Rituals

As far as Ginny could remember, her lunch had always been connected with a number of little rituals. Her father would roll out The Daily Prophet and engross himself in its contents, occasionally interrupting to read a particularly spicy article aloud. Her mother would fill them in on gossip which no-one was really interested in, but which everyone patiently listened to, before inquiring about their day. The siblings present would endeavor to respond simultaneously, so that the only intelligible phrases out of the bunch were Fred and George's yelled announcements ("We have answered another one of the eternal questions! Errol does not fly any higher when you feed him Fizzing Whizbees - unless you count flights to Heaven"). Though her mother might scold the twins, and Percy might roll his eyes, the rest of them would simply smile and start over. Such rituals were as much a part of their lunch as food was.

Which was why everyone found it strange that Ginny, on the Wednesday of their Diagon Alley spree, refrained from them altogether.

Lunchtime had started off smoothly enough, with the tell-tale flip of the newspaper, her mother's tolerable albeit boring babble - something about Lockhart's favourite recipe that day - and her "So, what have you all done today?" line. Just as Ginny diligently opened her mouth to respond, the first anomaly in her daily routine sprouted: she found her throat parched. She could only gape as her brothers' chorus buzzed in her ears, and kept on gaping when the cacophony ended and all gazes were pinned on her. It was not that she didn't want to speak; on the contrary, her mind was full of bottled-up confessions, which, much like goldfish, splashed in their sterilized water without an outlet. Tom had explicitly instructed her not to mention him, lest he be taken away, and she could not think of any incidents worthy of mention other than Tom, Tom, Tom.

"Harry," Fred and George diagnosed unanimously.

Funny... for once she hadn't been thinking of him, hadn't thought of him for hours... not since -

- but it didn't matter, Ginny determined, shutting the traitorous mouth that had hastened to object. It didn't matter one bit, because the twins were grinning knowingly and Percy was shouting in their direction and Ron was nudging Harry and Harry was fidgeting and, with order re-established, no-one noticed Ginny fiddling with her fork absent-mindedly, Ginny using her fork to position two bacon strips vertically, the resulting T glaring up at her like a decapitated crucifix.

- - -

As far as Ginny can remember - oh, but she can't remember very far at all...

As far as Ginny can remember (let us do away with any deviations), her lunch has always been a ritual in itself. Tom sits in his chair - the large mahogany one - and stares at her until she begins to squirm in her seat across the table. (The interval between his first glance and her first convulsion grows shorter each time, Ginny is ashamed to realize.) By then she is mollified enough that, when he pats his lap with meaning, she wavers but a moment before climbing up.

Tom steers her into position, turning her around to face the table, wrapping the long, tapering fingers of his left hand - he is left-handed - around her neck. He makes no move to stroke or strike, only keeps still and lets the girl's vulnerability register, all the while basking in the throb of her pulse against his hand. Yet Ginny knows this can never sate his appetite for power; neither this lunch session, nor a thousand more, nor immortality, nor omnipotence - each will be just one more limit for him to push, until he is left pushing the void and discovering it won't budge.

As though to verify those musings, Tom proceeds to the next stage of her domination: he conjures up an empty plate.

Having been raised on Tom's torture methods, Ginny is perfectly aware that there's more on the way, but temper gets the better of her: "Am I supposed to imagine the food, a la 'Peter Pan'?"

"Even the best product of your imagination is bound to be dreadfully dull, my dear." The fingers glued on her neck stir while he speaks, and this display of affection is so inconsistent with his words that she can't help but shiver. "Allow me; I have enough imagination for the both of us."

It takes some seconds for Ginny to make sense of the food that materializes in the plate, but once she does, her eyes snap shut. "That's cruel, Tom."

His lips are pressed against the nape of her neck now, so beyond sensing his smirk, she feels it. Tom, in turn, must feel her hair stand up on end.

He takes his time, leisurely trailing his mouth upwards to breathe the next phrases into her ear: "'Dear Tom, I think I'm losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over my robes and I don't know how they got there.'" A whimper escapes her, which only serves to fuel his excitement - the evidence is palpable. Ginny whimpers again, in humiliation, and Tom's "Quiet!" does little to suppress her squirms.

They go through the many-rehearsed motions of their ritualistic dance, with her struggling, although she stands no chance of winning, and him restraining, although he stands no risk of losing. In the end, the redhead is sufficiently pacified to listen to the boy's demand: "Eat, Ginny." Silence. "No? Have it your way..."

Since his left hand is otherwise engaged, Tom uses his right hand to grasp her own and guide it to the spoon, to the plate, to the food, to her mouth.

Its scent is that of chicken, its texture is that of chicken, its flavor is that of chicken, but Tom's vehement whispers twist it, stretch it, mutate it, until all she smells and feels and tastes is blood and feathers and tears and

paint all down her front and a sickening white on her cheeks and not even Tom understands this time...

What about Tom? He just keeps on whispering: "I wonder - could you eat chicken with your family? Why, of course you could... It's only in my presence that you can act yourself - with all your pitiful fears and insecurities - instead of the tomboy or the starlet or the brat... Wouldn't you agree that it's better to be hated for who you are than to be loved for who you are not? Really, you should be glad -"

His fingers are splayed on her throat, so he can feel the swallow after every mouthful, the sob after every accusation. Finally, he tilts her head to the side and tastes terror straight from her tongue.

She fumbles with a thought - Harry, Harry, Harry - but quails as soon as Tom squeezes neck in warning.

Legilimency in service of the mind-police.

- - -

Sometimes, Ginny considers shaping an H with bacon strips, but she is sure she will only see two horizontal T's in its place. That, too, is part of the ritual.