A/N: This is super old and unfinished and all, but I felt like editing today, so that's what I did. :-)
DESPERATION
By: Frances
Ginny hugged the stack of worn, hand-me-down books closer to her chest, the voices of students she passed echoing like ghosts in her ears. On either side of her towered the huge, stained glass windows that lined the hallways of Hogwarts' first floor: scarlet, green, yellow and blue. Patches of distorted light fell onto her hair and shoulders, making her feel strangely off-kilter. Everywhere, their eyes followed her. She swore that sometimes she could even hear their mirthful whispers, giggling and gawking at the short, awkward girl with a mass of red curls and a splotch of ugly freckles. And no friends. She was certain they picked up on that charming particular.
She felt trapped, as if every attempt to reach her was made out of pity or was dreadfully insincere. Every member of the family had tried to figure out what was wrong with her– even Fred and George had approached her in their own, useless way. It was Ron's concern that had frightened her the most, though. He had always been her favorite brother, with an overprotectiveness that was both sweet and annoying at the same time.
"You're scaring us, Gin; it's not like you to be so withdrawn," he'd said uncomfortably as he stood in her doorway. Awkward had become part of his nature, exuding from his lanky build and sweet persona. But with Ginny, he was always painfully honest: "Mum thinks you're losing your marbles. She's worried sick." He bowed his head, shuffling nervously before glancing back up at her. "We all are."
Insulted, Ginny felt a flare of anger fill her chest. She kept her face carefully blank and regarded Ron with mild disdain. "I'm fine," she declared icily. "It's no wonder I'd seek a little privacy, what with you nosing about."
Hurt, he had shuffled out of the room, murmuring a rare apology with a strange expression on his face. It was saddened and angry, but mingled about with it was... grief? That had given her a good push toward the edge that she now precariously teetered from. She had cried herself to sleep that night, her inky bedroom illuminated only by the crescent moon.
The emotion that had entangled her in its obscure web was unlike any she had ever experienced. She had thought at first that it was depression-- a sickening plea for companionship in her quiet, lonely life. But weeks, months, a year went by and still she felt haunted. It was the middle of her third year when realization finally hit her like an iron fist.
She missed Him.
After all this time, after all her hoping and praying that Harry would ask her to the Yule Ball, that Harry would suddenly look at her the way he looked at Cho, that bloody Harry would sweep her off her feet, out of this void, and take her to a lovely castle on an enchanted island where he would be Prince Charming and she would awake as Sleeping Beauty. After all this time, it wasn't Harry that she thirsted for, after all. It was Him.
Tall, thin but muscular, with a violet and inquisitive gaze; always willing to hug her when she was upset, or to kiss the top of her head and offer a kind word.. At first they had only written, of course. Through prose, Ginny had offered up her entire being for a few scraps of information about the boy she was falling in love with. But after a month of waiting, a window popped up in the center of her diary. The gap between them closed..
It dropped Ginny in the Slytherin Common Room, as He had known it some fifty years ago. It was empty, of course, but an emerald flame always glittered in the grate, casting eerie but beautiful shadows like flickering butterflies about the long, rectangular room. High-backed velvet chairs always waited for her. They were not particularly comfortable, but the beauty in their gloomy sophistication was almost exhilarating. Giant oak tables with polished, claw-like feet rested neatly atop ornate oriental rugs, their tops glittering with ink bottles, fancy quills, and other trinkets, alongside china of the very fine sort. A few cups were even brimming with tea. Smaller, circular tables sat faithfully at the side of the armchairs, though no less shiny or gaudy than the rest of the room. Silver and green tapestries poured from the low ceilings and pooled onto the cold stone floor. Most of them depicted the more gory scenes of Greek Mythology, but the one closest to the door bore only a gargantuan silver snake, so silky and cleverly sewn that often Ginny could not stand to stare at it for the strange, gnawing fear that it was gazing back.
In the far corner of the room there always stood a large stack of glowing parchment with a single peacock quill scratching frenziedly atop it. Upon closer examination, Ginny had been astonished to discover that the quill narrated her every move.
He always sat in the second chair from the left, and would not turn his frighteningly beautiful face to her until she sat in the seat next and commenced conversation. He would fold his hands and stretch out his legs, listening intently while she chatted with utter abandon. Once she had asked him about the glowing parchment, but he waved off the subject as though it were insignificant.
Now older and wiser, she knew those splendid times were actually the ghastly hours of the night during which he would possess her and drain her life force. She could cast back in her memory and pinpoint the exact moment he had revealed his secret, and the exact millisecond her heart had shattered.
To this day, she had not been able to recover it.
It was sickening to her, that anyone would so freely manipulate others, let alone an innocent child. It tore her up inside, remembering the way his breathtaking smile had morphed into a vicious sneer. Every trusting part of her, every twinge of naivete or inner child was driven away, leaving only an empty shell, longing once again to be full. Full, regardless of the price.
She had to obtain that diary.
And obtain it she did try, though none too pleasantly. She had approached Draco Malfoy. Not only had she approached him– she had begged him for any information about the whereabouts of her beloved book. Haughtily, he laughed in her face, making sure to twist every knife that had worked its way under her skin. After weeks of torment and postponing, he still told her there wasn't a chance in hell that he would ever assist a Weasley.
Tossed once again into a vortex of desperation, Ginny had just begun researching Dark Arts when the pieces of her puzzle perfectly aligned.
She was fumbling for Newts' Eyes in a dark storage closet one afternoon when she stumbled upon Draco. A very much shirtless Draco, in fact, with none other than Blaise Zabinni. Who, coincidentally, was very much in a relationship with the son of the French Minister of Magic. Considering she had already lowered her standards to begging, she rather thought that blackmail was a step up. It worked surprisingly well. Not only, she discovered, was the diary repaired– it was carefully catalogued in the Malfoy Library. All Draco had to do to access it was write a letter to his butler, Marcus.
Continuing down the wide hallway, Ginny caught her reflection in one of the display cases she passed and could not suppress a shudder. Dark circles loomed under her eyes like shiny bruises, glinting against the sallow hue of her skin. She bowed her head, wondering what Tom would say if he could see her like this.
"Ginny, you look terrible!What happened? Are you ill?"
That's what he had said to her when the attacks started. And he had known, the whole time! All the concern, the comfort– it was all a façade! Yet some part of her clung to hope. She couldn't help feeling that there was a chance he had used her with some reluctance, as if maybe, in the smallest of ways, she had meant something to him. It was a frail dream but it could not be extinguished.
Sighing, Ginny slipped unnoticed into the trophy room, pausing as her eyes adjusted to the thick blackness. The heavy curtains had all been drawn, and the huge cabinets hovered in the dark like dementors.
She hastily pulled out her wand. "Lumos she whispered and instantly the room leapt to life. In the corner was Draco, silent and stony, his cold gaze flickering lazily up and down her thin figure. A knot tightened in her stomach. How long has he been here?
"Jesus, Weasley," he muttered as he gracefully rose from his position of leaning against the wall. "What the hell happened to you?" It was not a kind remark but, wordlessly, Ginny wondered how he made it sound so much more insulting.
"Nothing happened to me," she snapped, glaring. "Do you have the book?"
Warily, Draco pulled it from the folds of his robes, clutching it for a moment before turning his eyes to her. "I don't think you should do this," he said quietly.
Ginny could not suppress a gasp as she laid eyes on the diary. A sharp longing in her chest made it hard to even breathe. "Do what?" she whispered.
"This. I don't think you should reanimate this book, Ginny. Look what it's doing to you. You were bad enough as it is, but now you're a lunatic as well?"
Startled at his usage of her first name, Ginny took a step back. Her brow knitted with unease. "What would you care if I went insane, Malfoy?" she spat defensively. "What's it to you, really?"
Fine strands of silver fell into his eyes as he bowed his head and was silent for a long while. His expression was wavering and contemplative. Just when Ginny thought he would not answer, his shoulders tensed and he scowled. "It's nothing to me," he said through narrowed eyelids, curling and uncurling his free hand into a fist. When he turned his face to her again his lips were pursed and there was a strange flicker in his eyes. He threw the book at her feet. "You were warned, Weasley." With an unearthly stealth, he moved to the door and clutched the knob, but not before turning to her. "I don't know what you believe you've found inside of him, but it's not real. Nothing about him is." His sparkling silver eyes were like carefully carved chips of ice, angelic and haunting at the same time. "He will kill you."
"It's a chance I'm willing to take."
"It's not a chance. It's a promise." With a cold nod, he whipped open the door and slid out into the hallway.
Ginny watched silently until he was gone, nausea swirling her vision and putting off her balance. She swayed violently, clutching a chair for support as her wand clattered to her feet and rolled across the floor. Breathing heavily, she pulled a quill from her pocket and pounced on the unsuspecting little book. It looked eerie in the half-light, appearing to absorb all color around it. Ginny shivered as its cool leather came in contact with her skin. Her mouth dry and her heart pounding wildly against her chest, she opened to the front page, blood rushing in her ears like river rapids after a heavy rainstorm. The familiar words "PROPERTY OF TOM M. RIDDLE" stood boldly against the worn parchment. She felt her stomach drop anxiously. Her hand shook as she touched the tip of the quill to the paper and her handwriting was twisty and foreign to her own eyes.
Tom? There was a long, agonizing pause, and then:
Hello, Ginny.
Adrenaline surging like wildfire through her veins, she released the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.
Tom, everything has been so horrible without you. Every inch of her body shook as if from withdraw.
I imagine so. It's been dark there, all by yourself. Ginny stared blankly at the page, her heart stopping in wonderment at his ability to predict her emotions so well. Hasn't it?
Yes. It has.
I must admit, I feared you would have misunderstood, and steered away from me. I'm pleased you've given me an opportunity to correct our miscommunication.
Ginny blinked. Miscommunication?
Of course. Ginny, you never really thought I wanted to cause you pain, did you? Please, come to me. I will explain everything.
Hot, stinging tears fell from Ginny's eyes. Alright, she wrote. A window appeared in the center of the book, and with the desperation of a starved animal, she thrust her head through the center. She bit back a scream as it enveloped her and she began to twirl away from the poorly lit room and into the arms of her confidant. A nearly drug-induced expression lit her face as she smiled, her heart at last content.
She continued to spin, oblivious to the fact that years away, Draco Malfoy was backing from the trophy room keyhole in disgust.
