We will not always stay inside. I can teach you things elsewhere."

He nods. "If you say so, Geneva, that is what will be done." She does not like his seeming belief in her words. It mocks more than respects. "When are we to leave?"

"Not long after you wake up," she tells him. "Are you ready?"

A smile spreads onto Tom's face and he runs to the window again, hissing to it.

"I will go to bed now," he announces presently. "The wait will be shorter that way, won't it?" Leaning over, he kisses her with his weak mouth. "Thank you, Geneva. I am excited!"

With Tom going to bed, her presence in the room is only intrusive. She leaves for the hallowed halls of Hogwarts.

To actually break the state she has lived in, like in a fortress in wartime, is a breath of fresh air. With a giddy laugh, she inhales and exhales until her nose stings from the cold and wet. People stare at her, people she once knew and probably still does.

She peers out onto the Quidditch field from a vantage viewpoint on the fifth floor. Madam Hooch, seeing her, waves and grins. Ginny returns the greeting, and the professor flies up to her.

"If it isn't Ginny Weasley! My, didn't I have a time with your brothers, and now since you're the only one left and don't try out I've lost touch with the Weasleys. How are you all? Well, I hope. Heard about Charlie, and it's a damn shame. Poor thing, no wonder you've looked so dull lately. Now, I was going to ask you something—now what was it? Oh, yes—we're upgrading the school's flying inventory and it seems a waste to throw out all these Shooting Stars. I'd planned to offer them to students, and here you are, so I'll just give it to you now then. I'll be off then, nice to chat with you."

Madam Hooch flies off, puffing from her long, unrelieved speech, and Ginny catches the broom thrown to her. What chance to have been here to receive it when she never goes out. She sighs.

Someone behind reaches out and grabs her shoulder.

She shrieks, prickles forming on her skin. Tom can't have gotten out—has he regained his memory? No!

" 'Smatter, Gin?"

Turning, she meets the confused, freckled face of her brother and her fears are allayed.

"Ronny, it's you." She forces a smile. "I never even expected you. What are you doing here?"

"Just came down to see the end of an era. Perhaps I should have sent an owl, but I wanted it to be a surprise. I wanted a chance to talk to you before you could prepare your excuses."

So Ron is here for something darker than brotherly pride. His last comment does not worry her; he is right. She may even enjoy being angry over it.

"Let's go down to the kitchens, shall we?" Ron waits for her to suggest a field of flowers or unicorn grazing grounds but, when she does not, leads the way.

This scenario has presented itself to her at night. Her wit at these times is brilliant, sparkling like ponds prostrated as worshippers before sunlight, and her timing is perfect. Ron already has the upper hand right now by taking these from her to use himself. Not for nothing is he a chess master.

Down in the house-elves' domain, she watches with affection as her brother stuffs himself with food. Has her family been making enough to feed them all? She wonders. She worries.

When he does look up, it is with concern. She is the only girl in the family, and the baby: a frail, dainty girl with a delicate voice and minute, perfect features, a girl who grew into her role without growing at all. No one has yet dared to call her ill, for that would finalize her ruin, but they are all anxious. Ron has not been the first to offer to come up today.

"Gin-gin," says Ron, making her giggle at the childhood nickname, "we're all proud of you—you do know that?" She nods. "Look here, I've been worried. I took the liberty of asking people here about you and they say you're only ever in class and you never talk. I know you've always been a recluse, but this can't be good for you. You've seemed more and more tired lately and we haven't seen you at home for a year."

"Tell Mum I've grown, then, and I've charmed my hair violet."

"That isn't funny!" Ron snaps. "You think you can make a joke of this? Damn it, can't we even have a conversation? What vile secret do you have going on this year, Ginny?"

Ginny gasps and before she can help herself, she is blinking as if in the face of light and Ron puts his arm around her, murmuring words of comfort and apology. He is blurry through her tears and, in the second before he wipes her eyes with his sleeve, resembles their father.

"Don't cry, Ginny," whispers Ron. "Just come home, and everything will be right again, we wouldn't let anything happen to you. You're hiding from—from him, aren't you?"

Don't cry, Ginny darling. Trust in me and I can make everything right for you...

She answers Ron's question with a nod. Yes, brother, let us blame Voldemort. What could be easier?

Ron sighs. "Maybe I was wrong to come like this. I reckon I ought to have warned you, Gin." He pats her on the back, hovering over her for affirmation.

When he leaves, she stares at him with dread. He will be back tomorrow. They all will.

___

After Charlie's death, the school was anxious to help. They gave her a pamphlet on bereavement. Ginny looked at it as a checklist, sorry to not miss her brother and therefore determined to:

SYMPTOMS INCLUDE: obsession over the person, change in eating and sleeping habits, crying, alienation from friends and normal activities, no plans for future, anxiety and confusion, nightmares, flashbacks

She does not understand what she was grieving for yet, but it is still on her desk. Realizing that her previous ambiguity towards dragons has morphed into a primordial fear and hate, she decided that her feelings over Charlie's death have already settled on their dusty road.

She holds no obligation to her niece and her parents to mourn any longer. The mirror Charlie left her had a revered place in her room until it left them with the seven-year curse, but even when it was there, it cursed her. She will never be able to look at her reflection again; Tom's beautiful, brooding eyes will burn the background of every glass.

But the feeling remains, the obsession and change in habits and crying and alienation and nightmares and—

Ginny, of course you aren't crazy. Calm yourself and please stop crying.

Yes, darling, I can feel it. I can feel you.

___

Dawn glows through the sheer drapes and the room, where it gets sucked into the dark walls. A chirping bird flutters over, hoping to gain entrance, but its frivolity sickens Ginny and she closes the window.

Tom bounds out of bed with a verve that Ginny has never seen of him. It pleases and surprises her. Acting like a young child, Tom does not seem to be the threat she has always considered him. Perhaps today—and with all her might, she hopes it—she might not have to guard him.

Her eyes flutter closed at this relieving permission.

Suddenly, her world changes. There is something that pulls at her from the inside, forcing her into a gravitational implosion. Though she leaves behind a bloody mess, there is something else there as well. It wails, hungry, its auburn hair and grey eyes and weak mouth hard to face.

When she next awakes, Tom is standing over her.

"Geneva," he announces, "I dreamed last night of what it would be to go outside. Oh, it was wonderful!" Reaching for her hand, he wrings it in his own. "Are we leaving now?"

She has to deny him this for the present, but she doesn't quite know how. She does not wish to stifle Tom's excitement, because she likes it.

Her jaw cracks as she yawns, rubbing her eyes. Tom winces. His aural sensitivity has no tolerance for ugly sounds. Ginny frowns as well, displeased by her body's errant mistakes. She has always been the lovely little doll. She wants to be perfect; she will be; she must be.

He watches her in undisguised awe—and, remembering his last hunger for her, lust—as she dons her short dress robes, blue like the night skies and cut short with the motive of initiating herself into adulthood. He watches her as she applies lipstick, eye shadow and concealer. He watches her as she licks her teeth and sprays her breath.

By the curve of her dress, she is reminded of her dream, and hopes that sleeping on her stomach is the only cause for the taut arc she sees there. Tom watches her as she runs her hand over it.

She tells herself it is unfair to cringe from his steady gaze, for she has always stared at him, trying to catch him in the act of evil, but she doesn't want him looking at her, not now. He is an alien to Hogwarts now, so separate from her school life that to link the two in any action is impossible. Tom may be her secret to hide from Hogwarts, but Hogwarts is her secret to hide from him.

He stares out the window again, the light shining on him filtered through the rain. She is struck again by how wonderful and innocent he looks—but even more, how he pulls time backwards and submerges the room in the 1940s once again by his very look. He is untainted by today's wars and trouble, most of which he caused. She forgives him.

Although she is already late, she hesitates in leaving. Tom is so much closer to his dream of leaving that she cannot trust him now.

There is a knock at the door—Ron again, probably—and she blows him a kiss and steps out before he can question her.

She had not been expecting to be looking straight at an unparalleled view of peridot. Harry Potter, elevated above all with his humungous honorary statue in Hogsmeade, is exactly her height.

"Oh, er, hullo Ginny," he stammers. "Ron, he told me that you would be here, and he was busy, so you get me instead." He musters a smile, but looks nervous. "Your robes are very nice, Ginny. Make them yourself? Hermione said you made something for her once, last year when we were leaving Hogwarts. Dumbledore offered me a teaching post then, you know? But I said no, Quidditch is what I want to do, and I've done that, haven't I?"

He continues talking, not noticing her growing irritation at him. By the time they reach the hall, she has developed a blasé front in her defence and only her parents, arms outstretched to envelop her in their muddle of worry, can wipe it away.

As they near, she sees red, and it sickens her. They all came, every single one of them: Mum, Dad, Bill, Percy, Fred, George, and Ron. Harry, too, but he hardly counts. Every single Weasley is there to watch and scrutinize and stifle her.

"Ginny, we were so worried—"

"You look so tired—"

"Fine." She steps back and away. "I'm fine."

They stare at her, and the silence becomes a taut little bubble; outside it, Ginny can see others living, but she cannot hear them through the pall of nothingness that has come over the Weasleys.

Harry, unused to awkward family moments from not having a family, pops the bubble.

"Hermione said she wouldn't be coming, so I hope you aren't disappointed?"

Ginny wonders whether she is. Hermione Granger has never been particularly close to her, except in fey moods of girlish confiding.

Harry peers into her face, not used to being ignored.

"Answer the boy, Ginny," prompts Percy, and dutifully she shakes her head and smiles. She spends the ceremony seated next to Percy, whose pomposity and decorum overshadows her. Sometimes, Ginny likes it that way, to be the reason for the congregation but still ignored, left to her own world.

No one receives more applause than Geneva Weasley and her eleven-and-a-half NEWTs. Her journey up, past all the tables and people, takes longer than anyone else's, but the clapping does not die down. When she goes to sit, she makes a Slytherin in the front make room for her so she does not have to handle the journey back, so she does not have to confront her family.

Bottoms hovering inches above the chair, they attempt to find her, but the Slytherin is tall, and she does not have to worry. Decaffeinated from the burden of Tom, she drifts off again. The same dream comes back to her with a vengeance, like a kick to the stomach. The good, paternal Slytherin wakes her up before the ceremony ends and they throw their hats in the air (it occurs to Ginny that, if anyone has starched his hat, he can only hope it will land on its brim).

Laughing with the exhilaration of liberation, the same liberation that Ginny does not feel, the Slytherin pulls her into a hug. Past his shoulder, she can see her hat land onto the floor, its braided tassel tapping the edge of her seat before flopping to the ground.

She can see Tom.

He stands to the side of the entrance, shadowed by the pillar that his hand rests on. Although he is too far away for her to see his face, she thinks that their eyes have met. His mouth disappears into his sullen anger for a minute. Ever closer he moves towards her, his heavy stomp pounding in her ears, echoed by her heartbeat.

Despite her disquiet at this moment, she feels annoyed that they cannot be together in this. Her pulse cannot even match his walk. He should have started a nanosecond later; her antiquated remembrance of Tom demands that he time this precisely.

The Slytherin, disentangling himself from her, looks at the approaching boy and holds out his hand to greet him while the other hand reaches for his wand, unsteady. Ginny is again the peacekeeping mediator, mired in the role of frightened protector, a German hiding a Jew—a Briton hiding a Nazi. Quickly, she runs up to Tom, stooping low enough to hide from her family, and takes him by the hand.

When she has dragged him away, a child in shame, he grabs her and pulls her to him.

Why doesn't she punish him? She asks herself this for a while, but she would think being him is punishment enough. At least he does not know it yet.

"Geneva, you mustn't ever let them touch you, please don't," he whispers, draping his arms on her shoulders and running his hands down her back. "We have to stay together. Do you understand? You have to be mine. I need you, Ginny."

Ginny. He says the name again and the pustule of fear within her erupts, bringing up the past. She has another decision to make, but shrugs it off. It can wait; it will have to. She pulls away from Tom's cold hands.

"Sorry, Tom. I kept you waiting, didn't I? You were very good, too!" she chirps. "I promised you that we would be leaving, so we had better do just that right now. I just need to go and get—"

He holds up her trunk. How can he, she wonders? His arm is small and haunted with the ill health of confinement. She suspects him.

When he squeezes her shoulder, it is the same frail touch. The sharp impact of the air hitting them outside makes her forget this as Tom opens his arms to the world and inhales. A neigh overtakes his nasal passages—has she ever heard him laugh before this? —and he streaks across the grass in a wild Bacchanal ecstasy.

A wild plan crawls upon her as he is exploring. What if she flees him now? He will never find her, and by the time she is gone none of this will matter. Ginny's impression of the adult world is vague, somehow connected with the magnified worries of her nonage being taken from their microscope to let her see everything clearly. Yes, it is a wonderful idea.

"Geneva!" Tom calls out to her. He has a butterfly in his hand, and she is about to exclaim at its beautiful iridescence. His merciless hand closes on it, and upon unclasping, the crumpled creature sinks to the ground, dead. Tom frowns, peering at his hand as if he thinks the butterfly's life is manifest there, ready to welcome him.

"Come on, Tom. We have to go now."

"But Geneva, are we not already outside?"

"Not truly, Tom. We have not left yet."

Sighing, he allows himself one last look around, then casts down his eyes and follows her.

Despite all her strategies for abandoning him, Ginny has not planned what they will do now. If they walk, they can reach the train station in an hour or two and use the benches as a bivouac.

They trudge on.

_____

The beams of sunshine that spill past the clouds aim at their eyes, making them dream of blood and veins until their rude awakening. Ginny is grateful to have daylight break upon them at this early hour. It will give her a chance to load onto the train quickly and lock Tom and herself up in the last compartment, and she makes good on the promise to herself.

"On, Tom, quickly," she whispers. As she pushes him up the step, she sees Ron again. His hand is in his pocket as if to convey an innocent air, and he whistles, but his eyes narrow as he sees her and he nears with stomping steps. She turns to hide Tom.

"Ginny," he hisses. "What the devil have you been up to?"

"Ron, I—"

"Leaving us last night, then running off with some Slytherin boy? Ginny, we made a special effort to be there, and the least you could do—I looked for you everywhere. This was important, if you didn't notice. Did all of us come to my graduation, or Fred's or—"

"We all went to Charlie's."

Ron gives her a long stare, but breaks it. "I wish you wouldn't drag him into this. Anyway, I need to know what excuse you need me to give Mum for you. None of us are very pleased, but it will help it I act as go-between. Just tell me what happened, Gin."

Is Ron trying to induce her into telling him?

Ginny smiles at him, forcing her mouth to curve up, and closes the door of her compartment. The lock is rusted, but still works.

"Alohomora," yells Ron from outside, with a click to punctuate his spell. She pulls out her wand to combat it, but can't think of anything.

Tom clutches her wand even as she holds it. "Adfirmo." His hold remains on the wand; he seems pleased with his prowess.

Forgetting about Ron, she pulls her hand away from his, releasing his grip. Tears well up in her eyes, unbidden. If he is gaining control over himself and his magic, her control over him will be lost.

Swallow. Blink. Rub eyes.

"Geneva?" Tom whispers into her ear, jutting his chin between her shoulder and jaw. "I apologize, I know you told me not to use your wand. I wanted only to protect you."

She says nothing.

"Geneva, I was only trying to keep you safe!" Tom pushes away from her now, fists clenched. "You must believe me."

Silence from her.

"Well, you lied," he says. "You told me I could do nothing with the 'wand'—" he says the word so delicately, it might be a newborn—"but I did, didn't I? I did. It worked. Geneva, I may even be good at it."

"I wouldn't presume," mumbles she. "I was holding the wand. You just said the spell. It was me, Tom, I'm sorry." Thinking about it now, she worries that Ron has seen Tom, but passes it off with an underestimation of her brother's intelligence.

Tom scowls. "No, it can't be. I'm the one—"

"Sorry, but that's the truth." Taking him by the hand, she leads him to sit down. When he does, he is still unhappy, though at least not pressing the subject further, and presses his head against the window. His hair tumbles over his face, and he lets it. The train starts moving soon after. Ginny would like to comfort Tom, but his expression is invisible, covered by the screen of hair. She wishes that she cut it.

Then, it is dark, and she cannot see any other part of him. His hand encircles her wrist, though.

"What's going on?" whispers Ginny, but as she starts to shiver, she answers herself.

Dementors.

She does not want them here. She hates them, and they are going to ruin everything with Tom. He will think back, and remember; she will think back, and have to see him. No, there has to be something to do to stop them. They are not human.

Her hand flings out towards the back, and after taking something in her hand, the creaking sound assures her that there is a door there.

"Tom, take my trunk, we're leaving."

The merciful door opens out to the tracks and the sky. They burst out onto the railing on the back, and Ginny yells, "Jump!"

Her insides roil and contract, and if she ever did more harm to her body than she has done now, she would already be an angel—or its foil.

She lies on the ground with Tom, prostrate, long yellow grasses tickling their faces in an effort to oppose the wind. When the sensations of yesterday—breakfast, mostly—coming up her throat is swallowed, she sits up, brushing the loose plants off her robes and fingering the indentation of the grass on her legs.

The sun beams at them from that same cloud that it greeted them from at dawn. It shines down on them with a golden warmth, which makes Ginny smile and close her eyes. Tom, upon experiencing daylight for the first time, gasps. He reaches out for her wrist again, gripping it.

Ginny sits up, the smile growing. What can go wrong?

Pulling Tom up, she runs across the field and kicks off her shoes. Oh, she is happy now! Laughter and other forms of uncontrollable mirth bubble over into hysterics, and she dances, flailing her arms out to embrace the world.

"Dance with me," she cries out, a barefoot little pacifist.

He takes her hands with reservation, but she whirls him about, laughing, and he cedes to her insanity. Ginny has always held a persuasive sway over everyone, and now she is contagious. Tom has to join in. Her mood parallels his earlier ecstasy over being allowed outside.

When her breath is spent, she falls to the ground. Tom dusts off a spot and joins her. He looks up to the sky.

"The clouds are forming," he says. "I feel cold."

Rising to her feet, Ginny looks around. It was unwise of her to waste time frolicking. She ought to have been finding them a shelter. As it is, the grass nicking the soles of her feet covers the entire field. The lengths differ concentrically, but in the middle it looks like the stalks will reach her shoulder. Off to the side, a solitary tree mounts a low hill, the only topography in sight. Ginny sees no possibility for camping, but she wants to be optimistic.

"Come along," she calls. "We'll go to the middle and use the grass as a roof, I suppose."

Picking up her trunk, he nods and follows her, but she tires long before they reach their destination.

"We'll stop here, Tom." Ginny hopes he will not question her.

Tom's gaze strays to the tree and he nods again. He is reticent these days—Ginny supposes he talks to himself instead of her—but today, even more so, and his silence is unnerving.

She silently urges him to talk.

Ginny, you like to talk, don't you? I'm lucky your writing is so lovely.

No, of course I don't mind. I love to hear what you have to say. I could listen forever.

Ginny launches herself at the ground.

"Oh, I am tired," she says, yawning. "It should be dark by now, shouldn't it?" By her watch, it is already evening. Although it is summer, there shouldn't be this much light.

"Look," says Tom. It is his first word in several hours.

Turning in his direction, Ginny's mood catapults into a hell.

Not the Dark Mark, it couldn't be the Dark Mark, not now that she has suppressed the dark force single-handedly and is trying to protect it. What idiot would interrupt their peace and happiness now?

Something in Ginny reflects that it is wrong to elevate past happenings to a higher level when it wasn't really like that. There may have been an undercurrent of peace, but when was she ever happy? She spent the past year acting and hiding, and if Tom is to leave and renounce her now, it hasn't even been worth it; he hasn't even been worth it.

But the Dark Mark... what is it even doing here, in this vapid little grazing-ground? It can't be following them. Oh, it is hideous.

"What is it, Tom?" asks Ginny quietly, glad now to have tamed her stutter. "What are you looking at?"

He whirls around. "You don't see it? Geneva, how can you not?" He waves his fingers at the sky. "Right there, see, you can hardly miss it."

"What is it? Do you want me to teach you the constellations?"

Tom explodes. The resemblance to a foiled Rumpelstiltskin comes to Ginny unbidden. "NO! I don't want to learn anymore! Stop trying to teach me, and look at the sky! Don't you see it?"

She puts her hand on his shoulder. "No, I don't. What are you looking at?"

"I don't believe you, Geneva! You do see it, don't you?"

"No," she says, shaking her head. "I don't know what you're talking about. Maybe you're simply imagining it."

He stares out towards it, breathing hard, and takes a step forward with a glance at the sky to confirm it.

"All right. If you say so," he says reluctantly. He doesn't believe her.

Yawning, she flings herself to the ground again, pulling him down with her.

"Do let's sleep now, Tom. Once you close your eyes, you may stop seeing it."

When she closes her eyes, he is still gazing out at it. She rolls onto her stomach again, lying on the hand she holds her wand with.

_____

The day dawns, rumbling, and she is wet all over. The dye she used on her robes is running and collecting into a puddle around her, staining the grass. When she wakes up, standing, she can see her silhouette in the ground like a murder victim's.

It is grey out now, the clouds streaking across the sky in soot and monochrome wounds. A dull light shines through them, but Ginny cannot feel it, for the sun stripes across the field and she is excluded from it.

Wringing out her hair, she looks all around her, only to see her trunk open with its contents strewn about, soaking up mud and water. That's all right, she never wanted to keep her Potions textbook.

Where is Tom? She tears at her possessions, trying to take inventory, and she remembers she held her wand to her while she slept, where it was not when she woke.

If she looks out onto the horizon, she can see a vague figure, like a dot... her broom, her new old Shooting Star, is gone.

He's gone, and it's out of her control. Slow, barefoot Ginny Weasley, going after a broom in a storm on foot—and already, she loses sight of him!

She crawls over to the tree. Her rationale is to dry off, but in a way she can be a target for the lightning. What better time than now to try her fascination with electricity? Her thoughts are uncontrollable, spinning out with wicked thoughts like tempting electrocution.

She strips off her robes, about to wring them out when she notices an odd glow on the back:

soRRY GInnY HAD To

A sob rises in her, convulsing at her diaphragm. He called her Ginny again; he forces her to think back to oozing messages she sponged onto school walls.

Staring at the plains of the sky, she thinks she can see Tom again. He flies high, and ever higher. The wind forces him down, but he directs the sail of his course to scrape the sky.

The thunder rumbles again, and out of habit she begins timing it. One, two, three...

Then it strikes, and it strikes Tom, who was up so high he had to fall. He was a Slytherin, after all.

Three seconds means that he is a kilometre away. It means that if she starts now, she can reach him in ten minutes.

She moves to leave, but something inside her—is it a conscience? —kicks through her stomach with a brutal force. Moaning, she falls to the ground and stays doubled over until she must roll over and surrender to another urge, one that leaves her stomach, which she no longer loves, empty.

She is incapacitated now; she cannot move.

Tom will have to come to her, then.

Ginny, my Ginny, let me out. Let me out and I'll come for you...

...and we'll live happily ever after.