Forgiven, Not Forgotten

All alone, staring on

Watching her life go by,

When her days are grey and her nights are black,

Different shades of mundane

Ginny Weasley sat with her back to the cold stone wall and contemplated her life, to date. Her childhood had been as happy as could be, fluffy, so to say. Her parents loved her, even if it was only because she was a girl. Her mother had coddled her, and her father had spoiled her as much as he could with the little money they had. Her brothers had played with her whenever she had asked them to, and if they had refused, it only took one puppy-look and a "Pwetty pweeeease" to convince them.

Then she had come to Hogwarts. She had put the sorting hat on her head, and for the first time in her life realized she might not want to be sorted into Gryffindor. She might not want to do everything her older brothers did, ever always be the sweet younger sister, forever the little kitten. These were the thoughts that spun in her mind as the sorting hat told her that she was ambidextrous, and the most cunning Weasley he had ever been perched upon, but she wasn't all that brave now, was she? Was she loyal? Well, only time would tell - she was definately insecure.

The sorting hat told her that he could put her in any house, and as she sat on the stool in front of her brothers, and the rest of the students and teachers, she whispered fervently to herself "Gryffindor ... please, put me in Gryffindor. I can't be the only Weasley to not be put in Gryffindor ..." She had been put in Gryffindor. She would regret it later.

And the one-eyed furry toy

That lies upon the bed has often heard her cry

And heard her whisper out a name long forgiven, but not forgotten,

You're forgiven not forgotten

She had had no friends in her first year at school. She pretended to like Colin Creevey for appearances' sake, so no attention would be drawn to the fact that she was an outsider. She didn't want her brothers to find out about what she was going through; about the feelings of hate, and guilt that tormented her alternately. She poured her soul into the diary she had found in her cauldron. She had done so already back in the Burrow before she came back to Hogwarts and her entries became steadily darker. The power of the diary grew and one day, she found it to be more than a bundle of pages that regurgitated her ink, the ghost of Tom Riddle became her best friend.

A bleeding heart torn apart, left on an icy grave.

In the room where they once lay, face to face,

Nothing could get in their way.

In more ways than one, she used him. She treated him like she had her diary; coming to him when she needed him and pouring her soul out to him. He listened patiently, never reprimanding, never criticizing or interrupting. He was there for her, always there for her. He hung on her words like it was what he had been born to do. "Why do you do this for me?" she had asked him, confused. No one had ever listened to her before. Their meetings in the Room of Requirement grew longer, and more intense. She moved from the floor, sitting next to him, on his lap.

The first time she kissed him, a shock had gone through her like an electric current. She could feel it travel through her veins, and vaguely wondered if every first kiss felt like this, or if it was different because Tom wasn't real or even if it was possibly fatal to kiss a ghost, a memory. She dreamed about the kiss for weeks, and felt a curious sensation in her abdomen every time she thought about it. With time their kisses grew deeper, more passionate.

At one point, she had run out of the room when he had put his hands under her blouse, and thrown the diary into the toilet. Harry had found it. But she had stolen it to go back to Tom. She needed him. He had told her to retrieve the diary; she did. When he had felt her up again, she didn't struggle. He let her become accustomed to his hands on her flesh before he started undressing her for the first time.

The night after he had removed her undergarments, she traced her hands along her verdant body, letting them linger in the places just as he had. She had overcome her shame, putting one hand between her legs. She felt the familiar tingling sensation, but the feeling was not as intense as when it was another's hands in her secret place. She was left unsatisfied, and it was only much later that she learned how to give herself pleasure.

"I know a way we can make the bond between us even stronger," He had told her. She had acquiesced. She had stopped resisting long ago. The first time he penetrated her, she had screamed in pain and blood and semen had stained the white carpet they lay on. The pain never went away, but she came every time. He was never gentle, but she relished the way he dominated her, and the pain- provided she even felt it- only added to her pleasure. Every morning found new bruises on her milk-white skin.

But now the memories of the man are haunting her days

And the craving never fades,

She's still dreaming of a man long forgiven,

But not forgotten.

Then he had taken her into the chamber, and Harry had confronted him. She hadn't realized how much she had been through in that one year. When the basilisk's venom had destroyed the diary, all the torture she had been oblivious to suddenly hit her. Pain had engulfed her in a tidal wave, and her whole body ached. She couldn't even move. Harry had thought it was because she was too weak, he couldn't even have imagined where. The thought made her smile mirthlessly.

Everyone had been so happy to have her back - Everyone had worried. She had been the center of attention for days, and her mother almost died. But still, no one had realized before, everyone had been oblivious to the fact that she was being possessed by some force stronger than herself, and no one had come to her when she had needed their help most. Her fragile body had been abused, and even though Madam Pomfrey had dressed the bruises on her skin, there had been the pain between her legs and an ache in her soul that no one could banish. She had been broken.

Still alone, staring on, wishing her life goodbye

As she goes searching for the man long forgiven,

But not forgotten.

You're forgiven not forgotten

You're not forgotten.

And now there was not even pain to fill the hole that gaped inside her. Her heart had turned cold, and she was incapable of emotion. She was beyond humiliation, and to the most extent, she was beyond physical pain. There was nothing anyone could have done for her, even if they tried. No amount of pity or caring could bring her back to reality. Ginny got up from the floor. Her back was sore from leaning against the wall so long. She didn't notice.

You're forgiven not forgotten

The next day she tripped in the hallway. Her bag fell to the ground in front of her, inkbottles smashing staining all her books and parchment. She lost her balance and landed in the mess on her hands and knees. She cut her palms and knees on the shards of glass on the floor, her blood pooling with the ink all around her. She began gathering her things, staining them with her life's fluid seeping out through the gashes in her hands. No one saw just how badly she had hurt herself, because her hands were blue and green with ink.

That night in her room, she looked at her wrists, and saw a red line traveling up from her palms. Blood poisoning. Ink had entered her body through the wounds in her hands. She had lost too much blood to think straight, and acted upon the first idea that came to her in her delirious state. Get rid of the blood. It's poisoned- get rid of it! She took her pocketknife and slit her wrists, not feeling the pain. As she lay on her bed, blood pooling around her and staining the pristine sheets with blooms of deep vermilion, she thought of cold blue eyes fringed by long black lashes, and a voice that had always chilled and aroused her at the same time. "You belong to me, Ginny Weasley ..."

You're forgiven not forgotten