Memoria in Aeterna

“It’s just a precaution, dear. You know that.”

Ginny resolutely refused to respond to her mother’s solicitous advice. She stared out the window instead, plucking listlessly at a loose thread on her robes and wishing that the examination—that everything, really—was over and done with. The view provided little by way of distraction. The window looked out over the busy Muggle street near the front entrance of St. Mungo’s, but she was so high up that the inevitable fog of the typically rainy summer’s day obscured all but the dimmest shapes from view.

Ginny wished she could be angry. Instead she felt only a slow, burning sort of contempt for the Healers who continued to perform their meaningless little tests, for her mother who insisted on dragging her here every year after school ended, and most of all for herself, for allowing all of this to happen. It was beyond ridiculous that she should be waiting in a cold, sterile room on the top floor of St. Mungo’s the first day of summer hols for the fifth year running, listening to her mother’s empty placations as even now, a Healer reviewed her chart with what was sure to be pity and even a little fear. Ginny hated herself for standing by, for letting herself be dragged here year after year to hear the same words over and over. She would never get better, she would never be completely free, she must continue to take the utmost precautions…

Well Ginny was getting sick and tired of being careful and good and oh-so perfect. She’d made one mistake. True, it had been an incredibly large mistake, but even so it galled her that one decision she’d made as a too-trusting child should continue to have repercussions for her even now. At this thought Ginny yanked viciously at the loose thread she’d been fiddling with, pulling it free and leaving a small hole in the cuff of her robe. She glared at the hole, wishing she could do the same to her memories. One good yank, and it would all be gone, an empty place in her brain that now only served to feed her nightmares.

She heard her mother gasp disapprovingly at the damage she’d done to her robes, but still Ginny would not look at her. Her mother knew well enough by now that scolding her wouldn’t do any good, particularly at this juncture. They had fought during the entire train ride to the hospital. Ginny had not wanted to come, had decided it was unnecessary and threatened to refuse treatment when the time came. Her mother had pleaded with her at first, until she’d finally put her foot down—if Ginny did not accept treatment, she would be sent to Aunt Prewett’s for the summer, or, more to the point, sent away from twelve Grimmauld Place and any hope of gaining new information on Voldemort and the coming war.

Ginny had finally conceded, of course. She hated these visits, but she’d much rather spend a day feeling miserable and angry at the hospital than the entire summer trapped on a mountain in Switzerland with her maiden aunt, bored out of her mind and desperate for information.

“Where is that Healer?” her mother asked after a few minutes of silence. Her voice was impatient and worried, as if she suspected that the unusually long wait meant that the hospital had discovered something even worse about Ginny. Ginny shrugged in response. She’d been coming here going on five years now, and the treatments had never done any good. Her headaches had gotten worse and worse over the years. The older she got, the more she felt as if her mind was simply too full, brimming with memories that she didn’t have enough space to hold. She imagined them leaking into her blood like an infection, filling her organs with bile and pus until she became a shell, rotted from the inside out.

If she could forget, she would, gladly. But that was the problem, wasn’t it—Ginny was incapable of forgetting, and not just those memories she wished had never happened. She couldn’t forget anything at all. Every word spoken to her, everything she’d ever seen or heard or done or thought about… it was all there in her head, crowding her mind to painful fullness.

The treatments provided only momentary relief. Memory charms, siphoning with the hospital’s Pensieve, Forgetfulness Potions… they helped for a short while, but eventually the memories always returned. And of course, the Healers had been adamantly against modifying her memories of major life events. During her first visit after her first year at Hogwarts, she had begged for them to make her forget Tom and the Chamber of Secrets. She remembered the scene with shame, in the exact and intricate details that her mind forced upon her. Falling to her knees in front of the Healer, clutching the hem of his robes in her fists and sobbing. She remembered the soft, worn feel of the fabric against the palms of her hands, the way her tears dripped off her chin, created small wet spots on her robes, the way her throat ached hoarsely.

He had refused of course, telling her with pitying condescension that modifying such important memories could damage her irreparably. Ginny hadn’t cared—didn’t care. She would rather be damaged than remember, than live with the horror of what she’d done and what been done to her. Instead, they’d taken small things from her: whole conversations with friends about Quidditch, most of the fiction she’d ever read (and afterward, they’d admonished her for being such an avid reader—the words took up too much space in Ginny’s rapidly shrinking memory bank), anything they thought she wouldn’t miss too much.

Ginny smiled sardonically to herself. Despite all their efforts, months later the memories would begin returning to her in bits and snatches, and with them came the headaches. She never told anyone that the treatments were useless. She still remembered distinctly the conversation she’d overheard between her parents and Dumbledore that night—the night Harry had rescued her from the Chamber. They’d thought her asleep behind the closed curtains of her cot in the infirmary, but she hadn’t been able to sleep at all that night.

“What’s going to happen now, Albus?” Her father’s voice, a concerned, frightened whisper.

“You must understand that the situation is delicate, Arthur. I’m afraid Ginny will never be able to completely recover from this unfortunate… incident. A bond has formed between them, one that is irrevocable. I am as of yet still unsure as to its nature. It is possible, of course, that it will remain dormant for years to come. While Voldemort remains weak and incorporeal, Ginny may never feel the effects.”

“But Albus…” Her mother’s voice now, sounding frustrated and a bit angry. “Surely you’ve heard the rumors that You-Know-Who is growing stronger, that it’s only a matter of time before…”

“We can only hope that things remain as they are, Molly,” Dumbledore interrupted her. “For Ginny’s sake, and for ours as well.”

The Healer chose that moment to make her appearance, padding gently into the room, a clipboard held in front of her. She’s hiding from me behind that clipboard, Ginny thought to herself with a sneer. Out of pity? Or is it fear?

Mum cleared her throat impatiently, but Ginny turned to stare out the window once more, feeling suddenly disinterested by the entire affair. She just wanted to get it over with and go back to Grimmauld Place. Things weren’t great there—no one ever listened to her or included her—but at least she could listen in on conversations and get news that way. Ginny had become quite adept at making herself invisible.

The Healer wasted no time in getting to the point. Ginny watched out of the corner of her eye as she lowered her clipboard, revealing a kind, round face framed by graying curls. Ginny’s lip curled at the sight of her. Just what I need—another matronly Healer who wants to be my mum. I’ve already got one of those, thanks, and she can’t do a damn thing to help me either.

“The problem is, my dear, well, I don’t know quite how to put this…” The Healer trailed off, her cheeks blossoming with splotches of red, revealing both her naiveté and her embarrassment. Molly Weasley sat forward in her chair, rapt attention focused on the blushing woman at the foot of the exam table. Ginny’s lip curled again in a sneer that felt oddly right on her small, pointed face and continued to stare out the window at the mist beyond. She twirled her hand in the air once, to indicate that the Healer should continue. It was her only acknowledgement of where she was and why she was there.

The Healer laid a cool hand atop Ginny’s hot one, but Ginny deftly slid hers out from under and recommenced picking at loose threads, this time from the scratchy sheet covering the exam table. The Healer sighed and cleared her throat.

“It’s been five years,” she announced, as if this were some brilliant revelation. Ginny resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. Then, “June twenty-first marks midsummer. Do you take Arithmancy, Miss Weasley?”

Ginny nodded, momentarily taken off guard by the question. Her anger roiled up inside her, a tightly coiled machine ready to spring, ready to unleash. She was sick of games, of Healers who didn’t think she could handle the knowledge, handle the truth about herself. And now more mind tricks? Hadn’t her mind been fucked enough for one lifetime? What on earth could her lessons have to do with why she was there, why she’d been coming like clockwork the first day of summer hols since first year? For five years, yes, but—

And then it clicked. Ginny’s thoughts snapped into place like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Arithmancy. Five. And seven days hence, the summer solstice. With vivid, near-painful clarity, she remembered one of the last History of Magic lessons of her fourth year, the one they’d spent on the summer solstice.

Binns, floating at the front of the classroom, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his legs had been inside his desk for nearly half the class, was speaking in his typical mind-numbing drone, guaranteeing that no one was actually listening to a single word he said. Ginny didn’t listen, but then, she didn’t have to. She knew that if she needed it later, she’d remember his entire lecture word for word. At least, the parts she’d been awake to hear…

And Ginny was exhausted, her body aching with the fatigue of too many hours on the Quidditch pitch, practicing feverishly for the upcoming final against Ravenclaw. Ginny did not bother to pay attention—she did not particularly care if she got her O.W.L. in History. Instead, she laid her head on her desk and closed her eyes, allowing the drone of Professor Binns’s voice to wash over her.

“Midsummer, or the Summer Solstice, often falls on the twentieth or twenty-first of June. It is the longest day of the year, during which the Druids, predecessors and kin to wizard-kind, celebrated the apex of light, sometimes symbolized by the crowning of the Oak King, God of the waxing year. At his crowning, the Oak King falls to his darker aspect, the Holly King. Midsummer was celebrated across all ancient cultures as a day of fertility. In ancient China, for example, the solstice celebrated the earth, the feminine, and the yin forces. Gaul celebrated with the Feast of Epana, after the mare goddess of fertility. The Romans…”

Ginny drifted softly into sleep, lulled by the dull monotone of Binns’s voice, and slipped seamlessly into dreams. She stood in a field of wheat stretching for miles around her, the tall plants waving gently in the breeze, knee-high and gleaming with red-gold fire in the sunlight. She wore a strange garment of white cotton, almost like a Muggle dress but loose and flowing, like a sheet of the softest material had been charmed to float around her. A wreath of wheat perched delicately on the crown of her head, and standing next to her was a boy dressed similarly, holding onto her hand as if he were afraid to let go.

“Midsummer is the central point of the magical year,” she heard Binns’s voice say distantly, as if he were calling to her down a long corridor. “Magical powers are heightened on this day; the Sun enters into the Cardinal, water sign of Cancer, which is ruled by the moon. Midsummer celebrates the elemental powers of fire and water…”

“Don’t let go,” the boy next to her whispered, squeezing her hand tightly. Ginny squinted against the glare of the too-bright sun, but could not make out his features. His face was a pale, golden blur, indistinguishable from the swirling color of wheat and sun surrounding them. “Are you ready, Ginevra?”

Binns’s voice again, louder this time. “Ancient pagans celebrated with a night of fire festivals and love magic. It was a night for love oracles and divination, lovers and predictions. Pairs of lovers would jump through the luck-bringing flames, and maidens might perform certain rituals to Cerridwen, goddess of moon and harvest, or Morgan, of water and magik, known in myth as the Lady of the Lake; rituals to discover the identity of a destined mate or future lover…”

Her hand was being squeezed again, painfully so. “It’s time,” her partner told her. “Little Miss Moffat, counting down from nine-one-five.” He jumped then, over the burnished wheat, pulling her with him and she was falling, falling, falling…

Her eyes flew open and sound, sudden and painfully loud, flooded the delicate thrumming of her eardrums.

“The magical site of Stonehenge in Wiltshire was built by Druids in an attempt to harness the energy of the apex of light. It is believed that in ancient time, Druids could renew their powers during the solstice, at which point the sun comes into alignment with the main axis of the formation. The use of this ritual is now strictly regulated by the Ministry, and many of the ancient magics have all but been lost…”

Ginny blinked and the memory faded abruptly, leaving her staring into the swirling mass of mist out the window. Her head began to pound in one of her familiar, drumming headaches, a steady throb that forced her lips into a thin, white line of pain.

“Do you understand the significance of this year, Miss Weasley?” the Healer prompted, asking as if she were teaching Ginny a lesson, condescending and falsely concerned.

“Of course,” Ginny snapped. She did not mention the memory of Binns’s lesson nor the dream. It’s none of her business, Ginny told herself. And anyway, she’ll only flutter about even more if I mention the actual reason I’m here…

Ginny cleared her throat, feeling suddenly as if she were being asked to recite a particularly difficult potion for Snape. Her mother looked on, frowning in confusion, brow furrowed with worry.

“In Arithmancy, the number five is particularly unique in that it is prime and a multiple of all numbers ending in itself or zero. Magic is the fifth element. Five indicates crisis or instability—a moment of change.” Taking a deep breath, Ginny forged ahead, feeling all the while as if she were digging herself deeper into some kind of hole. “In conjunction with the solstice, during which King Oak will turn to his dark aspect, and the sun enters cancer, or, er, the water sign anyway, the five year anniversary of, of… well it would have particular power, wouldn’t it? But it’s not as if anything could really happen to me. He’s after Harry, isn’t he, and…and surely…” Ginny trailed off, bitter anger choking her. She knew what was coming, knew it from the way her head seared suddenly with white-hot pain and her stomach turned over.

“I don’t understand,” her mother cut it. “What’s Arithmancy got to do with Ginny’s…condition?”

It was typical of her mother to be so slow on the uptake, Ginny thought to herself impatiently. Sometimes she hated her mother, hated the way she tried to keep Ginny constantly in the dark without even a true understand of her daughter. She was shrouded in darkness, with or without her mother’s useless attempts to hold onto her childhood innocence. That was long gone, along with her ability to trust and her desire to make others happy. All of that effort put into keeping Ginny safe, and still her mother hadn’t a clue as to what was really wrong with her.

The Healer attempted a smile for Molly’s sake. “It’s quite simple, really. It’s the fifth year since Ginny was possessed by the spirit of You-Know-Who. Because it coincides with midsummer, the center point of the magical year, You-Know-Who’s powers will be heightened and the number five indicates a time of change. In other words, we believe your daughter may be in more danger this midsummer than she has been in the past. Professor Dumbledore came to us specifically in consultation on this matter, and we all agree, including Healer-in-Chief Persevus—“

“You’re not going to let me go,” Ginny interrupted, her voice low and lifeless even to her own ears. “You’re going to keep me here—for how long?”

“It’s for your own safety, dear,” the Healer replied, sorting through her clipboard to find a long parchment Ginny knew must be some sort of release. “It’s a bit of a strange situation, you understand, because we’re not actually sure what will happen—if anything at all—the closer it gets to midsummer. But Professor Dumbledore thinks—and we all agree—that You-Know-Who is sure to take advantage of this…situation.”

“No, I don’t know who, actually,” Ginny said sarcastically. “Maybe if you were a bit more euphemistic I might understand better.”

The Healer’s gaze was full of pity. “You must know, Miss Weasley, that this is not the only reason we wish to keep you here. Your headaches—are they getting any better? No, I can see you’ve got one even now. The treatments haven’t been effective. Unless we can find a way to sort this out once and for all, your brain will simply… fill up. You’ll begin hemorrhaging as the memories overload their allotted space, and of course that will only make it easier for You-Know—“

“That’s enough, ” her mother cut in harshly. “Ginny doesn’t need to know all that. You’re scaring her. Just… is that the form for me to sign? Just hand it over and for Merlin’s sake, get my daughter a headache potion before she passes out!”

Ginny glared at her mother. She didn’t need anyone standing up for her, protecting her from whatever information the Healer had been about to divulge. But she accepted the potion nevertheless, sighing gratefully as its warmth spread along her scalp to pool at the base of her neck.

It’s just until after the solstice, she thought to herself. Then it will all be over, one way or another. As a burly orderly led her through the hospital to the psychic trauma ward, Ginny found she couldn’t make herself care how it ended, as long as it did.

As June twenty-first fast approached, the Healers became more and more reluctant to allow Ginny out of her room and into the larger ward, where other patients were free to wander about, play board games, or listen to the wireless. Although they didn’t give her a reason, Ginny knew this was because they feared what she might do come summer solstice. On the day of power, her defenses would be low, weakened further still by the power of five and by Voldemort himself, of course. His resurrection had changed everything.

Ginny resisted the Healers’ attempts to hide her away from the other in-patient residents. She hated the way they looked at her—with pity, yes, but also fear, as if Voldemort himself would leap from her beneath her skin like some monstrous butterfly emerging from its cocoon. During the daytime hours she scoffed at the idea of Ginny Weasley becoming a danger, mocking the Healers and her parents in derisive tones that had them exchanging worried looks, looks that only infuriated her more. When night fell, though, she barely slept. Instead she watched the slow, subtle waxing of the moon. Its pull grew stronger as the minutes ticked by, Ginny sitting in the window of her small room, her forehead pressed hard against the cool glass pane. She became aware of a sort of emptiness within, a lack that she had never before noticed, but now made her feel hollowed out. She watched the moon, memorizing the subtle hues and shades of its silver surface, and yearned.

On her third day at St. Mungo’s, Ginny managed to slip past the watchful eyes of the Healers and wander into the common area of the ward, where several patients played idle games or listened to the wireless with strange, blank expressions, as if they weren’t really hearing anything at all. Ginny had the chilling thought that there was nothing behind their faces—that it wasn’t just their expressions that were blank, but their insides as well. Slightly hesitant but determined nonetheless, Ginny slid onto the couch near the wireless next to a large, beefy wizard wearing pajamas and fuzzy slippers shaped like bunnies. His bulk hid her well, and Ginny relaxed slightly, pulling up her own slipper-clad feet to tuck them beneath the hem of her long, flowered nightgown.

She picked up an old copy of Witch Weekly and began to thumb through it, content enough with having escaped from the confines of her room not to mind the out of date articles and occasional missing pages of the magazine. She was just beginning to enjoy herself for the first time in three days when the back of her neck began to prickle unpleasantly, as if someone were watching her. She lifted her head to meet a pair of familiar grey eyes across the room. Ginny felt her mind go numb with momentary shock before a rush of embarrassed anger stained her cheeks red. Draco Malfoy was there, and he was watching her.

Malfoy lifted his chin slightly in acknowledgement, his mouth curling in that sardonic way of his, as if he found the entire situation terribly amusing, but was, of course, above being a part of it himself. Ginny envied the sort of denial that allowed Malfoy to be so deluded about himself. His confidence, his arrogance... she couldn’t help but think that if she’d had just a small portion of that as a child, she wouldn’t be stuck in hospital during the summer hols, waiting to go crazy, or whatever it was the Healers thought might happen to her at midsummer. They’d been frustratingly vague about the entire affair, and Ginny had only the faintest glimmer of suspicions, gleaned from digging deep into her memory of Binns’s lessons on midsummer magics. She remembered the lesson (or those parts of it for which she’d actually been awake, anyway) almost word for word, of course. It was the significance of the more intricate details that escaped her.

Ginny was so lost in thought that she didn’t realize Malfoy was coming over until he was sneering down at the one vacant rickety chair left by the wireless, an expression of absolute disgust on his face.

“Oh honestly, Malfoy,” Ginny snapped, “don’t be such a prude. I’m fairly sure your ass is far dirtier than that chair could ever aspire to be.” Ginny found herself glaring as Malfoy took the seat, smirking at her all the while.

“Well, well, well,” he said finally, his voice holding just a hint of reluctant admiration. “And here I thought Weasleys were required to be priggish and unfailing goody-goodies.”

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Ginny asked. She felt suddenly light-headed from the rush of rapidly changing emotions she’d had over the past few minutes, and was wondering belatedly whether she shouldn’t have listened to the Healers about exposing herself to the other patients...

Malfoy shrugged. “Just curious, I suppose, how it is that a fine, upstanding citizen like you finds herself in a place like this.”

“I could ask the same of you,” Ginny hedged. Malfoy really was mad if he thought she was going to start divulging secrets she hadn’t told anyone, not even her best friends, to him of all people, just because they seemed to be the only two people in the ward capable of coherent speech. For the most part Ginny had always tried to avoid Malfoy, and had only rarely come under the fire of his snide remarks, usually when she was attempting to defend Harry. But she’d heard enough stories, mostly from listening at keyholes to Ron and his friends at the Burrow and Grimmauld Place, to know that Malfoy was a fairly disgusting excuse for a human being. And his father had been the one... the source of it all. But for the existence of Lucius Malfoy and, by extension, Draco, Ginny would not be stuck in this padded prison now, awaiting her unknown fate. She wondered idly if he knew what his father had done to her, if he had been in on it all along. Ginny stared at the boy in front of her waiting for his reply, her face a stony mask of silent defiance.

“Come now,” Malfoy replied with a distracted smile, “we both know I’m a far cry from an upstanding citizen. Actually, I’m surprised you don’t already know. I just assumed the story would’ve spread by now, Hogwarts being the den of iniquitous gossip that it is.”

“You assumed wrong,” Ginny said shortly. She turned her eyes to the drooling young woman seated next to Malfoy, suddenly uncomfortable looking at him. He looked so strange in his plain hospital-issue pajamas, so... normal. At school, whether he was sweeping down the corridors with his robes billowing out behind him or flying high above the Quidditch pitch like a menacing green and silver bird of prey, Draco Malfoy had an undeniable presence. Perhaps because she’d had so little interaction with him over the years, Malfoy had become a sort of myth to her—to all the younger students. He was someone she’d heard about on a near constant basis from before she’d even started at Hogwarts as a sort of larger than life figure, someone to be feared and reviled. And yet here, seated across from her in this unlikely, surreal setting of yellowing linoleum floors and hard plastic chairs, he looked so small to her, and strangely vulnerable. For a boy who was usually groomed to within an inch of his life, Malfoy appeared alarmingly mussed, his hair a cloud of fine, silver strands floating about his head, his pajamas not quite reaching the tops of his slippers, revealing a small stretch of pale, delicate ankle. Ginny hated seeing him like this—imperfect and strangely exposed by his lack of polish. It made him too approachable, too... human.

She could feel Malfoy’s gaze on her as an almost tangible force, taking in her shabby, flowered nightgown and her closed, defensive stance, knees drawn up to her chin, held in place by the bands of her arms. The weight of his inspection bothered her more than it normally would. She could practically sense his sneer as his eyes grazed over the too-loud orange of her hair, the light smattering of freckles across her nose, her thin, reed-like body nearly devoid of the usual curves and hollows of a sixteen-year-old girl... Ginny knew she wasn’t spectacularly pretty, but just by looking at her, Malfoy made her feel awkward and unattractive, as if she were twelve years old again with her elbow in the butter dish.

When he didn’t reply, Ginny found her eyes traveling back to his lean, tall form sprawled in the chair across from her, exuding elegance and good breeding, seemingly oblivious of the fact that they were in the psychic trauma ward at St. Mungo’s and not the drawing room of someone’s posh country manor. She felt her own lip curl in a sneer to match his, surprising herself with how good the expression felt on her face.

“Well?” she snapped impatiently. “Are you going to tell me, or not? You’re obviously dying to disclose your tawdry little secret, or you wouldn’t have bothered with me in the first place.”

“Dying to tell you?” he said. “Interesting choice of words, that. It’s not that interesting, actually. But seeing as you’re the only person here who still has control over your own bowel movements, I might as well.” His eyes flittered away from hers momentarily and he shrugged, a little too casually, Ginny thought. “I tried to end it all, of course, in a rather maudlin display of trite dramatics.” His voice was scathing in its self-reproach.

Ginny stared, not really surprised just... confused. Malfoy had always struck her as the kind of person who loved himself far too much to do anything so self-destructive and yet lately, nothing seemed to shock her. Everything had begun to move in reverse for her; things that should cause great emotion, that should make her rage or sob or be ecstatically happy left her cold and numb, while little things—the scratchiness of her bed sheets, the slightly stale taste of the water here—shook her to her core, made her tremble with uncertainty and horror, as if her entire world were suddenly crashing down around her ears. She took the news that Draco Malfoy was apparently not the cocky, self-assured git she had always thought he was in easy stride.

“How did you do it, then? Or not do it, as the case may be,” she asked in a bored, indifferent voice.

Malfoy, perhaps expecting a slightly stronger reaction, maybe a gasp or at the very least a sympathetic cluck, looked slightly put out at her disinterest, but shrugged it off with a toss of his head. Leaning forward in his chair, he held his arms out to her, palms up, and shoved his sleeves up carefully in turn.

Ginny couldn’t help but stare, fascinated. The delicate, pale skin of Malfoy’s arms was horribly disfigured with long, vertical slashes running from wrist to elbow, almost as if he had attempted to flay the skin off them rather than commit simple suicide. The wounds, Ginny saw with interest, were stitched together in the Muggle way, dark ugly threads puckering the skin at the entry points and crisscrossing the length of his arms like some perverted cross-stitch. The thread was crusted with dried blood. Intrigued, Ginny reached out a finger and ran it down the length of his right arm. Malfoy, seemingly pleased that she was finally paying him some proper attention, allowed this. Her finger came away wet with blood. Ginny raised one eyebrow questioningly before wiping her finger off on the seat cushion of the couch.

“I used an enchanted dagger,” Malfoy said, his voice holding a hint of pride at his own ingenuity. “Prevents the magical healing of any wounds made with the blade. They’ve been giving me blood-replacement potions even since, although I think the bleeding has mostly stopped by now. It’s been over a week.”

“This is why you weren’t on the train home, then. I remember thinking it strange that you and your thugs didn’t stop by our compartment for your usual good-bye chat. And to think, I was really hoping to get a ‘have a nice summer’ from you this year.”

“Why are you here, then?” Malfoy asked, a bit too eagerly for Ginny’s taste. “I’ve told you my story—turnabout’s fair play.”

“Yes, and if there’s one attribute I’ve always considered you a paragon of, it’s fairness,” Ginny replied. She began pulling at a loose thread at the hem of her nightgown, an absent habit that was quickly becoming a compulsion. After a long moment of silence in which the heavy weight of Malfoy’s gaze fell upon her bowed head once again, Ginny shrugged noncommittally. What the hell, she thought to herself bitterly. It’s not as if any of it matters, at this point. And who know, maybe I’ll feel better for having told. Just a small bit of it, though...

“I have to come every summer,” she said finally. “Usually I’m allowed to leave after being...examined,” (inspected, her mind supplied snidely), “but this year the Healers thought it best that I stay.”

“They’ve committed you?” Malfoy asked, sounding both pleased and incredulous. “You must be seriously mad.”

“They haven’t committed me, you idiot. Do you really think my parents would allow that? It would ruin my father’s reputation at the Ministry.”

“I wasn’t aware your father had any sort of reputation left to be ruined,” Malfoy commented, looking happier and happier as the conversation went on. “How long are you here, then, if it’s not a permanent arrangement?”

“Until sometime after June twenty-first. They’ve been rather reticent with the details,” Ginny muttered.

“The solstice,” Malfoy commented, looking intrigued now. “Some sort of magical malady, then, that becomes more dangerous the closer it gets to the day of power?” He paused to pose himself in a mock-thoughtful position, fingers rubbing his chin as his eyes rolled to the ceiling. Ginny hated him at that moment. That he could find pleasure in her pain... she wanted to grab at those stitches marring his arms and simply pull until he screamed and begged her to stop...

“Let me guess,” he said finally. “A very Dark curse—Imperious would do it, perhaps Veritas, but I doubt that’s it—can sometimes flare up on the solstice, and of course psychic invasion is a given for this sort of thing. Tell me, little Jenny, have you been possessed by anything dark and ev—“

“My name,” Ginny interrupted, shaking with hatred and fear, “is Ginny. And you can go straight to hell. You know very well what’s wrong with me—everyone does—and frankly I wish you’d succeeded with your ‘trite dramatics’ and spared the rest of us the annoying inconvenience of your continued existence on this earth.”

Ginny unfolded her legs, now stiff from maintaining her curled up position for too long, and stood, staring down at him, her eyes cold with hatred. Without another word, she turned away from him and shuffled passed the beefy man on the couch.

“Got it in two then,” Malfoy said behind her, and Ginny could hear the smile in his voice. Her head began to pound painfully to the fury-driven tempo of her heart. Nauseous and tired, Ginny stumbled to her room and slammed the door closed before collapsing on her bed in a dead faint.

“You’re a very angry, bitter girl. You do know that, right?”

Ginny rolled over on her thin mattress to face him, her eyes carefully blank. “You’re not allowed to be here, Malfoy. No one’s supposed to have contact with me. Or didn’t you get the memo?”

She wasn’t surprised he had turned up. She knew he would, knew he’d keep digging until he’d uncovered her entire story. Well he’s not about to get it from me, she told herself defiantly.

Malfoy lounged indolently in her doorway for a moment, posing again, Ginny thought, before taking a few steps into the room and closing the door behind him. “I’ve never been much for following rules,” he told her, taking a seat in her lone armchair. “And apparently, neither are you, judging by the way you snuck into the common area yesterday.”

“Bugger off, Malfoy,” Ginny muttered. She turned her back on him pointedly and pressed her face into the coolness of her pillow. Just go away, she pleaded silently, clenching her eyes shut. I can’t deal with this now.

“I don’t think I will, thanks,” Malfoy said. She could hear him shifting in the uncomfortable chair, his pajamas rustling softly against his skin. Her head began to ache in slow, dull pulses as her brain struggled to make room for the multitude of new memories created by Malfoy’s presence alone. The sound of his breathing, his scent floating on the air—soap and some sort of flower. She willed him to go, to leave her in peace, to relieve the throbbing at her temple. When he remained in her chair, waiting patiently, a thought came to her suddenly. I wish he was dead. I could fix that... it’s what he wanted, after all...

“Two days until the solstice,” Malfoy commented.

“Why are you here?” Ginny asked coldly, cringing at the hint of desperation in her voice. “Does it bring you some sort of sick pleasure to see me like this?”

“Well, yes, actually,” Malfoy said. “But possession is actually a pet topic of interest to me. I’m planning to do my Defense thesis on it, if they even let me back in to Hogwarts after—“

“Go to hell.” Ginny’s voice came out low and dangerous with such a grating edge that she barely recognized it as her own. “I’m not some sort of research project you can study. ”

“Are you usually this full of rage, Ginny?” Malfoy asked knowingly. “Tell me—how many times have you wished me dead in the past fifteen minutes? How many different ways have you pictured killing me?”

Ginny remained silent. Her brain went blissfully numb, and she felt a warmth spread down the delicate bones of her spine to settle in the small of her back—relief. He knows, she thought to herself, and was surprised by the conflicting rushes of fear/hope/anger she felt at this realization.

“I’ll bet the Healers don’t have a clue as to what to do with you. They’re fools to the one—so set on the idea that Healing by definition cannot take advantage of certain... kinds of knowledge they deem beneath them.” Malfoy laughed softly to himself, having seemingly forgotten Ginny was in the room. “The truth is, they’re cowards. It isn’t the magic that determines good or evil, but the intent with which one practices...”

“Stop,” Ginny whispered. “Just... stop talking. I can’t...” She sat up abruptly, legs dangling over the edge of her bed, and pressed her palms flat against her temples in an unconscious attempt to stop her head aching. The dull throb had increased to a sharp pounding with every word that spewed from Malfoy’s mouth. The pain confused her, sent her spiraling toward the edge of reason until she found herself simply babbling, trying anything to get Malfoy to leave so that she could pass out with her dignity still mostly intact.

“The more you talk the worse it gets. I can’t... I remember everything, every word and sound and thought and image until my brain feels like it’s about to explode and that’s why you’ve got to leave! Just get out, and don’t come back or I don’t... the Healers don’t even know what will happen. You fucking monster. It’s your fault she’s dead. Oh, we know you’ll try to blame everyone else—anyone else—but if it weren’t for you... she was coming for you, to save you, can you imagine? And you, little boy who thinks he’s such a man, you’re no damsel in distress waiting in some tower to be rescued! Dungeon dweller, feeding on fear, perverted by pain—“

“Stop!” Malfoy gasped, and Ginny did, abruptly. She shook her head to clear it, only to feel something wet and sticky drip onto the backs of her hands, folded neatly in her lap—blood. Another nosebleed, then, and they were coming with more and more frequency. She stood up slowly and turned to face him. Malfoy stood as well, his face an ashen grey color than contrasted with the fever-brightness of his eyes. “I’ve got to... I’ll leave now, just don’t...”

But Ginny no longer wanted him to go. She crossed the room in three long strides and wrapped her fingers around his left arm in a vice-like grip before he could take even one step toward the door. His eyes skittered nervously from her face to the closed door and she laughed harshly, delighting in his fear. He’s terrified, she thought, perversely aroused by the idea. I could do anything to him right now, and he’d be too frightened to stop me.

Malfoy tried to pull away from her—he was, after all, several inches taller and far stronger than her—but she merely squeezed harder, digging her fingers into the tender flesh of his still-oozing wounds. His legs buckled and gave out on him at the shock of pain, sending him crashing to his knees on the hard linoleum floor at Ginny’s feet.

“That’s right, Malfoy,” she found herself muttering. “We have not marked you, but you kneel at our feet nonetheless.” She stared down at him, fascinated by the way the bright summer sunlight highlighted his hair to a silvery sheen, the way his eyes grew dark with pain and fear, the way his lips tightened to a thin, white slash in his pale, pale face.

“Ginny,” he gasped. “Please. ”

She dug her nails into his arm all the harder and he screamed. How I’ve missed the sound, she thought, smiling in pleasure. “We like to hear you beg, Malfoy. Please, don’t be shy. By all means, continue pleading for mercy. Not that it will do any good.”

“Ginny! This isn’t you. You can’t let him take over, or you’ll never be free.”

“Isn’t this what you wanted all along, Malfoy?” she hissed. “It was your father, after all, that gave me the diary. His plan, his brilliant idea! You can’t possible expect us to believe that you knew nothing of the Chamber, that you were not informed...”

His eyes widened in shock, his pain momentarily forgotten. “You were the one—“

A brisk knock came at the door and before either of them could react, it opened and a large, burly orderly backed into the room carrying a tray of food in his arms. Ginny had just enough time to note the tray’s contents—grilled cheese sandwich, glass of milk, apple—before it went crashing to the floor. Then the man was upon her and the world grew dim, narrowed to the sounds of screaming—was that her or Malfoy?—and the sharp sting of a wand pressing hard against her temple, and another at her throat. She heard laughing—hysterical giggling that made her think that surely, only a mad person could make noises like that—before she realized that she was the one laughing between sobs, screaming at the orderlies that had appeared out of no where, pleading for Malfoy to forgive her and then, more clearly, words that scared her into shock...

“You cannot hope to deny us flesh!” she screamed as the orderly wrapped his arms around her body from behind, trapping her arms against her sides. He squeezed her tightly, forcing the air out of her lungs until she was gasping for breath. She could feel Malfoy’s blood on her fingers, slick and wet as she rubbed them together. The expression on Malfoy’s face, white with anger, lingered in her mind, passing seamlessly into her nightmares as the world went black.

In her dreams Ginny stands over his kneeling form, staring down at the inky darkness of his bowed head, anticipating the moment when he will look up at her, his face a mask of terror. Her hand comes to rest in the wildness of his hair. She tangles her fingers in his dark locks and tightens them painfully, pulling hard until the smooth column of his throat is exposed to her. His face is exactly the way she pictured it. Better, because there are tears swimming in those ridiculously green eyes. The tears spill over onto his cheeks, leaving salty streaks across the smooth, pale skin of his face, falling softly off his jaw before splashing soundlessly onto the floor. Ginny loves this, loves seeing him this way—in her power, utterly and completely. He can’t ignore us now, she thinks triumphantly. We won’t let him.

She wants to taste him, to taste the tears that she created. She drops gracefully to her knees, both hands sifting through his hair, to kneel with him on the cold stone floor. She is nearly his height and kneeling, there is less than an inch difference between them. She leans forward and chases his falling tears with her tongue, delighting in the bitter, salty taste of his skin in her mouth.

Her hands travel down from his hair, fingers brushing against his cheeks, chin, jaw, tracing the delicate curve of his neck. She pauses with one hand pressing against either side of his throat to smile gently at him.

“You brought this upon yourself, Harry,” she whispers, her words at odds with the soothing tone of her voice. “We never wanted it to come to this—you know that. But we can’t let you continue this way, consuming our thoughts, transcending our powers of reason.”

She squeezes then, thumbs pressing in the smooth hollow of his throat between the too-prominent bones of his clavicle, gently at first. It is not enough, and she must press harder, until strange, gasping noises escape his pale lips in fits and starts. All the while she calls his name, whispers it softly, sadly, but wave upon wave of rushing ecstasy crashes over her as his eyes grow dull and dim. She thrills at the sight of his eyes going dark, blown out like lamps, and she only wishes it could last longer.

“Harry, Harry. You understand. This is just the way it has to be. We can’t let it continue, you understand…”

“Ginny,” he gasps. “Ginny! Ginnny!” He is yelling, and she doesn’t understand. His eyes are dark, green flames extinguished, he should be far beyond the ability to yell…

“Ginny!” Ginny’s eyes snapped open to find Draco Malfoy hovering above her, shouting her name.

“What?” she asked, annoyed. “Stop shouting, would you?” She closed her eyes again briefly, confused. I’m still in St. Mungo’s. It’s dark, must be night. How long have I been out? Just a few hours, or much longer? And Malfoy…he shouldn’t be here. I nearly killed him, last time. And what… what did I say to him? It’s all fuzzy and distant, as if… as if…

Ginny’s head began to pound violently at the thought. Tom. It was just like when Tom… Something wet and sticky trickled onto her lip and down her chin—another nosebleed, no doubt. Ginny tried to wipe it away, only to discover that she couldn’t move her arms at all. She looked down at herself, and sure enough several thick white straps wrapped around her body from chest to hips, trapping her arms by her sides.

Malfoy leaned over her again, frowning. “You’re bleeding again,” he told her.

“Well spotted, Malfoy. Ten points to Slytherin for possessing eyes,” Ginny ground out. She struggled ineffectively against her bonds for a few moments before dropping her head back onto the pillow, gasping with anger. She wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all, or just scream in general. She wondered briefly who had thought to restrain her—had it been the orderlies, or Malfoy?—before deciding that it hardly mattered. She wished she’d had Malfoy’s idea—just finish it before something truly terrible could happen, like, say, accidentally killing a classmate while stuck in the throes of residual possession. And that dream she’d had… Harry. Ginny swallowed hard, hating herself, because she had liked it, had actually enjoyed having Harry at her feet, taken pleasure in hurting him. In killing him.

You want to sometimes, she told herself nastily. You wish he were dead. And after everything he’s put you through, after practically ignoring your existence for years past the Chamber, you wouldn’t exactly mind being the one to do it…

“He’s talking to you, isn’t he?” Malfoy asked calmly, almost as if he were a scientist studying her reactions to certain stimuli. He sat on the edge of the bed next to her and reached over, wiping the blood from her lip. Ginny trembled at his touch, at the feel of his thigh pressed against her hip, at the warmth radiating off his body like a tangible force, if only she could move to touch it.

“No,” Ginny said coldly, but she wasn’t sure. She met his disconcertingly calm gaze defiantly. “I could’ve killed you today. And what was that all about… that you’re to blame for what happened to your mother? Is that why you tried to do yourself in—over your dear old mum?”

“That was yesterday, actually,” Malfoy replied. His gaze flicked to the window, beyond which the moon hung heavy in the sky, pregnant with potential. “Tomorrow is the full moon. We’ve only got four hours until solstice.”

“We?” Ginny laughed. “Do you honestly believe a weak, cowardly little thing like you could possibly stop us?”

Stop us from doing what? Oh Merlin, I really am going mad. No, no it’s Tom. Tom is making me say these things. Tom made me hurt Malfoy, made me humiliate him, made me curse the orderlies. Tom sent me that dream. I don’t want to hurt anyone, except possibly myself…

“Ginny, you’ve got to listen to me. Really listen. It’s not too late for me to help you. And I think I know a way.”

“Why would you want to help me?” Ginny whispered. Her throat ached suddenly with tears. “After what I did?”

“Let’s just say I’m interested in…experimenting a bit with certain spells. Spells that under normal circumstances, I’d never be allowed to use on human beings, but in this case would be highly appropriate. And I expect something in return.”

“What spells?” Ginny asked. “The Healers have tried everything they can think of—Forgetfulness Potions, memory charms and modifications. Nothing’s worked before. Why would this?”

“Healers,” Malfoy scoffed, his mouth pursing in distaste. “They’re useless at things like this. You’ve got too many memories—correct? Can’t forget things, get headaches, nosebleeds, and it’s only getting worse. Has anyone ever bothered to explain to you why?”

“Because of Tom—of Voldemort. A side effect of being possessed.”

Malfoy shook his head. “In a very simple sense, yes. But the main issue here is that Tom never left you, not completely. He’s just been… dormant all these years. Waiting for his chance. Hurting you in whatever way he could. Tom was a memory, right? A memory trapped in a diary. Now he’s a memory trapped in you, and he won’t let you forget.”

“I’ve tried,” Ginny gasped, clenching her eyes shut. Behind them, a picture of a tall, handsome boy with dark hair popped into her mind, smiling slowly at her. “God knows I’ve tried to forget.”

“Memory charms and potions—all they do is mask the memories, do you see? They don’t actually remove them, they can’t remove him.” Malfoy’s voice was urgent, his eyes blazing down at her. “Healers—they’re incompetent to the one, so stuck on the idea that there is such a thing as Dark magic, so unwilling to use it even if it would mean saving you from… from what’s happening. We’ve only got a few hours until the apex of light, Ginny. You do know what will happen then?”

“Th-the Oak King turns to his d-dark aspect,” Ginny recited, mumbling. Then, “Idiot boy. You cannot deny us flesh on this, our day of reckoning!”

Malfoy fumbled in his pocket for a moment before pulling out a small phial of pale bluish liquid. He held it up to the moonlight so that she could see it. “This is a sedative. It won’t put you to sleep, but it should confuse you enough to make it very difficult indeed for dear Tom to come out. I know a spell—all right, a curse—that will physically remove your memories. Selected memories, of course. Ginny. I can erase him from you forever.”

“There’s a catch.” She stated it as a fact, her face frozen with fear and suspicion. “You said… I had to do something in return. Just what exactly are you asking for?”

“Does it matter?” Malfoy replied quickly. His eyes didn’t quite meet hers, focusing instead somewhere in the vicinity of her chin. “Wouldn’t you give just about anything to be rid of him once and for all?”

Ginny stared at him for several long moments, lost in thought. I shouldn’t trust him. How can I possibly? He’s a Malfoy, for one, probably just pulling one over on me for a lark. I doubt he even knows a spell. Bugger light and dark—if there were a way to cure me, to make me forget him, wouldn’t the Healers have tried it by now? Even if there is a spell, he’s talking about powerful dark magic, performed far too closely to the solstice for it to be stable, and with someone else’s wand at that. I’m just some experiment to him, a lab rat to test his theories and curses on. He doesn’t give a damn about helping me, he just wants to see if he’s right.

He doesn’t give a damn about helping me.

The revelation shocked Ginny to the core. She caught his eyes with hers, searching for some sign or hint of what was to come, of what was behind that mask of his. This had all been an act, played out to appeal to her desperation and Gryffindor sensibilities, to his idea of her as someone who expects to find the good in everyone, even unredeemable Draco Malfoy. The pale moonlight spilling into her room from the window reflected in his eyes, and she found it there—that spark of hope, of excitement, of eagerness. He wanted to do this, but not for her. He had rediscovered an obsession, and it was giving him a reason.

That, more than anything else, made Ginny truly consider his offer. He was so selfish and egotistical that it might just be true. Even if she was to become his experiment, perhaps that meant that he actually had some idea of what he was doing. For the first time, Ginny considered the idea of being able to live without Tom. Go day to day without his voice whispering in the back of her mind, making her say things she didn’t want to say, taking over her subconscious at night to give her horrifying dreams. He was so strong in her now, with the solstice nearly upon them. If Voldemort performed the ritual of power, it was entirely possible that he would be able to help Tom take her over completely. Then she would be relegated to the back of his mind, powerless to control her own life, pushed out of her own head.

“You’re right. I don’t care what you want in return. I want him out. And Malfoy?” She paused to give him a hard, searching look. His eyes were fever-bright, his hands trembling and pale on the coverlet next to hers. She shifted uncomfortably in her bonds, wanting to touch him, to make sure he was real, that this wasn’t just another one of Tom’s mind fucks. “If you’re screwing with me, I swear to god I’ll kill you.” Her words were cold and calm. Ginny wasn’t sure if it had been her or Tom who had uttered them.

Malfoy uncorked the phial and held it to her lips. “I’ll release your bonds once the potion begins to take effect. I’d rather avoid the sort of behavior that Tom seems to drive you to—you know, the kind wherein I end up bleeding at your feet, ready to piss myself in fear?”

Ginny smiled faintly and nodded. He’s joking with me, she thought inanely. I didn’t know he was capable.

Malfoy tipped the liquid into her mouth. It slid smoothly down her throat and she swallowed quickly. “It will only take a few moments to kick in,” Malfoy told her, stowing the phial back in the pocket of his dressing robe. He pulled out a long, thick wand, tapping it impatiently against his palm as he waited. “It’s actually the Draft of Peace I’ve given you,” he said finally. “I can’t have you resisting me during this process. And of course, it will make payment far easier to… collect.”

Ginny simply nodded. The potion was beginning to work its magic. She couldn’t find it in her to feel nervous or worried about what Malfoy was about to do. The logistics of allowing Dark magic to be performed on one’s self—the potential side effects, the multitudes of things that could go wrong, the mysterious payment she would have to give him… none of it mattered, suddenly. Her head was quiet for this first time in months, empty of all voices but her own. Ginny could certainly see how so many witches and wizards became addicted to this stuff.

Malfoy lit his wand and shined it into her eyes, examining them closely. “Good, good,” he muttered. “Yes, all right. I think it’s time.” With another muttered word from Malfoy, the bonds restraining her melted away. Ginny stretched luxuriously, delighting in the delicious pull and ache of her muscles, in being able to move them at all. She felt good. Fuzzy and warm, and everything was a bit hazy around the edges, even Malfoy. She reached up lazily to try to touch the haze around him, her fingers meeting only the smooth skin of his cheek. He caught her hand in his and Ginny smiled at him, at this wonderful boy who’d made her feel so perfectly content. She’d never really noticed the beauty in him before, the way his hair framed his face like a halo, or the way his eyes were the same lovely shade of silver-grey that Sirius’s had been. He looked just a bit like Sirius, too, or perhaps as Sirius must have at seventeen.

He was still holding her hand. “You’re very pretty,” she told him seriously. “I know why you’ve given me the potion. To keep me calm, but not for your spell.” She smiled at him again, to show him she wasn’t cross about it. How could she be cross, when she felt as if she were floating?

“Shhh…” he said. The world became hazier and hazier and she stared into his eyes, and then he was kissing her, his lips and tongue insistent and hot against her mouth, and the world spun completely off its axis. Ginny was more than lost to sensation—she was its slave.

Later, Ginny would remember very little of the hours she spent with Draco Malfoy just before the dawning of the solstice. Pleasure and pain, the feel of his callused fingers pressing into the tender skin of her thighs and hips, the heat of his lips against her throat and the soft underside of her breast, the sharpness of his hip bones as they pressed into hers, the feel of him in her hand and against her lips, hard and silken, the way he tasted of sweat and soap and something slightly bitter…

Most of all she remembered his face. His eyes closed, hiding those unnerving eyes, his bottom lip clenched between his teeth, his cheeks flushed to a pale rose, his hair, darkened with sweat to a honey blond, falling across his forehead and cheeks in wet strands. And she remembered that he chanted her name the entire time between moans and gasps as if he’d known it all along. As if it meant something.

They lay together afterward, watching the moon wax toward full. Ginny felt its pull only vaguely; she supposed its attraction must be muted by the potion. And yet as he traced the curve of her spine with his fingers and lips, Ginny found she could turn away from the moon’s entrancing face quite easily. She had given herself over to its call, and it had set her free. Its thrall had gone, and he was touching her.

“It’s time,” he whispered. He dressed her slowly, treating her as if she might break at any moment, then dressed himself, pulling his robe tight around him. He looks strange again, Ginny thought to herself a bit sadly. He looks like a scared kid, hoping that he won’t screw up.

He pointed the borrowed wand at her—where had he gotten it from, anyway? —his brow furrowed in concentration. Ginny laid back against the pillows, unconcerned with the whole affair. She hoped it would work but if not, she would happily die where she lay.

“Memoria in aeterna!” Malfoy spoke clearly and precisely. A jet of green light shot from his wand. It was the last thing Ginny saw before the world went black.

It’s nearly Christmas now. The world has moved on, undisturbed by the events of nearly six months ago, but I can’t help but feel that nothing is the same. I go through the motions of my old life--lessons, schoolwork, Quidditch practice—but it’s different somehow. Or perhaps it’s that I’m different, and the world has refused to change along with me. I feel out of place, as if I don’t quite fit anymore. It’s intriguing, but I do my best to stamp out these feelings. No more fodder for the fire.

I see her sometimes in the corridors on her way to class, walking hand in hand with Potter, who I loathe now more than ever—that, at least, remains to me. We pass by each other and her eyes catch mine, their brandy depths swirling with confusion as if she can’t quite place me, before she glances quickly away, unable to maintain contact for long. I allow myself the small pleasure of brushing against her, the back of my hand skimming along the bare skin of her forearm, and I can feel her tremble at the contact. Her bright head turns to watch me as I pass, her eyes blazing as she stares into my retreating form, into me. She drops Potter’s hand to rub at her forearm where my skin met hers before she turns back to him, an absent smile on her face.

She seems happy, now. I can’t tell if she remembers—Tom, St. Mungo’s, any of it. The spell was much more difficult than I had thought it would be. Tom was deeply entrenched in her psyche, and it took me nearly an hour to obliterate every trace of him, digging through her mind, sifting through her memories… by the time I finished it, the Draft of Peace had begun to wear off. She fought me every step of the way trying to remove St. Mungo’s from her memory, and I can’t be sure, even now, that it worked. I don’t see how it possibly could have and yet… she does seem happy. She hasn’t mentioned it to me, of course, barely acknowledges my existence, but there’s something in her eyes, when she looks at me… a knowing, shuttered look she seems to reserve just for me.

Winter solstice is fast approaching now, the turning point. I stare at her across the Great Hall sometimes, laughing with Potter and her friends, looking like an entirely different person than the pale, angry girl I met at St. Mungo’s, and I wonder… is this how she was meant to be all along? Is this the person she would have become if it hadn’t been for my father and that accursed diary? This new girl I see can’t remember Tom Riddle, can’t remember what he did to her, what he made her do. There are gigantic holes in her memory now, places that I hollowed out with my own mind, scooping out the thoughts and memories as a surgeon would remove cancer. Somehow I doubt she minds terribly, but then she doesn’t remember the brutal, powerful, beautiful girl she used to be.

I can’t seem to forget.

The End.