A/N Hellooo, for those of you waiting for Girl No More, it is coming, but this idea wouldn't leave me alone so voila! Just a little one-shot, bit of an odd one, but hey-ho. Oh, and rated M for swearing, allusion to sexual scenes and major character death.
Reviews are appreciated, but kindly don't flame. If you have an issue, express it in a constructive way. Ta!
Disclaimer; I am more likely to spontaneously become a raccoon than I am to own the HP world. Ergo, I don't.
Tea... With Milk!
She was fierce. He was cool.
She loved her husband, had loved him for decades and couldn't imagine loving anyone else. From her childish crush, to their friendship, to his final admission of his feelings for her, she had loved him. But there was always another, lurking in the back of her mind, waiting patiently while she blazed through the world and flew and fought and fucked. Another waiting for the perfect moment, but also whispering words to her at night, tainting her thoughts of love and perfection with oily darkness, and reassuring her, menacingly, that he would never go away.
She never remembered his quiet murmurings in the morning, but felt his cool evil weighing down on her, though she couldn't quite place what it was. Even as she kissed their children and sat with her family and made love to her husband, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something, someone there.
She was feisty. He was cold.
Years passed by and she told no-one of her thoughts; after all, hearing voices in your head wasn't good, even in the Wizarding world. But she had taken to the habit of, each night, sitting in front of a mirror, staring into her eyes as if expecting them to suddenly turn obsidian, because Merlin help her, it was like He was living in her head again, and the thought did nothing short of terrifying her.
Always, always, always he whispered at night, as she lay with her head tucked under her husband's chin, the husband she loved, yet now he was louder, his patience running thin. Ready to move on. Ready to feed on her insecurities and tell her that she was worthless and that nobody saw her and nobody cared. She was simply the Golden Wife, married to the Boy-Who-Let-Others-Die-For-Him. But no no no! She loved Harry, she did. The voice didn't stop polluting her mind.
She was fiery. He was chilly.
She screamed and screamed and screamed, begging and screeching and pleading with the voice to stop, but he wouldn't. Just as she finally asked why he was doing this to her, her husband shook her awake and a wave of fury washed over her, directed pointedly at him. It quickly passed, though, and they returned to sleep, the voice in her head sounding satisfied as he continued to sing his siren song.
The next night she asked again; Why are you doing this? He simply smiled his bewitching smile and reminded her of the promise he had made when she was only eleven years old. I'll never go away. And she hated him and loved him and wanted him and wanted him dead. And she was silent. Hearing voices fell neatly under the category of 'Not Good', and hearing His voice was under 'Definitely Not Good'. So she smiled and laughed and when her sister-in-law and long-time friend commented that she seemed somewhat 'down', she shrugged and claimed weariness.
She was forgetting. He was celebrating.
Why did he never remember to buy more milk? They'd been together for fucking sixty years and he never remembered to buy milk! All she had wanted was a simple bloody cup of tea, and there was no milk, and that made her angrier than it should have. When he returned home from seeing the Dursleys she yelled at him and he yelled back and they fought until they moaned as he passionately thrust himself into her lithe body. She flipped them over so she was above him, red hair crackling like the burning sun as she hissed, I fucking hate you sometimes, but the comment went unheeded as she rode him, nails scratching against his skin and eyes tainted with flecks of black.
He bought milk and they both apologised yet, for some reason, this made her even angrier, as if the anticlimax to their argument was irritatingly dissatisfying. But she hugged him and told him she loved him, and sent her children a letter each and made herself a cup of tea. Then, at night, she demanded to know why she was so angry, what he was doing to her, though he only smiled and whispered; I'm freeing you. I'm freeing us both.
She was fallen. He was created.
The voice still whispered, but He was free. A year of pouring himself into a young girl decades ago had paid off, and the portion that had survived the Basilisk fang had grown and now, Ginny, his Ginny, his fierce, feisty, fiery, forgotten Ginny was fallen. His hidden Horcrux, and He had poured himself into her once more. She was anger and heat and rage and he fed off it! Letting her blaze permeate the icy protective prison he had made in her mind, until he could finally burst out and bask in the sun. He hated her and loved her and wanted her and wanted her dead. They were the same.
He whispered to her and her eyes were black, her eyes were his. She didn't blink as she slid out of bed and grabbed her wand, facing her husband. The husband she loved. But He didn't, couldn't, know love, and He was in control now, and He drew on her anger as He murmured at her to raise her arm. She didn't even need to speak the words before the bright green light burst from them and Harry was dead.
He told her to go to her children's houses, to finish the job, but she denied Him. Even though no-one would ever quite know if Riddle was really in her head again, or if something had simply snapped in Ginny Potter's mind, it didn't matter. So ruined was she, by His corruption, that she didn't deny that His job needed finishing; the Potter bloodline wiped out, and she would be the one to do it. Harry had had to die, just like James, Albus and Lily would have to die. The whispering voice had told her so. He had told her so. And she would obey, she would always obey...
But first, she wanted a cup of tea. With milk.