Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Ginny had no illusions about her placing in life.
She wasn't the smart one, that accolade was held by Hermione, Brightest Girl of her Age. She wasn't the quirky manic pixie dream girl, that was Luna, who for all her acclaimed barminess still managed to snag the childhood crush of Ginny's dreams. She couldn't even claim the pretty one, as it was a universal agreement amongst the boys that dear Ronald's sidepiece, one Lavender Brown, held the crown to that.
She's just old Ginevra Weasley — the only girl in a house of six boys, achiever of middling results and all round decent footballer, but whoever bothered to watch women's football? The last being the snide observation courtesy of big brother Ron when she dared considered the idea of her playing the sport professionally.
What really stung was that he wasn't wrong. They couldn't even get real grass for their fields.
Still, she'd come a long way and even though it was no Cambridge or Oxford, she was the one with the medical degree while smarty pants Hermione contented with her law and bar. In a game of doctors versus lawyers, doctors would win, surely.
So who's laughing now?
Surely after she had taken on this, the biggest case of her just burgeoning career, it would be her.
She smothered the smile that threatened to blossom when she was handed the manila folder and thanked her superior with all the seriousness befitting a professional.
She knew who her patient was of course — Tom M. Riddle Jr, known parricide.
He'd avoided a lifetime imprisonment on the technicality of being a troubled juvenile when the crime was committed though Ginny wasn't quite certain that it was any better off for his development to be locked up in the asylum under heavy guard, forced therapies and near round the clock medication.
She flipped through the papers idly, briefly skimming over his file as she paced down white hallways, short heels click clacking off the tiled floors.
Reading his history was like studying a textbook case that the writer had made up as the ideal example of Mentally Disturbed. Ginny might as well have just compiled a list of The Makings of a Killer 101 and ticked all the boxes off. She wondered if she'd sent Riddle's profile off to her old university professor whether he'd have a conniption all over his perfectly aligned desk. The man had always despised the lack of creativity in the thick textbooks, loudly insisting that human beings rarely, if not never, fit into such perfectly labelled squares.
Junkie mother, absent father — if his father was even aware of his existence — with a history of having the neighbours call the police on him in suspicion of him "what done something to Edna, my poor cat" or "being up to no good, he is, mark my words" that eventually culminated in the discovery of the bodies buried in the general grounds of what council flat he'd taken refuge in that year, cat and otherwise.
It was no surprise, to Ginny at least, to find out that the bodies consisted of one Merope Gaunt, Riddle's mother, missing for a few years, presumed gone the way people like her tended to go and his father, so dismembered and scattered, the police had yet to find all the parts of Tom Riddle Sr till this day.
Following the discovery, he'd been caught and put in front of the courts quicker than one could say "Magna Carta" where he'd escaped the death penalty by virtue of it being abolished more than 30 years earlier — the fact that he'd been a minor was irrelevant since precedence had dictated the punishment be given for far less — and thrown into 'rehabilitation' because if the Viking socialists up north could do it, so could the English.
Riddle had long since outgrown the juvenile aspect but if there was one thing the powers that be agreed on was that they wanted him out of what god forsaken hole they had thrown him in and reintegrated into normal society, presumably to shut up the dissenters that kept insisting the Norwegians were the only ones who knew what they were doing when it came to running a country.
Riddle cycled through the psychiatrists like tissue paper and they kept on sending more.
Now the case had fallen into Ginny's hands and she'd be damned if she let it slip out from between her calloused fingers.
If they — they being her friends — knew she was treating him they'd... well, Ginny wasn't about to allow a misplaced sense of loyalty to deter her from attaining her goals. She'd use the mad man to gain her own fame, whether her friends or Riddle liked it or not.
Ginny stopped in front of the doors that would admit her into Riddle's presence and swept a hand over her hair, pushing any strays back into the tight bun before moving it down her front to straighten her blouse.
She cleared her throat and rearranged her grip on the folder before pushing the barrier open with the heel of her palm, the click clack of her short heels disappearing between the swing of the double doors.
They had sat at an impasse for what seemed like centuries. Ginny had to consciously resist the urge to pick at the edges of the folder.
They were sat at the table, him staring off at some point beyond her shoulder and her determinedly searching his face for- anything, really. They weren't even doing anything at all but Ginny had the sinking feeling that she'd already lost the game she hadn't known they were playing.
"The time would pass a lot faster if you'd talk," Ginny said, for all the good that did. He remained impervious, as unmoved as a brick wall and still staring off into the distance.
Ginny nearly turned her head to follow his line of sight and only stopped herself in time, having already done that earlier and seeing nothing there. It seemed the wall was a more fascinating subject to this Riddle than her face was.
"If this is a strategy to get rid of me then I'm afraid you'll have to try harder," Ginny said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms.
That, it seemed, caught his attention. His gaze darted to her crossed arms and she hastily pressed them back onto the table into a more open posture.
"How about," Riddle started and Ginny had to lean forward almost to his side of the table to be able to hear what he was saying. "I propose a trade."
"Trade?" Ginny repeated, eyebrows arched incredulously even as her arms twitched to cross themselves again.
"You tell me something about yourself," Riddle said, an easy smile coming over his face, "and I'll tell you something about me."
Ginny squinted at him to which he tilted his head, that inexplicably infuriating smile still plastered on his lips, and started drumming his fingers on the table.
"Is this a game to you?" Ginny questioned.
"I do believe you were the one who wanted me to talk," Riddle said pleasantly, fingers playing a rhythmless beat that set off a twitching in her arm. Briefly, she wondered if she could feign the old "there was a mosquito" excuse if she swatted his hand off the table.
"I wanted to play football professionally," Ginny said after another moment of calculating silence, unsure what possessed her to offer that titbit up as her first piece of personal information to trade.
"Ah," Riddle said in a tone of polite dismissal. Irritation flared up in Ginny as his gaze slid off her to whatever disgusting patch on the floor held his interest this time.
"This is a mere exchange of information," Ginny said. "I'll thank you to keep your judgments to yourself."
"Touchy, are we?" Riddle said, a brief flare of amusement lighting up in his dark eyes.
"Well?" Ginny said, ignoring his jibe and pushing the edge of her reading glasses further up the bridge of her nose.
"Well what?" Riddle asked.
"There has to be an actual exchanging of information for this to be considered a trade," Ginny said pointedly.
"Of course," Riddle said, tapping his fingernail on the table in thought. "I killed my mother and then my father."
Ginny's brow furrowed. "I already know that."
"Well, we didn't specify it had to be unknown information now, did we?"
It was only when he ceased his incessant drumming did Ginny realise that she had subconsciously been mirroring the action. She stopped abruptly and flickered her gaze to her wristwatch before levelling a hard look at the man in front of her.
"This session is over," Ginny announced as she stood to gather her file and pens. She paused, midway through reaching out for the pen that had rolled to his side and raised her head to look at him. "Let me be clear about one thing."
"I'm not here to humour you or coddle you," she said, plucking the pen and straightening to her full height. "I'm here to reshape you until you're fit to walk among normal society again and I will do my job if it's the last thing I do."
Tom Riddle Jr grinned then, a devastatingly charming grin that seemed out of place in that sterile room with its white walls and the permeating smell of disinfectant. For a moment, it seemed the world had shifted sharply two inches to the left before it moved back again.
"I look forward to it, Dr Weasley."
They'd been at it for months and Ginny had as much as a breakthrough on the Riddle case as the First Emperor of China had with his search of the key to immortality.
It was one step forwards, three steps back with Riddle. Any attempt Ginny made with broaching more personal topics with him was as futile and unsatisfying as a one man squash game. He'd never be so obvious as to change the line of conversation outright but she found herself diverted to talking about her family and home life more times than she cared to admit.
Though, really, it wouldn't have been too bad if Hermione hadn't just triumphed at her first major case against some bigwig corporation defending the rights of some soon-to-be extinct species. And the situation would certainly have been easier to handle if Lavender hadn't won that pie baking contest on ITV only to be proposed to by Ronald the arse on national telly.
But then Loony Luna, of all people, had to get that much coveted research grant to go travel around the world investigating local mythical creatures — as if that was a thing that needs looking into — and dragged Harry along with her as well, of course.
Ginny had celebrated all that good news in her car, crying herself to sleep in an ASDA parking lot after devouring a whole pint of vanilla bean ice cream with a side of wholesome lager.
If pathetic came in any other flavours, then she wasn't told about it. She'd only managed to drag herself into work that morning after popping into ASDA — self-service, of course, there was no need to leave herself open to judgment again — for some supplies and enough own-brand paracetamol to drop a horse.
Ginny was vaguely aware that she hadn't reigned herself in enough to not be giving Riddle the stink eye but at the rate her head was pounding, he should be counting himself lucky that he hadn't been met with last night's ice cream yet.
She ignored his far too amused mien and pushed the nice moleskine journal she'd found tucked in some forgotten corner of ASDA towards him. He raised an eyebrow and did not touch the book.
"Ten pounds for a..." at this he paused and lifted the cover gingerly with one finger, "notebook? I believe you overpaid for this."
"It's a moleskine journal," Ginny snapped.
"Notebook," Riddle repeated, emphasising the two syllables like he was speaking to someone especially dim.
"Journal," Ginny stressed.
"Glorified notebook," Riddle amended. Ginny narrowed her eyes at him but then some point at the top of her head twinged and she sighed, bringing two fingers up to massage the side of her temples.
"It's for you," she said instead, nudging it to him with her other hand. "To write on. Anything that you might find difficult to say."
Frustrated wasn't the word to describe how she felt when she got the journal back from Riddle a few days later only to flip through it and be met with pages upon pages of blank nothingness.
She rather felt like screaming at him but that might result in a reprimand, if not worse, and then all her efforts would have been for naught. Instead, she punched the stuffing out of her pillow and met him the next day with a measured calm that she did not feel.
"Why didn't you write in it?"
Riddle raised his gaze indolently from inspecting his nails to her, as if he'd just only been made aware of her presence.
"I didn't think my inner thoughts appropriate for such a young and delicate audience," he said, lips curling lazily into a knife-sharp smile. Ginny kept her palms flat against the table so they wouldn't ball up into fists.
"You are only five years older than I am, Riddle," Ginny gritted out. "And let's not kid ourselves about my delicacy."
"I've already killed two people by your age," Riddle said, laughing, though no trace of humour reached those dark eyes. "What have you done, Ginevra?"
Ginny bit down on her inner cheek but did not waver her scrutiny of his face. An undecipherable look flashed across his face but was gone before Ginny could make much out of it.
"What do you want in exchange for writing in the journal?" she asked before she could regret it.
"You'd do anything?" he mused aloud. Ginny wondered if it was too late to take the offer back now. "Anything at all?"
"Within reason," Ginny stipulated.
"Tom," he said and Ginny frowned in confusion. "Call me Tom. Riddle was my father."
He reached out then, to Ginny, and clasped a hand over hers. Ginny swiftly pulled her hand back, cradling it to her chest with the other. He smiled, easy and unperturbed by her actions and slowly drew his arm back to his side, head cocked slightly to the left. Ginny blinked at him with wide eyes and eventually nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
His touch burned.
The earliest memory I have of my childhood is of the burning taste of alcohol.
Merope would be passed out on the sofa and the unpleasant task of taking care of me would fall to Morfin, my uncle. This was before his imprisonment. Marvolo always blamed her somehow for that, as if the bastard needed any help getting there.
Morfin's idea of childcare was to feed the child whisky till it or he dropped into a drunken stupor, whichever came first. He was on the dole but the money never lasted him long. When he ran out, he'd paw through Merope's purse for cash.
The neighbours used to think Merope was a whore. She always left the flat at night and came back at dawn. I never personally gave too much thought to why that always seemed to be the first thing people's minds jump to. She wasn't that much of a stereotype — she worked nights cleaning office buildings. But between the junkie and the alcoholic, money was always short.
Most of the time we'd run out of food. But the drink? That was always there.
There wasn't much difference to their sessions after that. Ginny still pushed and Tom still evaded, but there was a growing sense of camaraderie as she began to understand the conundrum that was Tom Riddle.
She stopped demanding for all his silent lapses — which were frequent — to be filled and let him be till he continued on his own accord. In return, he eased on the constant deflection and started occasionally answering her queries.
Neither ever mentioned nor referenced the journal and its contents.
Sometimes he'd still play his little trading game but she found herself minding telling him about herself less and less.
When news of Harry's spontaneous marriage to Luna reached her, she had snapped at him, nearly chewed his head off for his amicable teasing jibes about her lack of companionship. After a moment of wrenching guilt and growing dismay at the signs of his body language shuttering against her, she'd blurted out her apologies then confessed her inner thoughts and desires to him.
He listened quietly and she didn't feel judged at all.
Marvolo had not one paternal bone in his body. Being a father was something that happened to someone else and being a grandfather — I don't think the possibility ever crossed his mind.
When Merope had me, I think he just hoped the problem would just resolve itself. She'd always been sickly — maybe he thought she'd never be able to carry me to term.
He ignored me, for the most part. It was an arrangement that suited us both fine.
Then one time Merope got herself into A&E. Overdosed, they said. They found her slumped over in some corner in the dodgy back alleys of London. She was lucky she wasn't dead, they said. I'm not so sure of that, myself.
This was after Morfin was arrested, so Marvolo had to come pull me out of primary for the 'family emergency'. He was as uncomfortable as I was on that bus ride to the hospital. He kept fidgeting and sweating.
He took me to the room where they put her. She didn't look any worse off than usual, to be honest. There was only one chair in the entire room and Marvolo had sat himself down in it the minute we'd entered. There was nowhere else to sit and the floor looked like it could give me tetanus, so I perched on the edge of the bed and watched the machines beep.
"Boy, boy," I heard him say. Apparently he'd been calling me for a while. He gestured for me to go to him and having nothing else to do, I did. He patted his lap when I neared. It was absurd. The man barely talked to me but there he was trying to comfort me like we had a relationship.
To this day, I don't know why I did it, but... Maybe it was out of morbid curiosity.
"Boy," he said when I've settled down. "She will be fine. You'll see, boy. Your mother is strong, she is."
Then he bounced me on his knee. I think he saw people doing that on the telly and thought it was one of those things you had to do as a grandparent. It wasn't pleasant, his knee was too bony. But it was the single, solitary, occasion he'd put any effort in. He'd even let me play with that locket of his. It's supposed to be some heirloom — he was never without it.
That was the most he ever said to me since I was brought home, swathed in those blankets the nurses give the new mothers.
I was named after him, did you know? That's what the M stands for.
Tom barely blinked as Ginny pushed the recorder to the middle of the table.
"What is that?" he asked, casually leaning away like it'd turn on him any second now and rip his throat out.
"It's a recorder," Ginny explained, barely able to contain the smile that threatened to break through.
"I can see that," Tom said brusquely. "What is it for?"
"And don't," Tom said, eyes flashing, "say it's to record voices."
"Oh this?" Ginny grinned and even his narrowed eyes did not wipe the joy off her face. "This means that you keep this up and we'll have you out in no time."
"I... see," he said but Ginny was too busy cooing over the recorder and what it meant to notice the way Tom had stiffened in his chair, fists clenched tightly to his sides.
Ginny's heart raced as she ran through the hallways, heels pounding the tiles mercilessly. Her hair was out of its usual tight bun and it flew behind her as she stopped her momentum just in time to avoid slamming into the wall and skidded to take the right turn.
"Where is he?!" she screamed just as the orderly exited the staff room.
"Dr Weasley?" the man managed to get out before he was pulled down to her level to come face to face to a spitting angry Weasley.
"Tom- Riddle, where is he?!" she hissed, yanking on the man's collar.
"He- He's in Solitary," the man answered as he tried to pull back as far as he could go with the tight grip she had on his shirt.
"Who gave you the authorization to put him into Solitary?! He's my patient!" Ginny yelled. "MINE!"
"He attacked some of the other patients..." the man explained.
"Did you consider that perhaps he was provoked?!" she interrupted, righteous in her fury. "Did you put the other patients in Solitary too?!"
"Unhand him please, Dr Weasley," came a calm voice to the side. Ginny whipped her head around, red hair spilling across her face, ready to give a tongue lashing to the other person too. The words sputtered and died as she looked upon the distinctly unimpressed face of Head Nurse McGonagall. "I shall not repeat myself."
Reluctantly, Ginny unhooked her fingers from the orderly's collar and forced her arms down, cheeks flushed.
"Dr Weasley. He was a danger to himself and to the others," McGonagall said in a clipped tone. "You have a job to do, as do we. We did ours."
Ginny bit her lip but kept quiet.
"You may see him now," McGonagall said, glancing coolly at Ginny before giving a curt nod to the orderly.
"I hope you treat your patients better than you treat the staff, Dr Weasley," McGonagall said as she passed Ginny by to get to her rounds.
The orderly that Ginny nearly choked earlier looked expectant and gestured gingerly down an adjacent hallway. He gave her a wide berth as she passed him to get to where he directed before he followed her down the corridor.
"Why?" was the first thing she asked when the orderly stepped out, just beyond the heavy doors, keys jangling in his belt loop. He was close enough to rush in if trouble aroused but far enough to afford them privacy. Ginny was aware of the protocol, but that didn't mean she approved of it. She shifted to the still ajar door and pulled it as close as she could without inviting the man's intrusion.
Ginny liked to think she knew Tom Riddle by now but the low laugh he gave in answer to her question was unfamiliar. A chill ran down her spine and she shuddered, gathering her cardigan closer.
"Stop it," she said but he only laughed harder at this unknown joke that seemed to be at her expense. His back shook and he was laughing so hard there were no longer any sounds coming from him, just the desperate pulls of air in intervals.
"Because, dear Ginevra," Tom wheezed, tears of mirth spilling out from the corners of his eyes and streaming down his cheeks. "Because I can."
The most schooling I've had was up to Form 3. I liked school. I was good at it.
Contrary to what the media liked to spout, I've never had a bullying problem. I was made prefect; my peers respected me. The lower forms used to come to me when they had problems with their homework. Some of the upper forms paid me to do theirs.
I didn't scoff. It was easy money.
My favourite classes were the sciences, especially Biology. Anatomy fascinated me. I couldn't dissect a human, or at least the thought never occurred to me back then so I went for the next best thing.
Mrs Jones had too many cats anyway. Her flat was practically a health hazard.
There's a lot to be said about hands on learning. Whatever happened to the practice of grave robbing to get cadavers for medical school? Do they still do that? Or is it all done the 'civilized' way now? I can only presume that means there are fewer bodies to go around.
I could have gone up to sixth form. I could have gone to medical school.
Something happened to Ginny when she was eleven.
She went missing for a time. Ginny had no real recollection as to how long. It was long enough for her mother to worry, long enough for the bobbies to tell her parents to prepare for the eventuality of a funeral. She didn't really remember much either of what happened during the 'Disappearing Act' as her older brothers so graciously dubbed it. Her brain might as well have been a colander for how well the memories leaked out of her.
The psychologists suggested that it was her mind's defence mechanism for protecting itself against experienced trauma. Suppression, they told her in their weedy little voices. She refused a second appointment, pretending she was well enough to not need another. Her parents easily believed her. When there were seven children to care for along with limited funds to do so, anyone would automatically stop pushing after a certain point too.
Ginny still had nightmares plaguing her sleep. She'd wake up in a cold sweat, remembering nothing and knowing only blank voids that consisted of an unknown terror.
The diary — Tom's — that she kept by her bedside and sometimes ended up nodding off to filled up the holes in her mind. The nightmares ceased and turned into dreams instead.
Merope wasn't the first. Neither was it Tom.
You could even argue that Merope was really just collateral damage. She was useless as a mother, but she knew, or at least suspected, what I had done. She would have interfered.
Perhaps I would have been better off if I'd just set up an overdose. She had already have a history and I knew her hiding spots, but it didn't seemed right somehow. Life had already thrown her around; she deserved a better end than that, I'd thought.
I put her under the rose bushes; I figured she'd like that.
No, they never found the first nor knew about it because I buried him in the woods outside of Wiltshire. They'd gotten themselves up into such a tizzy after discovering Merope and Tom they didn't think to check if there were more.
It was a good spot, scenic, more than he deserved, really. See, I found out some things about him, and well, Morfin had to learn it from somewhere, didn't he? He'd mellowed out considerably by the time I came along but stopping doesn't absolve someone from all the abuse they've handed out over the years, does it?
I made sure the hole was deep, lest the animals get to him. That'd be too easy. I may be forced to carry his name, but he'll never get a grave marker of his own.
It took Ginny three hours to find the spot he wrote about and even then she wasn't sure she got the right one.
Sweat rolled off her back and forehead in rivulets, dripping onto the soil beneath. The shovel she brought didn't seem adequate and the work seemed to be going slow. Her shoulders ached and her back twinged painfully when she tried to straighten it. She wiped at her face to remove the strands of hair sticking to her cheek and smeared a line of dirt on it; still, she kept at it, hoping that she wasn't wrong.
Ginny had started out from home before the dawn broke and now the midday sun was high up in the sky, only the scarce trees provided any shade against the rays. She cursed herself aloud, feeling the waves of heat rising from the ground. She had foolishly only brought one bottle of water with her and that was long gone by now. The thought of giving up crossed her mind again when her back spasmed another reminder that she could have been at home, in bed, with the air conditioning on at full blast.
When the shovel blade finally hit something that wasn't soil, Ginny cried out in triumph.
Tom was stood, staring out the window when Ginny came in.
He made no move to acknowledge her presence as she slid into her chair and silently waited. Minutes passed while she kept checking her watch till finally he clucked disapprovingly and turned partway to her.
"Are you waiting for someone?" he asked. "Am I imposing on your time?"
"No," Ginny said, offering no further explanation and gazed at him for the longest time until she beckoned him forward. He stood his ground, crossing his arms as she reached into her collar and pulled out a long chain, a pendant dangling in the middle.
His eyes widened and he strode forward in two steps, knelt in front of her and reached between her breasts where the pendant fell and wrapped his hand around it, bringing it to his eye level.
He stroked a finger on the locket, its surface gleaming under the light.
Tom flicked his eyes to her and back to the locket again. "Never thought I'd see it again," he said.
"It's yours," she said, ducking her head and tugging the chain off while he still held on to the locket. She dropped the chain into his open palm and closed his fingers around it before looking him in the eye. "I destroyed the rest."
Tom froze, stilling for a moment, then slowly a smile unfurled, manic and beautiful, and her heart clenched.
He surged forward, her mind barely registering that he's moved, then he was on her, parting her lips with a sharp nip of teeth that left her gasping. His hand snaked up to tilt her head back, the back of her neck pressed uncomfortably against the locket as he devoured her.
He tasted of sweetness and rot and yet she can't help but to want more.
Under the advisement of Dr Ginevra Weasley along with the support of her superiors, Tom Riddle Jr was declared fit for society. There was a brief announcement regarding his successful rehabilitation in the papers then all news of him tapered off soon after.
Morfin Gaunt, Tom Riddle's other known living relative, was released from prison a few years following Tom Riddle's liberation. He drifted in and out of shelters before he was killed in an unfortunate pub altercation.
The status of his nephew remained unknown.
-fin-
A/N: While it took me a few days (yay for free time! - it won't last though) to hammer this out, it's more accurate to say it took 6 months for me to really write it out. I've had this on the back burner for quite a while and for the longest time didn't exactly know what to do with it. It's done, but there's some part of me that just can't look at the last few bits without wanting to delete the entire thing. Nevertheless, it's time it got out there so I can stop thinking about it.
As always, be supportive of authors. Leave a review. Even a simple "I like it!" is enough to brighten an author's day.