Author's Note: I was trying to write a Ginny/Draco or a Snape/Sinistra, but this came out instead. Surprising, the things your head can do when you're not watching it like a hawk. All quotes in italics are from Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra. Something Ginny/Tom-ish for you all.

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She was his queen, and he the aspiring king, with dreams and schemes of greater magnitude than himself. He was determined to conquer death as well as life. And she admired his ambition, his confidence, his strength. He would not shelter her or protect her. He understood that she didn't need protection. She wanted dependence, and he wanted control. Both needed each other.

Ginny had scarcely dared to imagine a man like Tom. He was her most fervent fantasy made a living illusion.

Think you there was, or might be, such a man as this I dream'd of?

The diary she found hidden in her school text-books became her outlet, her best friend, her worst enemy, and her first love. She remembered his first words to her, seemingly a garbled mess of random words, but now they seemed to make more sense than she wanted them to: innocence domination blood pain love passion despair hope hunger power. Ginny had opened it when he was unaware of her presence; she had caught him in the middle of a monologue that no one else should hear. He never wanted to hurt her, he said. He told her later he had fallen in love with her innocence.

As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle . . .

Ginny hadn't meant any of it to happen, at first. Her innocence was so alluring to him, and his own had been tainted an eternity ago. He tried to take it from her, but it slipped away from him like fine dust and dandelion fluff. In her distraught state, she was walking a razor's edge, and when she teetered, Tom caught her in his arms and merged himself with her.

O Cleopatra. Thou art taken, queen.

Ginny wasn't sure what to think. Tom had always been the decisive one. He had told her what was expected of her, and she did his will. She had slaughtered the chickens, used their blood for paint and written on the walls. It wasn't until after her attack of Mrs. Norris had she realized what, exactly, she had been doing. Horrified, she had panicked and thrown the diary, the prison of her soul, away. What goes around, comes around, they say. And it was true.

Ginny had come so close that day. She had gone down to dinner and sat by her first crush, Harry Potter. And when he'd asked what was wrong, with the genuine concern and tenderness Tom had never shown, she had almost told him. Almost.

Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain; that I may say, the gods themselves do weep.

Presently the eighteen-year-old got up from her bed and went into the bathroom. It was in the cabinet, waiting for her. She took the bottle in her slim milk-pale hands and unscrewed the top.

Now she was away from Tom, yet caged and trapped by his memory. | He'll make demand of her, and spend that kiss which is my heaven to have | She had hoped the basilisk would kill her that day in the Chamber. | With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate of life now at once untie | At least she would have died in his arms, and not now, in her own. | Where art thou, death? | Ginny raised the bottle to her lips and took a sip of bitter liquid. | Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips. | Finally, she drained the bottle. She knew she was taking the coward's way out, and her vision blurred with tears. She would not cry. Ginny forced her thoughts to Tom. Always Tom. | All strange and terrible events are welcome, but comforts we despise; our size of sorrow | There would be no blood with her death. Ginny was glad; she had lost her appreciation for it far too long ago. | I do not see them bleed | The bottle fell from her grasp, now empty. Soon after, Ginny followed it. She was free; free from Tom and his horrible love.

Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies a lass unparallel'd.