She developed a fear of journals, but she couldn't forget the two men who had overpowered her. Tom, yes, she would think of, but never fondly. She learned right away to hate Tom.

But Lucius.

Lucius was confusing. He had that awful habit of showing up everywhere always, and she began to be able to smell him coming. And he always knew how to lord it over her, the fact that he had ruined one whole year of her life. He could do it with a look too, just one look to remind her that in the end, he had the control.


When the war was over, everyone stopped talking about it suddenly, as if nothing had happened. Maybe for 3 or 4 months you could get away with saying something along the lines of "Sometimes at night I still worry that the Death Eaters will come", but after a while even that would earn you a strange look. Ginny never spoke of her time possessed, either.


Once when she was out with her friends, they saw Draco Malfoy. His hair was thinning, and he had a look of malaise about him. Ginny thought that he looked how she felt.

"I almost feel bad for the guy," Ron whispered. "His mum is really sick, and his dad has become a sort of outcast. Never leaves the house apparently."

"Don't feel so bad for them, Ron," Hermione snapped. "It's not like they've earned it."

"I just kind of pity him, that's all."

Ginny stared pointedly into her tea, and wondered how she was going to come up with a reason to go to Malfoy Manor.


She just wanted an answer to one simple question: why did he do it? What inspired him to punish someone so young, and who was a pureblood on top of it all? Why had he singled her out for a lifetime of torment?

She tried to imagine his answer, but in her mind, unspoiled by years of dark magic, there is no reason good enough to ruin a girl of 11.


In the end, there was no reason. There was only the knowledge that he, according to Ron, will be there. One morning she woke up, and instead of getting dressed for work, she dressed for a journey.


"Come in, Ms. Weasley."

"Ginny."

"Ginevra."

"Whatever you like." And she meant it.

"Why did you come?"

"You know what I want to know."

"You want to know about the diary."

"Yes, desperately."

"Then please, come in."

He showed her to a room with a massive fireplace and stiff furniture, and she perched on the edge of a Slytherin green couch. He handed her a glass of wine, and she took it but did not drink. He sat down across from her, took a sip from his own glass, and fixed his eyes with hers. Suddenly, she was afraid.

"Does anyone ever ask you about the diary?"

"No."

"They don't care that you were possessed."

"No."

"I care."

Another sip. Her glass was still shaking in her hands, untouched.

"Tom used me. He made me hate myself. I still hate myself."

"I understand."

He recognized his chance; he leaned forward.

"What if," he drawled, "I could give you something else to obsess over?"