Resurrection

Chapter One: Release

"He holds them with his glittering eye

The Wedding Guest stood still

And listens like a three years' child

The Mariner hath his will...

The Wedding Guest he beat his breast

Yet he cannot choose but hear

And thus spake on that ancient man

The bright-eyed Mariner."

- The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Ginny Weasley stared out of the large bay window in the Gryffindor common room, a single tear trickling down her cheek. She did not see the sun shining tranquilly outside, the Lake sparkling like glass a few stories below, or the faraway Quidditch field. She could see only one face- a familiar face, full of life and joy. Black, messy hair, bright, intelligent green eyes behind those glasses she had always privately thought looked cute on him, a continually lost look about him that drew girls like nothing else. Harry Potter. Her Harry. And now he was gone.

She drew a long, shaky breath. It had been four months, yet the pain was just as fresh as if he had died yesterday. He had died nobly, how he had said he wanted to die- a hero's death, killing Voldemort at the last moment and saving them all. But peace and safety were cold comfort for the loss of his love. The only thing that could ease her agony was the knowledge that he had died happy- knowing that Voldemort was dead at last, and his work was done. She rocked back and forth, thinking of the scant few months they had had together- seven months before, when he had told her at last that he loved her.

"I love you, Ginny," said Harry, looking wretched. "I have for a long time. I just- wanted you to know that. Before- in case something happens, I only wanted to know for sure if you feel the same way, or not." He looked at her with an expression of such hope, yet such doubt, that she would have laughed, if she had not been completely shocked.

"Harry," she whispered. She was so happy she wanted to scream. "I- I feel the same. Surely you must have known--"

"No," he said, suddenly looking as happy as she felt. "Ginny, I had no idea- I thought that you liked Dean--"

"I only went out with him to make you jealous," she assured him, still feeling as if it was all a wonderful dream she would wake up from very soon.

"Oh, Ginny, you have no idea how happy you've made me--" He bent down slowly, and kissed her. It was a shy kiss, like him, yet it sent shivers all down her spine. It was the perfect first kiss between a new couple- it left something wanting, as though it was the sweet promise of things to come...

Ginny rocked back and forth as the steady flow of tears increased. Her chest hitched as she sobbed silently, trying her hardest not to make any noise, and therefore cause one of her well-meaning friends to come running to her with expressions of sympathy, which did no good whatsoever for her state of mind. Their attention, while rooted in good feelings, was undesired- she just wanted to be alone, to think about him, and what they had.

Hermione walked in at that moment, her face almost a mirror of Ginny's, with tears sliding down her cheeks and her face contorted from trying not to cry. "Oh, Ginny," she cried, and broke down completely. In the back of her mind, Ginny was starting to become exasperated with her friend, but she went over to her anyway, and hugged her, feeling even worse than she had before.

In the weeks and months after Harry's death, Ron had wandered around, looking lost and terribly sad, while Hermione cried unceasingly. Their perfect circle of friendship, which Ginny had once been terribly envious of, was broken. Ginny didn't feel so jealous anymore, though they had had him for far longer than she. To have something like that- a friendship so strong and lasting- and then to have it destroyed, was the worst agony possible. She patted Hermione on the head somewhat awkwardly, making shushing sounds.

Hermione at last drew away. "I'm sorry," she said miserably. "I'm so sorry, Ginny. I just keep remembering that night."

Ginny had to turn away for a moment. She, too, remembered that night, all too well. That terrible night, when Voldemort was at last destroyed, and Harry along with him.

Ginny had seen the bright flashes of red and green light from the common room window in the Gryffindor dormitory. She had realized, in a moment, what was happening. She had run, along with Ron and Hermione, down the steps out of the common room, down the dark, shadowy halls, eerie at midnight. And then they had run out onto the Quidditch field, just in time to see a jet of green light lash out from Harry's wand, and hit Voldemort in the chest.

The Dark Lord gave one long, last terrible scream, and Harry turned away. For a single, microscopic moment, Ginny was ecstatically happy, because Voldemort was gone, and Harry was free from the torment of responsibility that had plagued him for so much of his life. Then she saw- as the Dark Wizard began to fall, and Harry was walking away, a last jet of black light streamed out from the wand clutched in the long, white, trembling, dying hand.

"Harry!" she screamed, and he turned. The black light hit him hard, and he looked surprised for a moment. Then he fell. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Everything exploded. There was fire everywhere, and Ginny and the others were thrown backwards by the force. Ron and Hermione hit trees and were knocked unconscious, and Ginny's leg was broken. Amidst the pain exploding in her leg, almost causing her to black out, she dragged herself along the ground, crying out his name over and over, "Harry Harry Harry Harry--"

She at last found him lying there, among the scattered flames and choking smoke that seemed to be everywhere. She crawled over to his body. He lay there, silent and unmoving, green eyes peacefully shut, looking as though he was merely sleeping. "Harry, no," she whispered. "Wake up. You have to save us--Harry, wake up. Please," and then she stopped. Ginny knew he was dead, but she didn't want to have to accept it, didn't want to understand... She was sobbing, a small, pitiful, dry crying, the cry of someone who has lost that which they loved the most. She cried until she thought her tears were all used, and still she cried. At last the pain in her leg mercifully overwhelmed her, and the world went black.

Ginny stared ahead with unseeing eyes. She remembered the months after that- it was the worst summer she had ever had. She saw him everywhere- in the flash of sunlight on a pair of glasses, in laughing green eyes in a stranger's face. It got so that she couldn't even bear going anywhere anymore, because everything reminded her of him, of everything they had lost. She stayed in her room for most of the summer, reading the letters he had sent her, looking at the books and things that he had left at the Burrow from his last visit, gently twisting the ring he had given her as a sign of his love around and around her finger. Every night, Ginny would cry herself to sleep, thinking of him, of all they could have had, that was now gone forever.

She remembered his funeral, seeing his cold body lying in that horrible coffin, his face blank of all the life that had always been there before. But at the same time, the terrible grief and agony that had haunted his features over the past year was gone, and he looked peaceful and rested at last. The dark circles under his eyes were gone. She knew that he could never have found such peace on earth, even now that Voldemort was dead--he would grow restless, and the impatience and frustration stemming from this restlessness would eventually drive them all away. Harry had had a hero's destiny and a hero's temperament--never satisfied unless he was rescuing the world. He would now be spared all of this world's tumult forever.

It had gotten better over time, but not by very much at all. The pain had become a little dulled, a little weary, but the sharp agony was still there, and Ginny didn't think it would ever go away.

****

Meanwhile, many, many miles away at Malfoy Manor, Draco Malfoy sat in a large black armchair, an empty glass clutched in his hand, staring into the fireplace with bloodshot eyes. He had not slept for three days and was only kept going by the large amounts of alcohol he had inhaled. The ice cubes in his glass clinked together as his hand trembled from exhaustion, both physical and mental.

About four months ago, when Voldemort was killed, Lucius Malfoy went insane. He declared to his family that he would rather die than be taken to Azkaban, and though Narcissa sobbed and pleaded with him to go peacefully over to the authorities, and Draco even quietly asked his father to do the same, Lucius refused to say anything on the subject. And a few days later, he was gone, running away from his family before the Ministry could come for him.

Something in Draco still resented the fact that he had exposed himself and subdued his pride to such a degree to his father, for his father's sake, and Lucius had still refused Draco- had refused to stay home, out of whatever love he had ever had for his son. Draco had not forgiven him for selfishly rejecting his own family's love and concern, and in effect saying that he did not return such love. It still made him coldly furious at his father- but that didn't matter now.

Three days before, a large group of Aurors had caught Lucius, and told him to surrender. According to the Auror who brought them the news, Lucius had screamed in response, "I will never surrender to Muggle-loving dogs!" and attacked them with his wand. My father, thought Draco with a sort of wry sadness. Always over-melodramatic. The Aurors had realized that he would not come with them quietly, and after several attempts to subdue him, he was killed.

Draco had never quite admired his father as much as he sometimes thought he ought to. There was always something petty and deceitful about Lucius, something that he did not aspire to. Though his father had instilled in him a sense of pride and honor, for which Draco was always grateful, he had taught Draco to aspire to small things- or at least, things which Draco had since come to consider to be small. Such as a future position as the Dark Lord's favorite slave. This would have been a dream for him a year ago. But things had changed since then. He- his priorities- had changed. Now, he didn't know right from wrong anymore. He didn't hate properly, he didn't love properly- all he could take refuge in was his own sarcasm, cleverness, pride, ruthlessness, and stoicism. Not exactly a substitute for true feelings. But perhaps he had been born without those to begin with.

Draco shook himself. These melancholy thoughts were the result of alcohol, not of prolonged reflection about himself. Besides, he couldn't afford to drown in self-pity, not now. He had to go oversee the Aurors who were going through his father's things. He should preserve some shred of the family dignity, after all.

Draco made himself get up and walk down the hall to the library, which was the current room they were destroying. He stood up straighter, and assumed an expression of haughty command which would have made the Minister himself tremble. Which perhaps wasn't saying much. Still, these Aurors still did not know what they were dealing with. Perhaps he should acquaint them.

He threw open the door with a bang, and every person inside jumped. Ah, thought Draco, satisfied. No great opposition to deal with, then. He barked imperiously, "What did you all think you were doing, going through my father's things while I am not present? Without even my consent? I am Draco Malfoy, heir to this estate, and I insist you cease your demolition immediately!"

They stopped, and Mad-Eye Moody came forward from the shadows cast by a large bookcase. Draco had not noticed the gruff ex-Auror amidst the chaos. He growled, "I am Alastor Moody, the Auror in charge of this investigation. I frankly don't care if you're the King of England; we're not at anyone's beck and call here, particularly not yours, Master Malfoy. Your name has not yet been entirely cleared, if you will recall. Besides, as you are not of legal inheriting age, you have no authority here, so we will continue with our demolition, as you so charmingly put it."

Draco would have retorted, but Moody's comment about his name not being entirely cleared had silenced him. He reflected bitterly on the injustice of this accusation, based only upon what his father had been, not his own actions. He nodded curtly, and Moody moved off.

For the next few minutes, Draco wandered around, looking at all the ancient and mostly vile books that had been collected for centuries by generations of Malfoys. His hand briefly brushed a long, slim, emerald-studded sword, which had been the inflictor of many cuts and bruises in fencing practices with his father, who had softened nothing in his tutoring of his son. Draco shook his head. It was no use dwelling over old memories, whether joyful or unpleasant. More unpleasant rememberings, of course, than joyful.

His eye was suddenly caught by a small black book with a charred, gaping hole in it, lying on a table where an Auror had placed it. He couldn't explain why, but for some reason, at that moment, he wanted very, very much to pick it up and look at it. Draco grasped the book, tracing his finger over the initials "T.M.R." on the front of it. He frowned. Something about this book was oddly familiar. He opened it, carefully turning the aged, thin pages. He went through the whole book, but found nothing. Disappointed, he was about to throw the thing away, when two words suddenly appeared on the page in bright scarlet ink: 'Resurgum Solidus'.

Draco, never one to be easily surprised, almost dropped the book in shock. Being the son of a very suspicious family, he was instantly distrustful of the small book. So he could not have explained to himself at that moment why he lifted his wand, pointed it at the book, and repeated the words.

"Resurgum Solidus!"

****

Ginny had fallen asleep in front of the fire when she jolted awake suddenly, breathing hard. A presence, which had not been alive within her for five years, yet still had left traces in her soul, seemed suddenly reawakened, and the all-too-familiar cold was spreading over her, taking her mind. She knew at once. Tom Riddle had returned.

****

Complete silence reigned after Draco had said the spell. He saw the Aurors still busily moving about, as if nothing had happened, yet he could not hear any noise at all. They seemed to be unaware of him, and obviously did not realize what he had just done.

Then the calm was broken- suddenly all of the stained-glass windows in the library shattered into millions of multicolored bright shards, falling down onto the carpet like glittering, deadly rain. The lights in the library all flickered out, and the room was in shadow, despite the fact that it was mid-afternoon. The Aurors all got out their wands, looking around for an attack from without, but Draco's attention was riveted on the book. What had he done?

A fierce, howling gale suddenly tore its way through the room, chilling them all to the bone. They were forced to shut their eyes to keep the wind from hurting them.

When they opened their eyes, a tall, slim figure, made into a silhouette by the dark in the room, stood before them. Draco nervously brushed his fair silver-blond hair out of his eyes with a trembling hand, sweat beads forming on his forehead.

The figure stepped forward, into the sunlight. Now they could all see- a slender, sinewy young man, with skin paler than Draco would have thought human. He had dark, wavy hair, shorter than earlobe-length but long enough to fall into his eyes-- which were a deep, dark green, with an odd silver cast to them.

His eyes, thought Draco, dazed. They hypnotized, drawing you in, promising you everything you've ever wanted; but behind the empty promises was madness, and terror, and dark- suffocating dark that held you like a child while it drowned you, kissing you as it slid a knife into your heart, ruthless, unfettered cruelty- all kept in by determination and control and sense of purpose so exact and extreme.

Draco could not tear his gaze away from the eyes, as Tom Marvolo Riddle stepped closer and closer to him. He could feel the doom that the young man carried with him, could feel the death clinging to him, but he could not move, could not look away.

****

"No," whispered Ginny. "Please, God, anyone.... Send him back. Don't let him do this again...."

Hermione, sitting in the window seat, looked at her strangely. "Ginny, what's wrong?" When the red-headed girl did not answer, Hermione said, getting worried about her friend, "Ginny, what is it? Please tell me- is there something I can do?"

Ginny stared at her out of dazed, vacant-looking brown eyes. She seemed to be far, far away. Then, with a snap, her attention suddenly returned to earth. "Um--," she said. "No, nothing's wrong--just a daydream."

****

"Lucius?" said Tom Riddle, looking at Draco in an inquiring manner. His voice, and body language, was amused, yet arrogant, friendly, yet cold and cruel.

Shit, thought Draco. He thinks I'm my father. But before Draco could say anything, Tom shook his head. "No. You are not Lucius. But then- you must be his son." Draco nodded ever so slightly. Tom smiled coldly. "My, how time passes," he said reflectively, his gaze seeming to become unfocused for a moment. Then it sharpened on him. "You look exactly like him," he said. "What is your name, boy?"

If asked by a lesser person, Draco would have said nothing, just glared contemptuously until they shrank away. Somehow, he felt that this might not go over too well with Young Voldemort. So he replied, as calmly as he could, "Draco. Draco Malfoy."

"I see," said Tom, his sharply handsome face reflecting none of his emotions- if he had any. "I have you to thank for bringing me back, do I?" Draco said nothing, as the indignantly terrified faces of the Aurors in the room turned towards him. "Well," continued Tom. "And where is my old friend?"

Draco flinched slightly, surprising himself. Certainly his father's death could not affect him that badly- he knew now that Lucius did not, and perhaps never had, loved him, which should have made his passing that much easier for Draco. Apparently not.

"My father- Lucius Malfoy- was killed three days ago," Draco said quietly, controlling his emotions with skill born of a lifetime of doing so.

Tom narrowed his eyes, and the light in the room seemed to dim slightly. When he spoke, though, his tone remained perfectly calm. "What a pity," he said, but there was no sorrow in his voice, only anger that managed somehow to seem bored. "Who killed him?"

"I don't know," replied Draco. "An Auror."

"An Auror," mused Tom. "An Auror." He looked around the room, seeming to see the Aurors there for the first time. "Well, well, well," he said. "We seem to have an audience, Mr. Malfoy." His green eyes darkened. "I don't like audiences."

And before any of them could react, silver blades appeared out of nowhere. Tom lazily waved his hand, and with a deadly flash, the blades slashed across the throats of every person in the room except Tom and Draco. Thick, crimson blood spattered everywhere, flying out and falling to the earth like foul rain. Draco watched, paralyzed by horror, as the blood fell onto the antique Persian carpet, followed by the dead bodies of fifteen Aurors. It all had taken less than five seconds.

Draco stared silently at Tom Riddle. His own life had had its share of petty cruelties in it, but never something so vicious and needless as this. Draco had no fondness for Aurors in general, but still- to murder them like that, just because they were there, seemed so- utterly hateful. Insane. But it was Voldemort he was dealing with here. Even if Tom Riddle had had no reason to hate Aurors, he still probably would have killed them. For such seems the nature of his insanity, mused Draco- killing is always the most convenient way to deal with any problem.

A corner of Tom's mouth lifted in a mocking smile as he looked at Draco. "You think me insane, don't you, Draco Malfoy?" he asked calmly, smiling jovially at Draco- an expression which sent shivers down Draco's spine. "Perhaps I am," he continued. "But it is not given to man to know what human nature truly is. Judge me not."

In spite of the horror which Draco still felt at the death and blood surrounding him, a grudging respect for Tom Riddle began to grow in him. Draco had never had as much reason to hate him as others in the magical community, as Draco's father had been his loyal servant. He saw in Tom Riddle everything that he, Draco, was not, and wished to be. Sense of purpose, determination. Willingness to do anything to accomplish one's ends. Tom was free of all human restraints that society might have tried to impose upon him, and for it he had been both feared and respected in his day. Draco wished that he could be as free- free from society's lies, free from his own deceit which obliged him to be polite to people he hated. A small part of him said that such lies were necessary, but Draco quashed that part. He had spent all of his life conforming to society's rules, and what had society given him in return? Never any true friends- always just brainless goons. A mother insane with grief and hysteria. And a cold, cruel father, who was now dead. So why not break the rules? End the lies? He had nothing left to tie him to this moronic world.

The two boys, one fair, one dark, faced each other across a gristly mound of dead bodies. The dark one said to the fair, "Join me, Draco Malfoy. Join me as your father did--not as a servant, but as an equal."

****

Ginny sat in the seat in front of the fire, dark brown eyes wide with panic. How in God's name could Tom have returned? Fear, loathing, anger filled her soul, but underneath it was an emotion that both gladdened and horrified her--fascination, obsession. How could she ever have loved such a person? And, how- how- could she somehow love him still, knowing what he was, hating him desperately at the same time? Ginny remembered the long months during which he had possessed her, whispering to her of forbidden things such as no eleven-year-old should ever hear. She remembered the dark green eyes like never-ending tunnels, leading down into the seductive dark.

Ginny clutched the diary to her, running down the corridor to the third-floor bathroom, where she leaned against the walls, crying harder than she had ever cried. It had taken so much for her to go down there and try to tell Harry and Ron about Tom, but Percy had ruined it, and it had all come to nothing- she was still in his grip, with no one the wiser...Ginny sobbed even harder. She still couldn't believe it... she had been the one who wrote the message on the walls, who sent the monster out to kill them. It was only through several strokes of good luck that they were alive at all. And all of it- everything- was her fault. She had been the one stupid enough to trust him--to blindly confide in him everything about her life. Her cheeks, gone pale and thin over the past month, burned with humiliation when she thought of all she had told him of her hopeless crush on Harry Potter. He had slowly seeped into her mind, taking over her every thought, leaving her feeling exhausted, wasted. She had tried as hard as she could to escape him once she realized what was going on, but it was no use- his will was too strong for her.

Suddenly the diary she clutched began to shudder. With a small scream, she threw it down, where it burst open, the pages fluttering by quickly as if driven by some unseen wind. Myriad beams of light began to stream out of it, twisting and weaving, growing taller and taller, until at last they formed a tall, pale ghostly shape. Ginny knew who it was before the face even became clear. As Tom seemed to become more solid, Ginny felt herself growing more and more exhausted--her very life force seemed to be draining out of her, floating like a gossamer thread, drifting lazily towards the boy who stood in front of her.

He looked at her and smiled, a friendly smile. Yet chills racked her body as he looked at her, staring down at her out of bottomless green eyes, like deep, murky, cold pools, that numbed as they drove needles into your flesh. She trembled, afraid of what he would do.

"Ginny," he murmured. He was the handsomest boy she had ever seen, handsomer than Harry Potter could ever hope to be. She gazed at him out of fear-crazed eyes, wanting to love him and trust him as she once had, because of how beautiful he was, because of the fact that he still seemed to be her friend in spite of everything; yet at the same time knowing that she could never depend on him again.

"Ginny," he repeated. "It's nice to finally meet you." She did not reply, just stared at him with a child's innocent yet frightened stare. "Won't you come with me, Ginny? We could have fun together. You would never have to think about anything troubling again. We would always be with each other. Come with me," Tom said, gently stroking her flame-colored hair, smiling down at her in a protective, older-brotherly fashion, yet he understood her better than any of her real older brothers. She was dazed, dazed by his overwhelming understanding of who she truly was, and she put her small hand in his pale, long-fingered one. The cold washed over her, numbing her, cradling her like a baby, promising rest and peace, promising everything she wanted- attention, respect. It gently gripped her mind, and the merciful blackness overwhelmed her. Her eyes slowly shut, a smile just beginning to dawn on her mouth.

Ginny shuddered slightly in horror, recalling the feeling of blissful peace that had come over her just before Tom would have killed her. Too late had she realized how false his promises were. That was how Tom Riddle accomplished his goals- he would pull you in, pretending to give you all of himself. This present could not but flatter a person, and cause them to eventually completely trust whoever could give such a precious gift. Then he would take over, and by the time you realized what was happening and tried to get out, it was too late- his hold was complete, and there was nothing you could do. No one understood that better than she did- at least, no one living. Not many people could survive when possessed by a dark spirit, particularly one as strong as Voldemort.

Even now, his presence grew stronger in her mind. But there was something different about him this time--a new kind of darkness, a new kind of power. He seemed more solid, somehow, more full of energy. She could not specifically identify what was different about him, but she didn't like it.

"What can I do?" she whispered to herself. It was at a time like this that she missed Harry the most--he would have known exactly what to do in a situation like this one. But Harry was gone forever. She hastily wiped at her eyes, and resolved not to be helpless. She could deal with this on her own- she didn't need anyone's help. After all, none of them had ever come into contact with this version of Voldemort before, except for her. Ginny would have to deal with him--because if she didn't, if she just laid down, overburdened by despair, and let him walk free and do as he pleased, then they were all doomed.