Author's Note: I do not own and never will own Harry Potter.
AU. Ginny/Voldemort. Warning for abuse (possibly) and dark themes in general. Also underage (nothing actually happens, but I suppose the thought is...there? Ish?)
She'd never felt so alive.
When his diary was destroyed, something inside her died with it. Barely conscious, Ginny had raged, wishing that she had the strength to stand, to move, to stop Harry as he'd plunged the basilisk fang through its cover and watched the ink within spurt across the floor. In the chaotic dimness, it had looked like blood.
Afterward, it all returned to normal, if there was such a thing. A pat on the head and a halfhearted scolding, and all was "well." Ginny was fine, wasn't she? She looked fine. Besides, St. Mungo's was too expensive, and she was a Weasley. The Weasleys were Good. Her red hair and freckles marked her as such, tainted her as pure. She had no choice.
She didn't talk about it when her mother pressed. She couldn't. Every time she saw Harry, she started shaking, overcome with an anger so strong her vision misted crimson. The way it had when he took control. She felt hollow without him, like her insides had been scraped and scoured of anything resembling life. She'd thought she was in love with Harry, but she knew what it was now. A foolish child's folly and now the worst had happened, and she had grown up.
In her third year, Voldemort rose again, and this time, he looked like a monster.
Ginny didn't care. Hadn't Molly Weasley always told her children to look beyond appearances? That it was what was inside that was most important? He was empty and he was cold, but that didn't matter, because Ginny was, too. She listened to the thrum of her heartbeat and followed its pull one night after the start of next term. She'd left the grounds, but she didn't care. Her wand was up her sleeve, but she didn't draw it.
"Ginevra," he whispered when the door creaked open and she saw him. His eyes were brilliantly bloody, and his tongue flickered to one side. He looked cadaverously pale, and the fingers that closed around her wrist were spider-like. She loved him anyway. He had used her in her first year, but she had let herself be used-
"Tom," she breathed and though the fingers on her arm tightened, he said nothing further.
"Let me stay," she begged, but he shook his head.
"Obey me," he said, the tip of his wand resting against her temple, but she didn't need it. He peered into her eyes and started to laugh, and the sound reminded her of cemeteries. She was so cold-
"Little Ginevra, you will be my snake in the grass, won't you?" he whispered.
"Yes," Ginny said.