Author's Note: Gratitude, gratitude and some more gratitude to jandjsalmon and dragonsangel68 for going through the story and fixing all the blotches caused by nighttime muses.
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21 :: They Came Through Darkness
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The soft crackling and popping sounds whispered irregularly by the fire lulled Ginny into a false sense of tranquility. She was sitting in front of the hearth on a tattered mat that once upon a time was probably a luscious carpet, but was now reduced by time and moths into a rag. Tom had left her alone some time ago, yet she did not venture to count the minutes – like a prisoner in an Azkaban cell, she knew her vile warden would return all too soon. She sat hugging her knees, her chin propped atop and her eyes following the unchoreographed dance of the flames. Thinking.
Thinking had become the only thing she had the indulgence of that was not controlled by her captor. Thinking was currently the only part of her that he had no control over –dwelling in Harry's body had, apparently, stripped of him some of the gifts he had acquired during his life, Legilimens being one of them. Ginny couldn't help but sob with relief when she heard that, causing him great displeasure.
"Do not worry, Ginevra. All it takes is practice, and we will be one in mind," he assured her belligerently, watching her lose color. "And after tonight, we will be one in heart."
Her stomach had lurched at the thought, but he ignored her inquiries and left the room, tossing over his shoulder a warning to refrain from attempting an escape, seeing as the grounds were spelled to burn her alive should she try. The thought hadn't even crossed her mind – she knew him well enough to understand that she now lived on borrowed time, and if she wished to maintain her heartbeat, she would have to keep quiet, watch, wait. And think.
What he had said made little sense to her, but she did not try to gain understanding of the man. Apparently, there was a prophecy, something concerning her and Draco… and her father? Despite his willingness to talk, watching her cower and enjoying the horror his presence inspired in her, he had not managed to string together a single sentence coherent enough for Ginny to understand how on earth this had happened. How had he managed to stay alive and possess Harry's body? What was he planning? Is anyone else aware of the fact that the Dark Lord is occupying the body of The Boy Who Lived? And perhaps, most important in her situation, had anyone discovered that she had disappeared?
At that thought, she lowered her forehead onto her knees and stifled a shudder. She absently wondered how this had happened. How she had managed to turn into a damn target, a burden, a useless damsel in distress. She had been brave once, strong. She raced the winds on a broom, fought alongside with Aurors and Order members, and wrenched her own life from the claws of Death. She had an Order of Merlin, for Pete's sake!
And now?
She was nothing more than a victim. And all of this, because the man she loved—
But… wait. The man she once loved had never struck her. Chest constricting, she raised her gaze and sniffed, blinking at the flames. She had not been abused and betrayed by her husband, the man she had entrusted her life and love to. Nor was she infantilized by him in order to keep her small and powerless. No. For months now – these crucial, devastating months – she had been living… with a monster. Had been sharing her house with him, her life, her… bed. The idea repulsed her, but also made something inside of her stir.
She began to crumble apart the first time Harry hit her. All of a sudden, her world quaked, and the ground had been swept from under her feet. The event didn't make sense, and then everything else didn't make sense, because the Hero was no longer a Hero, the city was no longer safe, the country had been tainted with darkness, and her entire preconception of life tumbled. She frowned at the hearth. How stupid it was to base her preconceptions on one man. One mortal man. But then again, Harry was never a mere mortal for her. He was… Harry.
But now, a thought niggled at the back of her mind and she turned her attention there. He was still Harry. That is, if he still was. For he had never raised his hand against her. The man she married, the boy she loved, was locked somewhere within his own body, ruled by a cruel and hateful sovereign that did all those things – each blow, each bruise, each cut and tear were caused not by Harry, but by Tom. Tom had struck her, Tom had fed off her horror and Tom had reduced her to a whelp.
A gasp pierced the silence as Ginny bit back a sob, this time something other than misery beginning to seethe beneath the surface – something akin to anger. She couldn't handle Harry as the villain, it defied everything she had ever believed it, everything she held dear and could hold on to. But Harry was not the villain here, Tom was. And Tom was always the villain. The villain, the hatred, the fear that managed to mar everything it came across. Tom was the evil in Harry's eyes, he was the sneer on his face, and he had been the strength of his blow.
This she could handle. This she could understand.
Narrowing her eyes, she glanced at the door behind her, and then let her gaze slip around the room. She wiped her nose and released a puff of bitter laughter. And he knew it… the bastard knew it. What unnerved her so, what broke her down, was not Tom himself. It was his mind games, the manipulations of a skilled tormentor meant to make her believe she was… weak, powerless. If she had faced him on his own, she would have fought – anger would have overwhelmed fear, and she would have struck and cursed and battled him as an equal.
But he clad in the visage of Harry, just like a Boggart donned one's greatest fear, and unhinged the one thing in her life she could always rely on – herself. The effect would have been the same had he slithered into her childhood home and possessed one of her family. There were some things that were holy to a person and he had managed to warp them beyond recognition. How typical of Tom.
She climbed to her feet and headed to one of the boarded windows whose plank had loosened over the years. She glanced out and through the crack saw the expanse of untended lawn and the sprawling small town at the foot of the hill the manor crowned. She looked around herself and grabbed the dried out dusty inkpot resting on a small table. She pushed at the loosened plank and reached out, tossing the inkpot onto the lawn. Not that she had doubted Tom's words, but she preferred to see the leaping hungry flames of his magical ward for herself before deciding to refrain from venturing outside on foot.
The only way out was either Apparition or airborne, both of which required a wand. Where was her wand? Her mind raced back through the recent events, trying to remember when was last time she held it. Memory provided the distinct feel of strong male arms holding her in a desperate attempt to sooth her raging beastly manners, and the sensation of soft pliant lips retaliating for the assault she had initiated. She felt her cheeks flush and her chest tighten. Draco.
Clenching her jaw tight, she ran her hands through her disheveled hair. Draco, Draco… She wished she hadn't done that. Wait, no. She wished she had the opportunity to do a lot more. Oh, my. Those thoughts were most probably unbecoming in her dire situation, but they swayed her mind from fear and filled with a completely different trepidation. She hoped he was safe and doing everything in his power to keep himself as far away from Tom as possible. She didn't know what fate awaited him once Tom got his claws into his heart, and, quite frankly, the thought made her nauseous with anxiety.
Whisper of a lock pervaded the room, and Ginny turned in time to see Harry's familiar form walk through the door. She still couldn't get used to the idea, but the sight of that smile on his lips drove the notion home. This was Tom.
"I see you are up and about," he drawled almost cheerfully. "You looked upset earlier. Are you feeling better now?"
Trying not to sneer at the pleasantries, Ginny glared at him. "Better will be when I see you dead."
Arching both brows at her words, he seemed amused. "You have seen me die countless times, Ginevra. Haven't you grown tired yet?"
"One more time," she said stiffly. "One last time"
There was something in her eyes that made his lips curl into a smile, a grin, before he laughed out loud. "Such fierceness. But come, Ginevra, somewhere within this flesh there still resides some small part left by Potter. You wouldn't dream of hurting him."
He was correct, of course. She could have never before brought herself to hurt Harry; her love for him ran too deep. But for the past months, her love for herself had come to run far deeper, and if she had no choice, she assured herself, she would sacrifice him. That callous thought struck her painfully, but was brushed aside. Everyone had their hands bloodied in this war, and she was beginning to understand that she had been through just enough to make her desperate to survive.
There was no need for Tom to see this just yet, so she bit her cheek and averted her eyes, admission of defeat bitter on her tongue.
He smiled again, but his voice was crisp. "Seeing as you bark, I take it, you do feel better."
Ginny felt a chill run up her spine along with the unspoken words – We can have none of that…
"Come," he said and left the room, leaving the door wide open.
Ginny hesitated instinctively. There was something missing in his air, something that upset the entire picture of him and made her even more wary, even more aware and afraid of the shadows. A minute later, when she was still standing in the room and was not being dragged by Death Eaters to abide by his word, she understood – he wasn't flanked by followers. He had not yet summoned his supporters to his side, so perhaps… perhaps there was still hope.
She stepped out of the room into the hallway and followed the echo of the retreating footsteps. The manor was rackety, obviously abandoned and not tended for years, and though its adornments were mostly heavy curtains of spider web, she couldn't help but notice the vastness of the house. The hall was spacious, and the room where she had been was, apparently, one of the smaller drawing rooms, because all the chambers she passed were grand and submerged in complete darkness. She reached the staircase and slowly, carefully made her way downstairs. Despite the stature of the manor, it was old, each step of hers releasing a tired moan from the floorboards, as if the house itself was tired of its occupants.
She paused at the foot of the stairs and glanced both ways. To her right, darkness stretched beyond her sight; to her left, beyond what appeared to be a dining hall, one half of a set of double doors was ajar through which the flickering of a fire drew her. She made her way around strewn broken chairs and smashed pictures, ruined paintings and shattered china. Peeking through the door, she pushed it carefully and stepped into what once was the ballroom.
Disordered and poorly lit, it still managed to instill a sense of humbleness in the youngest of the Weasley clan, with its unimaginably high ceilings, besmirched frescos and crumbling plaster molds that once were magnificent and splendid, and now only wept melancholically of better days.
"You seem interested." His voice came from far too close, and Ginny whirled around just in time to take a step back and move away completely from Tom, who was lurking in the shadows just behind her. Following her wordlessly with his gaze, he curled one side of his lips unpleasantly as he noted her surprise. Hands clasped behind his back, he walked to the fireplace. "I suppose, I could restore the house to its grandeur and give it to you once everything is settled. If you ask nicely." The last part was almost hissed at her with utmost mockery.
"I think I'll pass," she bit out quietly, making her way to the farthest edge of the lighted ring, wishing to keep all the possible distance between them. Remembering her previous train of thought, she asked, "Where are your lapdogs?" Her voice was injected with the right amount of contempt that should she was right, her inquiry would sting.
It didn't. "All in due time," he drawled absently, crushing a smidgen of her hope. He kept his back to her, watching the fire frolic in the hearth and playing with something in his hands. Silence settled for a long minute, before he seemed to remember her. "Suit yourself about the house. You'll have to live somewhere, and you might as well make use of my offer."
What unnerved Ginny the most was the fact that he acted so much like… a human. His previous reptilian flesh was in accordance with his essence – hideous, dark and terrifying. She didn't like the easy way he was talking, so casually and confidently discussing her imprisonment like it was a mere convenient arrangement. Squaring her shoulders and bracing herself against the call that crept from the darkness, Ginny glared at him. "You seem to be under the mad impression that I will stay here. My family will know I'm gone, they will come looking, and once they find you, you will be begging you had died the first time."
He glanced at her, visibly repressing amusement and finally released a short bark of laughter. "You seem to be under the misconstrued impression that your family is still alive."
His flippant reaction to the subject twisted her stomach into a knot and squeezed at her heart. She felt like a recalcitrant child being scolded – furious, belittled and so desperate to lash out. He ignored her and continued speaking with his eyes on the fire. The orange blazes skittered across the surface of his glasses, rendering his image quietly sinister, like a serpent lying in wait in the garden.
"No, Ginevra, I sent my… lapdogs to finish them off. I was never fond of your parents as in-laws. So meddling."
"It'll take more than a bunch of lunatics to get to them," she spat back and shivered. She hoped. Oh, Merlin, how she hoped.
"Yes, I suppose," he droned inattentively, again not interested in her. His gaze fell to his hands and he seemed to straighten his back. "We will know soon enough… When I summon them back. Meanwhile, let me show you something," he said, his face clad in the mockery of enthusiasm, like an insincere elder trying to lure a child into a story. Glancing at her, he revealed his hand, letting the fire illuminate him with its warm glow. He held a small ball made of glass, whose contents were shimmering shiftily under the dancing light. "Do you know what this is?"
Ginny eyed it in silence, a sense of foreboding growing within as she recognized the artifact, yet she did not know why. "A prophecy orb."
Tom smiled at her, his mouth wide and bracketed by laughter marks, and for a moment he seemed so much like Harry. "Correct. More than that, however, it is your prophecy orb. Here, almost three decades ago, resided a small insubstantial prediction, tying you and Draco Malfoy with bonds of love."
He watched her as the comprehension sank for the first time. Brows kitting and eyes widening in confusion, she couldn't help but stare. Her mouth dropped open to say something, but for a moment nothing of significance came to mind.
He laughed at her response and tossed the ball into the air, fluently catching it and exhibiting it as a rare artifact. "Fascinating, isn't it? It is no wonder you are surprised, seeing as, as I've told you, both your father and his were highly displeased, and became resolute to never see the union form. They agreed to perform a dark ritual that was supposed to disconnect the tie between you two, and they succeeded."
Ginny struggled somewhat to keep up with his words, finally understanding what he meant earlier and yet finding this hard to believe. Her… and Draco? Predestined? The notion did not make her as uncomfortable as it would have a few months back, but it was unnerving nonetheless. She thought back on the easy manner between them, even during fights; thought of his kindness, heavily veiled with arrogance and taunts; thought of the way he fit into her family. She thought of his hands and lips and couldn't help the miserable shudder cascading down her spine.
He didn't seem to notice her lapse in attention and simply watched the orb in silence, inspecting the light gossamer content drifting within it. When he snapped out of his reverie, he pinched the bridge of his nose, as if resigning himself to something necessary and unavoidable. "For the most part, anyway. Enough to make the relationship highly unlikely and completely impossible had everything happened as it should have. As you know, it didn't. It rarely does." He sighed and shook his head, a weary old traveler on the path of life. "In any case, what's important right now is the fact that they had not succeeded… entirely."
There was something in his manner that sent another shiver down her spine, this one completely different. She looked at him and felt like sneaking into the shadows and hoping he would forget her presence completely and leave her alone somewhere in the corner. There was something… something she couldn't name in his air, something she dare not try to decipher or interrupt.
"This orb – this tiny glass contraption – still contains a part of the prophecy that ties you, dear Ginevra, to a man. And here is the interesting part – I can change it."
Understanding trickled in like black ink into water. Ginny felt her eyes widen, felt a small tremor coursing through her and saw blackness creeping at the edges of her vision. Her stomach lurched, and she could almost feel the bile rise up her throat. She thought she might be sick, then decided it would be better to faint, before finally settling for taking a step back. Her heart thundered in her ears, blood pumping and making it impossible to hear, to think. The all too familiar voice, however, cut through her haze of paralysis when it rung out in a jovial laughter.
"Haven't you ever wanted to be a Lady? Albeit somewhat Dark."
"Wh—" She choked on her words, swallowed hard and stared at him, incredulous. "Why do you need this?"
His expression sobered up immediately, the cheerful lines smoothing out into a mask of stone. "Why? Maybe I love you?" he said quietly, his eyes boring into her in his inspection. "Maybe I can't stand the thought of you despising me this much? Maybe it hurts me to see this fear in your eyes, and I am desperate enough to do anything to have you by my side?"
She felt tears sting her throat, her eyes. Shaking her head, she whispered meekly, "Horseshit."
Intensity broke instantly as that grim façade crumbled into a smile. "Yes, quite. Unfortunately, the only way I can subdue Potter is by threatening him with you. And he will never again attempt to fight me, as long as his beloved little wife is painfully, hopelessly, insufferably devoted to me." He smile turned into a smirk. "For that, I'll endure it."
"You're lying," she finally bit out after a long moment of silence, trying to outstare him. Her eyes were brimming with tears now, though, and that made her blink, made her world swim before her eyes, made her blind and desperate. "It's impossible to force— someone to feel…"
He walked towards her, taking advantage of her baffled and disoriented state. He took hold of her chin and lifted her face up, looking into the glittering brown eyes and smiling, his heart visibly heavy with enjoyment. "It is possible. Not easy, but possible. Think about it, Ginevra… Who could ever resist love such as predestined by the Fates?"
Steeling himself against the cold, Draco stood in the middle of the Burrow's backyard, staring up at the pregnant moon, his heart a hard lump of stone. Or at least that's what he'd been trying to convince himself of for the past hour. The house was overrun by Aurors, Hit Wizards and several Unspeakables, who clustered together and didn't utter a word the entire time, though appeared to be having avid conversations with their eyes amongst themselves. Ministry officials had been here to sanction the upcoming attack, and then quickly skedaddled to their respective hiding holes, in case of a failure.
Everyone was so filled with razor-sharp anxiety that Draco had a vague feeling of dread that someone might burst before the battle. Despite the thrill zinging through the air, he could feel some despair and other's frustration. Voldemort wasn't dead. Again. He had risen to power right under their noses. Again. The situation would have been ridiculous enough to laugh at, if it wasn't so frightening. Somewhere in the background, he heard whispers that the Dark Lord was indeed immortal and that they are all headed to sure slaughter. Victory was unthinkable, and even if reached, it would only be temporary. Yet again.
Draco snuck out of the house when the air became too stifling for him. He couldn't bear their whispers, couldn't bear their fear, and couldn't bear those surreptitious glances they cast his way whenever they thought he wouldn't notice. He wasn't the only cooperator in the building; however, he was the only one who was allowed to remain in the wizarding community after the last war. This and the fact that he had been present at the scene of the first Death Eater attack in ten years, made him all the more suspicious, all the more dangerous. During the briefing, he could feel their eyes staring at him, awaiting the evil within him to burst outside and ooze all over the hardwood floor. He had to escape them for a while. Those well-trained law enforcers that were specifically taught to never trust a known Death Eater were living by the creed all too well, and it grated on his nerves.
The cold was enough to clear his mind, make him sober and serious, while the moon was heavy enough to fill his mind with thoughts of red hair. He tried not to dwell further into the matter, tried not to feel the tugs of fear and ripples of anger, tried not to envision the crooked claws of Voldemort's hands leaving deeper wounds on her, tried to maintain a stoic composure when all he really wanted to do was storm and rave and hurt someone. He thought he could feel the ghost of her touch, but it was just the wind; he wanted to hear her voice, but those were just the leaves on the treetops; he braced himself at the scent of cinnamon coming from the kitchen, where Mrs. Weasley was making sure everyone was well fed.
There was nothing to do until the cooperators felt the pull in their left forearms, so all they had to do was… wait. Standing in the middle of the night, facing an open field that stretched for miles, he had never before felt himself so caged.
"Malfoy," Weasley's voice poked through his dejectedness, carried on the wave of ruckus slipping through the open kitchen door. The door closed then and his footsteps sounded heavy in the darkness. He made his way towards the solitary figure and stopped beside him, staring onwards as well. "Stevenson wants to go over things once again."
"It hasn't changed in the last twenty minutes, as far as I know," Draco responded casually, his hands slipping into the pockets of his robes.
Ron exhaled a small laughter. "Yeah, he is a bit of a pain in the arse. But he's thorough."
Draco glanced at him sideways and sighed briefly. "Fine. Give me a minute."
He expected Ron to accept the agreement and leave, but a moment of silence stretched between them and the redhead did not make a move towards the door. When Draco was about to insist, he heard the other wizard clear his throat.
"I've been watching you this time and, well, I can see you're uneasy," Ron mumbled, clearing his throat yet again and shifting uncomfortably. "So… look, you're a civilian and you don't have to do this. No one will think any less of you."
Surprised, Draco turned halfway towards him and inspected his conversant. His shoulders were broad and straightened to an almost military poise, but there was the telltale blush of discomfort on his neck, visible even in the relative darkness. "Are you calling me a coward? And subtly, at that? Weasley, I think this is the most subtlety you've ever used in a conversation."
The redhead laughed, putting both himself and Draco at ease. "Yeah, well, Hermione's badgering finally settled in, I suppose." He rubbed his face then tiredly and ran his hand through his hair. He has been doing that a lot. "Anyway, I meant what I said. You don't have to go. This isn't your battle."
Draco felt his chest leaden, clenching his jaw and his fists before feeling calm enough to reply. "Here you are wrong. This battle is mine. More so than all the Aurors you've got in there."
"This isn't your job," Ron insisted.
There was something odd in his voice, something prodding that made Draco adamant about not seeing whatever it was in the man's eyes as well.
Silence wrapped him like a cloud for a long, almost overbearing minute, and all the while he could feel Ron's eyes watching him wordlessly, carefully, assessing and calculating. When the quiet was finally broken, Draco wished that it hadn't.
"Do you love her?"
"No," he replied, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Not yet, anyway." After another moment, he added almost absently, "But it would be so easy to." He shuddered and rubbed his eyes. His stomach was shrunken into a constant knot that lurched every time he dared think of her.
"Frighteningly easy?" inquired the redhead carefully.
Draco inhaled and dropped his hand down again, curling it back into his pocket. "Yes." He glanced at Ron just in time to see him hum an agreement, bearing the air of a knowing man.
"Took me longer to figure out," he divulged.
"You were never the brightest wand in the shop," Draco tried to ease away from the laden matter. His attempt was futile, as Ron seemed to be determined to get rid of another stone that cumbered him.
"I wanted to thank you… also."
Surprised, he chanced a glance at Ron, his eyebrows knit into a frown. He hoped this did not turn out into a soppy moment.
"I still remember it," the other wizard confessed as if Draco was supposed to know what he was talking about. "At the final battle," he explained, causing an involuntary twitch to grace Draco's hands. "She would've flung herself in front of him and you've—"
"I don't remember that," Draco bit out and turned away. That was a lie, but Weasley's tone was enough to make a saint uncomfortable, and Draco was far from a bloody saint. He had absolutely no desire to be standing here, discussing these things.
"I do," Ron countered, noting the agitation palpable in the air and yet plowing on. "I was so angry… I couldn't overcome— Anyway, I wanted to thank you then, but I was too busy being stupid."
Suddenly irritated and impatient, Draco sneered, waving the words off. "It was nothing, all right. Just—nothing."
A blissful hush settled between them, and Draco dared to hope that Ron was finally rid of his chattiness. Alas.
"Back then, did you—"
And Draco knew exactly what the blockhead meant. It didn't make it any easier to bite out, "No." He turned to stare at him, annoyed, and tried to hide the fidgeting of his fingers. Finally, he exhaled before speaking. "I didn't. I just… saw her. All right? That's it, I just saw her."
"What are you planning to do?" The almost soft question thundered through his mind.
Draco shook his head and turned away from the redhead again. "Get her to safety. Everything else is your concern."
He heard a chuckle and had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from lashing out at the idiot who found his discomfort so damn amusing.
"And after that?" Ron insisted. "If all goes well."
Draco's annoyance dissipated, giving way to the grimness nestling in the lines of his expression. "If all goes well, she will be grieving."
Through the boarded windows Ginny could smell the rain. The wooden planks had absorbed the moisture in the air and were permeating a soft moldy scent along with it, but through the cracks, rushes of cold wind brought the perfume of a fresh life-giving downpour. She could also hear the acoustics accompanying this occurrence, but the monotonous rapping had long since melted into a drone in the background, like that of a fridge, or of the crackling fire, or of the constantly pacing feet.
He was working, moving, preparing things for the upcoming gathering. So far, he had expelled almost all furniture out of the ballroom, stripped the walls of tapestries and curtains – clearly enjoying the sound of tearing precious fabric – and strewn the air with countless conjured candles. They hovered like mellow fireflies in the air, absently reminding Ginny of Hogwarts.
She was leaning forward, elbows propped on her knees, hands clasped together following the curve of the wooden planks with her eyes, as it shaped something magnificent she no longer had the ability to admire. Her face was smudged with tears, her hair disheveled, and a lump still clogged her throat. But she was no longer crying, no longer shaking. Fear had dissipated, anger had been drowned by tears, and tears had dried up to naught. Now, she was left with…
The thought brought no conclusion, and Ginny decided to let it go. Hope was not dead yet, however. She had tried to coax some magic into her hands – wandless magic was usually the prerogative of petulant children, but she tried anyway – and once she thought she made a mouse freeze in its tracks as it crawled along the floor, but it had only stopped to sniff the air, sensed the danger and disappeared back into the nether of the wall.
Every once in a while, when it got too quiet or too loud, she briefly glanced in the direction of her nightmare, but never allowed her stare to linger, for fear of having him look back. He had left her alone for the moment and, yet, advised her so sweetly to remain in the ballroom, that she did not care to return to the room upstairs or venture anywhere else.
Ginny sat on a chair in the farthest corner, investing her very best effort into breathing. Hers was the only chair that still stood in the hall, upholstered with what was once probably red velvet and now was just a dusty imitation. One of its legs was shorter than the others, and she found herself rocking in her seat, listening and counting the soft tapping sounds it created against the floor. Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap.
"Ginevra, please stop that."
The sudden tender voice broke through her stupor, making her pause midair. Sensing her muscles bunch in agitation, she dropped back down and resumed her rhythm. "Stop what?" Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap—
"That," he barked, and she saw him swing his wand towards her.
She cringed violently, but no blast came. Instead, a ring of laughter circled the hall.
"Do not provoke me."
The ballroom was cast in shadows, molded and shaped by the small flickering flames that somehow managed to give off neither light nor warmth. The soaring arches of the ceiling rendered a feeling of smallness and insignificance. The bare walls and boarded windows embellished the sensation of being trapped and doomed. And in the center of it all, perfectly fitting into the picture that embodied punishment and torture, there stood a raven-haired man, the spitting image of two completely different boys.
Ginny's breath shuddered, as she watched him finally stop in the middle of the hall, beside a small round table he had placed in the center. She had seen it when she first walked in – red wood, still lacquered in patches, with the engraving of a dragonfly in the middle. Suddenly the table and its placement, in the heart of the hall, became of utmost importance, and she felt her stomach clench painfully. The man stood motionless for a moment, his fingers tracing the dragonfly, then he looked upwards at the ceiling, and finally turned to her with a smile. His preparations were done. It was time.
He didn't bother with invitations. Abiding by the motion of his wand, the chair that Ginny occupied sprung into the air, rushing towards him. She yelped in surprise, gripping onto her seat for dear life, and when she was certain she could hold herself atop of it no more, leapt down before the chair barreled into something. She landed awkwardly and toppled to the ground, where she watched Tom hurl the chair crashing against the opposite wall. Using the round table to heave herself up, she stood, dusting herself. Her mouth was pinched into a sour line, but she no longer recognized the emotions coiling within her.
Tom turned to her and bowed with a flourish, holding his wand aloft and at the ready. "You are about to be introduced to your future court. Are you excited?"
He was obviously enjoying himself, the gleam in his eyes triumphant. He could clearly see that she was minutes away from breaking, and he enriched his delight by mocking her with casual conversation. Oh, how she hated this man.
"Sick to my stomach," she ground out through clenched teeth and ran her hands through her hair, wishing to grasp onto something real, something solid and strong.
His features sculpted concern like talented hands. "Unfortunate. But a Healer will be here shortly. You can have her look at you."
She shook her head and turned away from him, refusing to look in those green eyes, to watch those slit pupils dilate with pleasure. "I'll manage without."
"As you wish," he hummed absently, his lips curving into a smirk.
Oddly, she thought to herself, this one did not remind her of Draco. Her attention was captured when Tom held his wand out, tracing the air in a languid motion. A wisp of green smoke lingered in its wake and after a moment coiled into the image that was engraved into the minds of all those who had survived Voldemort's reign of terror. The Dark Mark shone boldly against the dimmed orange candlelight and after a small flick of the commanding wrist burst forward in a flash and vanished. The Death Eaters were summoned.
Ginny felt her heart thud once, violently, and then settle into a nervous pace. She knew that the vagabond groups had been hunted down, and turned to nothing but pitiful scavengers, but the thought of them still brought a tremor to her hands. She sensed him watch her steadily, following her each step and motion with greedy, cold eyes. He was trying to invade her mind, she could tell, trying to force through her defenses and shatter the only thing she had left of herself.
Anxious to break his concentration, she spoke. "You should be aware that Death Eaters have become scarce. All of them are dead, imprisoned, wandless or hide like rats," she told him, adopting what she hoped was a vicious intonation. "If you thought, after all these years, an able army would be waiting for you—"
"You will be surprised at the level of loyalty I inspire," he interrupted her, unfazed by her jab. After a moment's scrutiny, he chuckled, adding, "And the level of loyalty that boy inspires will not surprise you in the least. Amazing how persuasive a trusted hero can be, even when he is promoting the same issue he fought against."
Ginny felt all color drain from her face. Her throat tightened and something, somewhere in the background, crashed. "You've been using Harry—"
"You keep forgetting," he interjected again, his mouth – a spiteful grin. "I am Harry. I simply have been talking. Implying. Initiating, seducing, promising." He allowed the words to linger in the air, reminding her of other promises that cut her heart at the moment. "Evil had not died when you thought I died. The beautiful thing about it is it lurks in every heart. And with the right persuasion can be harbored… and wielded."
Ginny shook her head, a grimace marring her face with incredulous disbelief. "It cannot be. They would have known, someone would have noticed."
"By the time they understood the truth, they have already buried their precious principles so deep, that they didn't even mind. There is great power in manipulation, Ginevra, remember that. And I do it so well…"
He turned his gaze away from her distraught expression only when the first pop resonated through the empty hall. She watched his brows furrow into a frown, as he took in the black-robed figure with its white mask, and saw again that flicker of irritation flutter past his face. He did not know who this was and for a brief, almost imperceptible moment, he seemed as blind as a kitten. Ginny took all the pleasure out of this thought that she could get, before a sneer carved his face, and the flabbergasted Death Eater scampered to redeem himself by kneeling to the ground.
Others soon followed, arriving with soft popping sounds. Figures in black robes and white silken masks appeared around the ballroom one after the other, as if simply stepping out of her worst nightmares. Some appeared in tattered robes, some were pristinely pressed, others' masks were sullied and worn, while some stood and stared at their master for long moments of disbelief before they were yanked to the ground by their comrades. When the popping stopped reverberating through the ballroom, Tom commanded them to rise. They gathered in twos and threes, some standing in clusters, while others preferred to be alone. Those expressionless masks all were turned towards the image of Harry Potter, who had summoned the Dark Mark as his own and was exuding such power, power that had only ever been in one wizard. Several dozens stood there in silence, faceless servants of the abomination, all too ready to adore and follow the man again.
Ginny's body betrayed her, as tremors cascaded down her spine, taking hold of her hands and her knees. She was surrounded by a sea of black demons, trapped as never before, and hopeless. She could not believe there were so many of them. Shaking her head, she leaned against the table to support her unstable stance, and watched them – these insects that would doom society into slavery.
Tom ignored her for the moment, watching the countless figures around him, taking in their mute submission. "Welcome… and welcome back. Some of you were somewhat surprised by my new… face. Rest assured, you are looking at the same Lord Voldemort that you followed years ago. New and improved," Tom added with a smile and turned to look around the men. "It has been a while, I would say."
Someone murmured and others joined in, nodding. Somewhere in the depths of the crowd, a nervous chuckle cut the air.
"But time's only influence was to strengthen our minds and increase our ranks, as you see. Despite the pitfalls along the way, it shows that our fight is necessary," he spoke loudly, proudly. He took advantage of the youthful strong body he possessed, the body of a leader, charismatic and awe-inspiring. He twisted that natural appeal of Harry's and combined his own inbred ability to intimidate and instill fear. The outcome was entirely unnerving.
Ginny felt his strong voice spear through her weakened frame, sliding down her aching bones. With such presence, he could command, demand and bend people to his will with such ease. Let him carry the right speech and people would embrace such tyrant into their hearts. Ginny stifled tears that lumped in her throat as she watched the Death Eaters murmur their consent. Some looked hesitant at first, but like sheep, taking their cue from the others, they too joined in with supporting voices.
"This… will be our final campaign," Tom promised, sweeping them off with his performance. "And I can assure you – this time victory will be ours, brought to us by the same boy who was spared by the Fates before."
Someone shouted in the crowded, and others followed their suit, moving and swaying with almost tentative excitement.
"But the Fates had their reasons and, as you can see, those reasons were to our benefit. We will no longer skitter like rats in sewers," he swore loudly, casting a mocking glance toward Ginny where she braced herself against the onslaught of adoration sent his way. "Who would ever refuse The Boy Who Lived?" Tom laughed out loud and others joined him. "Who would ever decline a plea to pardon the wrongfully accused? And who would ever refuse him in favor of information or money?"
The crowd was starting to catch onto the drift of his speech, and all too soon, the air became laden with malice and avarice, cruelty and wicked anticipation.
"And if The Boy Who Lived swore to assuage the Dark sides of the wizarding world, who would disbelieve him? And who, out of the fawning, groveling millions, would ever decline if he asked for the reins of the Ministry?"
The walls of the ballroom shuddered as the Death Eaters erupted into loud uncontrollable applause, shouting and whistling, stomping their feet and howling their admiration of their mighty leader.
Tom laughed, his head thrown back, as the room thundered with the rush of ovations. Straightening, he absently shook his head as he made his way back to Ginny, amused by something private. He stopped behind her and spoke up again. "All of our plans," he raised his voice over the clapping, signaling for silence. And when quiet fell, he continued. "Through this little twist of fate, have become… inevitable. But meanwhile, let me introduce to you the woman that will stand behind the great man." He placed his hands on her shoulders, pinning her to the spot as he spoke. "Mrs. Ginevra Potter. Many of you know her; others may remember her from the last battle. Peterson, I believe she amputated an arm of yours none too gently?"
The reply was grunted somewhere to their left, but Ginny was too busy keeping her bile down at the sensation of Tom's hands, as they ran up and down her arms, seemingly trying to rub some warmth back into the cold limbs.
He laughed at the response of his men. "Yes. She was an amusing opponent, and now she will be a good ally. A good docile ally," he whispered the last part for her ears only. "As a matter of fact, to commemorate her admission into our ranks, Mrs. Potter had agreed to perform a small ritual – a sacrifice for the Fates to ensure our success." He stepped away from her and came to stand before the redhead, his face curved into a grin, as he studied her face.
Ginny could see his frustration at not being able to sense her fear and loathing that much clearer with the help of Legilimens, and made a conscious effort to school her features against emotions. He seemed to notice then, because one eyebrow carved up and, after a moment, he smirked, as if accepting a challenge.
"Kurren!" he called out piercingly, and the name rung not only through the crowd, but through her mind as well. It was sickeningly familiar.
One of the robed Death Eaters stepped out of the ranks and paced towards them, the shape odd, as it appeared to be carrying something in the cradle of her arms. Heart hammering, Ginny watched the Death Eater as it bowed and placed something bundled on top of the table, unwrapping it and slinking back to rejoin the black mass of worshippers.
Ginny blinked awkwardly when her gaze rested on the presented offering. Over the carved dragonfly, draped in pink linen and wriggling silently, laid Olivia Perdita Weasley. From the corner of her eyes Ginny could see Death Eaters stirring restlessly, and for a delirious little moment, she hoped their consciences would choke them. Someone made a stifled sound, of astonishment, awe or protest, she couldn't tell. All she could muster to think at the moment was that the baby, so quiet and watchful with her startling blue eyes, was so much braver than she.
A glint of reflection caught her eye, and she looked up to see Tom produce a bejeweled dagger from his robes.
"The Fates had been with us every step of the way," he began once again, softly, his voice, perhaps, only supposed to reach her. His stare was definitely fixed only on the paralyzed redhead, and it seemed the dozens of henchmen no longer mattered, even though the entire display was for their benefit, for the most part. "Guiding and strengthening us. Now, before we embark on our path to final victory, we ought to pay due respect to the ancient deities."
He moved then, circling the table and Ginny in a slow languid stride, his each word cutting across the skin, leaving scars of hatred that would not heal soon. "This child, this—" His face broke into a disgusted grimace as he thrust the tip of the dagger toward the wriggling child, as if indicating a rotting carcass. "Abomination… has mixed blood of old wizardry and Muggle mud. It is everything that should be eradicated from our society – it dilutes our blood, leeches our magic and walks among us like an equal, like a flea-ridden cur wearing a dress and hopping on its hind legs. It clawed its way out of its mother's body – a filthy Mudblood herself – just as that flesh tried to kill it. And it had tried to kill her in return! This… can never be allowed to live."
With a dramatic whirl, he turned to face Ginny then, his face devoid of the grievous mask he wore for the monologue. His lips curved like a snake, drawing a lopsided line of cruelty and sadism. He tossed the dagger into the air and caught its blade, extending the hilt towards her. "And so, Ginevra, you are to do the honors… Spill the blood of the sacrificial lamb."
She stared in silence, choked by horror and something else entirely overwhelming and completely impossible. She felt something break inside and a tear escaped her vigilance, rolling down her cheek, coaxing others to follow. Her lips trembled, he knees shook, but she could not bring herself to scream. As if something within her was suddenly switched off, she no longer had the urge to fight, to stand her ground, to maintain that small sense of self that somehow kept her together throughout the day.
All she could do was watch him, paralyzed. Watch those green eyes, see the slit pupils and wonder how many times had she lain beside this beast at night. And yet… and yet, it all seemed so inevitable and, at the same time, irrelevant that she no longer mustered enough revulsion to recoil from the gaze. He was a snake charmer, being both the reptile and the magician, and she could no longer fight that drugging tune of surrender he'd been cajoling her into for… how many years?
He smiled. He took a breath and smiled at her, as if she was something dear. "A gesture of obedience and I might be persuaded to let you keep your free will." This was said in a whisper, an indulgent lover promising the world in exchange for a piece of her soul.
"What?" her mouth formed the word, and yet barely a sound frittered past her lips.
Leaning closer, he caught her slack hand and placed the gilded weight of the hilt into her palm. "Do this and I will have no need to break your mind and change your fate, so you will love me."