Three
It's 3 pm.
She sits in her chair looking out the window, remembering a time long past.
He watches her knowing that he will never understand where she goes in her head, she'll never divulge that secret to him.
She watches the leaves swirl off the trees and wonders what he though of the autumnal weather. The red, brown and gold of the leaves, the crackled and crunch of the leaves, frail like glass.
Perhaps he would have preferred winter better, or spring, so full of life and promise that his childhood had been devoid of. Her soul- no their soul, tells her that he would have preferred any season, so long as he could keep her under his control. She's still under his control and he's long gone, physically at least.
Not in memory.
For she has his memories too.
She remembers, as if she were him, autumn at Hogwarts, flying in the wind at Quidditch practise, green robes flapping in the air behind him. She feels his pleasure at being free, amongst the windy skies, it almost equals the joy she used to feel. Except it's gone of course, she doesn't feel joy. Oh she can show it, after all, he's a very good teacher, and her family has always been filled with 'joy' and 'happiness' so she could play it.
But she sits and remembers, each memory swirling about in her mind, repeating itself again and again.
Then she gets up from her chair, folding the quilt neatly and lives again.
"Harry, don't you think you should do something about it?" Hermione asks.
"What is there to do 'Mione?" a sullen dark haired man replies, his voice is quiet, as he pushes his glasses back up his nose and looks carefully at his book learned friend.
"Well, talk to her or something. There's a book-"
"You can't fix everything with books Hermione. Life is not all one big book," he laughs bitterly at the stupidity of one of his best friends. He knows all too
well that books and reading tome upon tome of facts isn't the cure for everything. He knows better than most, after all he's done the reading to try and help
her, and it hasn't worked. He'd known it wouldn't, but he'd foolishly hoped.
"What will it take for you to realise that books don't hold all knowledge. Sure they are a great source of facts, accounts, ideas and theories even, but they don't hold the key to fixing everything."
His words stung, she'd only been trying to help him, to fix her. Hermione had seen the dead look in her eyes for over a year and it wasn't getting better. The War was supposed to bring peace times, although all the reading she'd one on World Wars should've alerted her to the fact that nothing would ever be the same.
Instead of arguing, because Harry did speak a sort of truth- there was quiet conviction in his words, she'd understood, she watched him, over her steaming mug of tea.
He looked tired and over it all, over the mess that his whole life had been, but his eyes were still bright, still burning so she stayed silent and hoped that she would come out of whatever post war depression she had gotten into.
Another 3pm passed.
Ginny sat in her chair and watched the snow fall with soft thuds to the ground, remembering a time long past.
Shivering, she pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and watched the kids play on the street.
He watches her shivering, but doesn't say anything. He will never understand where she goes in her head, she'll never divulge the secret of her mind freely or forcefully. There are wards around her mind that no Legilimens can break through, not even Snape or Dumbledore could get through them he supposed. They've always been there, as long as he can remember trying to break into people's minds, but she doesn't even appear to be aware of them.
Her eyes are no longer focussed on the children and their games in the street, they see something else, he notes.
She remembers a dream, but it's so real and vividly life like that she's always wondered if it was something more.
They're dancing together at a Hogwarts ball, she cannot recognise anyone she knows, apart from him. He's tall, dark haired, immaculately handsome. She is fiery, fiercely beautiful and elegant. They contrast and yet they match perfectly. Gryffindor and Slytherin, black and white, and their souls are entwined.
Her black dress swings behind her as they twirl in amongst the dancers, his white silk suit with the forest green bowtie makes him stand out from the rest.
It is Christmas Eve and this is the best gift that he could give her- this dream.
It is enough to get her through till after Boxing Day, at least.
"Hello Ginny dear," her mother had said, wrapping her only daughter into a hug. Everything was bright, too bright in The Burrow. She wondered if he would have liked it here. Perhaps not, too 'loving' Ginny supposed.
"How are you?" she smiled, looking over her daughter's appearance, specifically at her slim belly.
"Oh not yet then, oh well, soon soon, dear." And then she bustled off to the kitchen to make more food for everyone, as if there wasn't enough already.
'I'm fine Mum," Ginny sighed, before pasting a big smile, it felt disgustingly fake, before going to face the rest of her family who were trying to drag Harry into a game involving copious amounts of Firewhiskey.
At 3pm, she sat in armchair with a mug of tea and remembered.
She remembered how she'd wanted to go home for Christmas, but hadn't been able to and her and her brothers had been stuck at Hogwarts, while her parents buggered off to see Charlie or Bill- she couldn't remember which. It didn't matter.
Instead she'd had him.
And he'd made her Christmas alright. It had been bearable watching Ron stuff his face as he was doing currently, it had been bearable being with Harry who she'd stopped hero worshipping during the year. She didn't hero worship him now, just the wizarding populace seemed to expect them to be together and here they were.
The memories of him, weren't helping.
They made her feel worse, but she had to remember or she'd go crazy with misery, miserable longing for exactly what she couldn't have. She had a tiny part of him so he wasn't truly dead, but he would never live again, apart from in her memory. She had to remember, to soothe that small part of their soul.
George came into the room and sat beside her, pulling her close. It was time to live again.
Spring had come and gone leaving in it's wake a summertime heat which England had rarely seen and...memories.
At 3pm Ginny sinks into her chair, the usual wicker chair, that faces out the window and she watches the children with their iceblocks and lollies playing games in their backyards and on the street. She is like Persephone, a goddess looking out among the world, and he is Hades, trapping her with him for most of the year. Here she was trapped again with him, the springtime freedom long gone and seldom enjoyed.
She loved him you see.
She'd chosen to eat the pomegranate, indulge in his words, eat his praises like a greedy child. She'd wanted it.
There was often a misconception that Persephone did not like Hades.
Ginny loved her Hades. Not Harry.
But she remembers the time that Harry was the knight, with the Zeus like scar on his forehead and he'd saved her. Everyone had praised him for saving her. But he'd been too late and everyone, even Albus Dumbledore hadn't realised that Tom had fed some of his soul into her, so that he could never truly die. Oh, his 'body' was physically dead but he wasn't dead- Lucius Malfoy had actually fulfilled his job requirements. Ten points to Slytherin, Lucius.
But what they had all forgotten, in the midst of saying 'it's not your fault, it's okay, just forget about it all' was to ask 'how do you feel about it?' because no one had bothered to understand properly. Oh yes Hermione Granger with all her books and 'knowledge' couldn't even understand this fact.
She loved him and in the only way he knew how, he loved her.
Oh, she's not deluded about it. Not at all. Tom gave her the greatest protection he could, along with his soul- Ginny Weasley's mind was protected from everyone and every attempt made to break it. Her mind would never be savaged by anyone, apart from herself.
She remembers the cold flagstones and the hissing of the Basilisk, but it never hurt her.
She remembered the comfort he had offered her, through the ink of his diary pages. Of course he hadn't really meant much of it, but he'd given it at least, more so than everyone else.
Alas it was time to live again.
Its 11 am and Ginny has finally ventured out to Diagon Alley and Harry is relieved to watch her go.
"Ginevra Weasley?" a baritone voice asks, issuing out of the mouth of Draco Malfoy.
"Draco Malfoy." No question, just calm appraisal of the lanky man in front of her, all elegance and charm, so like Tom.
"H-how are you?"
"Shit. Yourself?"
He grins at her response, she's still the fiery Weasley girl from school.
"About the same." Draco looks at the woman in front of him, appraising the flaming red hair, the fading freckles, dead blue eyes. Yeah she looks beautiful still but she feels like shit, he surmised.
"It's better to live your life than exist in something you so desperately hate," I murmured, touching her fire hair just once before I turned and departed.
Her face seemed almost shocked, perhaps the most expression it had registered in a while.
Ginny sighed. He was right. Draco Malfoy might be a git sometimes, but he was right. People didn't like him because he spoke uncomfortable truths.
The clock chimed three times- it was 3 pm.
Taking her book she sat down in her wicker chair and gazed out the window into another world with Tom. He was grinning at her, not maliciously for once. He was in a black suit, a Muggle suit, wit silver cufflinks and a silver ring.
She could see it all clearly.
Then his face changed, he was smirking at her.
"Come with me Ginevra, you know you want to," and he held out his hand for her, waiting. He was right, he'd always been right.
Harry watched his wife whisper "yes" as she gazed out the window, with a hint of a desperate smile curving her lips. But everyday he sat and just watched her not saying a word.
It was 3pm again but he could not find Ginny.
He searched every story of their house but he could not find her inside.
The clock had long stopped chiming as he walked outside into the heat.
There she was giggling with someone. Someone who wasn't there.
"Wait for me Tom," she grinned at nothing, flinging her red hair behind her shoulders.
Then she picked up her wand and Avada'd herself.
The green light hit her breast and all Harry Potter could do was watch the jet of light hit Ginny Weasley.
She smiled even in death.
Tom Riddle was waiting for her. He hated to be kept waiting and she hated to be late.