The Scar

An inspired sequel to The Watch by Nesiy Lemon.

A/N: I have reached out to Nesiy in the hopes that she will let me continue this fanfic, inspired by her own story The Watch (which is perhaps one of my favourite Tom/Ginny fics to date). If she allows me to continue to write this, I hope that all of you can enjoy my perspective on what a sequel to this beloved, fantastic story may be. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

And now for a look at the forecast: this rainy season is expected to continue well into May, with precipitation estimates between twenty and thirty centimetres each week. It doesn't look like we'll be "high and dry" of this until the Summer, folks.

The newscasters on the small tube radio continued to banter on, but she didn't care to make their voices out any longer. Perfect, thought Ginny, as she sipped her glass of Butterbeer. She loved the incessant rain. It meant cloudy days; those where she did not have to worry about looking up into an anvil of piercing blue. Whereas the constant drizzle seemed to depress most of London, the youngest Weasley was thankful for it. Her hazel eyes move to scan the patrons of the current dive she'd taken hospice in. It had been three years since she'd returned from 1946. Much had changed in her life since then. By and large, the hunt for the remaining Death Eaters had come to a close. Sure, there were some loose ends that still needed to sort out, but a majority of them had been captured. Ginny left the Order of the Phoenix shortly after her return, for a number of vastly complicated reasons. Most of them she couldn't quite explain to the others without opening a Pandora's box of terrible, gut-wrenching memories. She made it out as though she needed a new direction in life, and many could not blame her; what with the loss of Fred and many of their friends, the endless days spent chasing after dark witches and wizards could have taken its toll on anyone. Ginny was relieved that this was the way her family saw it, and she was determined to keep it that way. She continued on as captain for the Hollyhead Harpies until her early retirement not one year prior. In fact, today marked that very anniversary. It was the reason she found herself drinking alone tonight in the Leaky Cauldron, tucked far away in a corner and huddled over the yellowed pages of an old Muggle book. But it wasn't to be for long, as she was expecting company.

The familiar jingle of the bar door sounded, accompanied by a wicked slosh of sideways rain. A hooded figure slipped in from the cold, soaked to the bone. Ginny raised her eyes only briefly from her pages to see their hood fall back. A wild array of black hair emerged, and Harry Potter reached up to adjust his fogged glasses. She raised a hand in the air to catch his attention, and Harry's fingers moved from his spectacles.

"'Oy Arry, what'll it be?" Tom called out to Harry from behind the bar.

"Nothing quite yet, Tom." He replied, giving Tom a polite nod. "I'll catch up with Ginny first."

"Aye, I'll come 'round in a bit then."

Ginny pretended to be roped back into her pages, but all she could focus on was the sound of Harry's wet footsteps as they moved across the old floor and the hard hammer of her heart in reply. Absentmindedly, she adjusted the small silk scarf wrapped around her neck; her scar was starting to itch. Eventually the partner chair in front of her groaned, as Harry pulled it out and slipped off his wet cloak to hang beside them.

"Some retirement party then," Harry said. "Thought Ron and Hermoine would be here by now."

"They couldn't make it," Ginny hesitantly closed the cover of her book, but not before earmarking her page. "It'll be just you and me."

"It's been a while since it's been just us." He finally sat down, and she had no other choice but to meet his eyes. "How've you been, Ginny?"

"Fine, fine." She shrugged. "I've been off visiting Mum a lot more lately, Phlegm hasn't the faintest clue how to do the most basic of things as a new Mom, and she's been driving the entire house mental with her overly dramatic antics. You know how she is."

"How's Bill fairing?"

"He's a great Dad, honest. Though he's been kept busy with work, the Triwizard Tournament coming up and all."

"Ah, I'd nearly forgotten."

A palpable silence fell between them then, as both of them looked for any excuse not to meet each other's eyes. It had been close to a year itself since she'd last seen Harry. He was starting to grey a bit, especially in the stubble under his neck. There was a pointed exhaustion in his features, one that was the result of long hours behind a desk, no doubt. The excitable days of the Auror office had dulled. He still carried the same presence with him, even if he did look tired - calm, quiet, compassionate - and Ginny could tell that he was looking to dive into their conversation gently, as if he had something important to tell her but couldn't quite find the words. Her gaze eventually caught his own.

"Are you happy?" His voice was only higher than a whisper. "I worry about you, Ginny. I... I wish you could've let me convince you to stay with me, even if... even if we..."

"Weren't in love any longer?" Ginny shook her head, and reached over the table to touch Harry's hand. "Oh, Harry. How could I have made you, or me, suffer like that? Besides, that was ages ago. We've got on as friends ever since, and things have been just fine. It wouldn't have been a good idea."

She knew, just as well as Harry did, that they still shared an unspoken love for one another. It had effectively been Ginny to sever their bond permanently, even if they'd been broken up at the time. Back then, and even now, she carried such a deep regret that it was almost necessary to make it clear to him; there was no way she could ever kiss him, or hold him, or share his bed again. There was just no coming back from what she had done, even if it only existed as a momentary blip of time in this universe. She would not share her nightmare with Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived while she felt as thought she'd long since died.

"About that..." Harry paused, but moved a finger to touch her hand. "I've... started to see someone."

"...Oh," Ginny breathed.

"Listen, I wanted to tell you before Ron had the chance - "

"Oh Harry, that is wonderful news!"

" - and it's not like it's anything serious right now - "

"Oh, for goodness sake, Harry. Quit talking so fast." Ginny employed the best smile she could muster, despite the sinking of her heart that she had no right to feel. She refused to well up. Instead, she took his hand tighter in her own and gave him a fierce nod.

"Truly, Harry, I'm thrilled for you. It's about time you spent some time out of that office."

"Right?" Harry's mild panic faded, and he returned her smile with one of his own. A true Harry Potter smile was, perhaps, far more damning than an Unforgivable Curse. It caught her off guard, and her breath hitched quietly. "You may remember her... Romilda Vane?"

To this, Ginny could not help but snort.

"You mean the very same Romilda Vane who tried to smuggle you a love potion in your sixth year? How did this happen?"

"That was a long time ago! We work together in the Auror's office now and we just sort of hit it off one night down at the Three Broomsticks - what?!" Harry mused, unable to control his own smirk at Ginny's reaction. "What? Seriously! She has changed! We all do idiotic things when we're younger, don't we?"

It had been a long time since she'd seen Harry so animated, and Ginny had mixed emotions. On one hand, she was so pleased that he was finally able to carve out a little happiness for himself. He had gone through far more in his lifetime than many witches and wizards do over several, and he deserved to enjoy his life. On the other hand, she couldn't deny the tightness in her chest; the realization that her decision had been finite and it was truly over. She and Harry would never again be what they once were. The cold rain continued to batter the small windows of the Leaky Cauldron well into the night. They shared a drink or two together and reminisced about old times, discussed Quidditch and topics about their friends, until the witching hour had long since passed and the bar was beginning to empty out. She was glad Harry had come, and thankful to have been able to spend time alone with him once again.

"Where are you staying right now, at the Burrow?" Harry asked.

"No, I've taken up a room here for a couple of weeks." Ginny said as she walked him to the front door of the bar. "I'll probably make my way to visit Neville and Luna in a month, then head out West." She didn't like the quizzical look on Harry's face, even as she helped him shrug back into his evening cloak.

They stepped away from the door, and Harry moved a hand to grasp her arm.

"...What happened to you, Ginny?" It would be about the hundredth time Harry had asked her that question since 1999. It seemed that for some reason, he sensed something was off with her more than anyone else did. As if to read her mind, he continued. "You know, you haven't been the same since that mission for the Order… the one with Kevedo. Every time I ask you about it, you find a way to deflect me. Now you're just travelling around all the time. Everyone misses you." He forced her to look into his eyes, his own narrowed in a desperate attempt to search her features for a sign, something, anything resembling an open door. "Even if you don't want to stay at the Burrow, you could always use Grimmauld Place. I have no plans for it yet. I just - I just wish you'd let me help you."

Ginny drew in a shaky breath.

"Does your scar hurt anymore, Harry?" She asked, her voice quiet.

"...No, why?"

A bitter smile twitched at the corners of her mouth, and her neck burned.

"Mine does."

"What? What scar - "

"I'll be fine, Harry. Go on and get yourself home now."

Ginny hardly slept, even on the best of days. It was no surprise then, after Harry retreated into the night, that she could not find peace in her rented room. She mulled about the creaking floor for some time, and paced to try and erase the uneasy thoughts that bubbled to the surface. Even though she had made it her mission to forget, Tom always found a way to creep back into her thoughts, her being, everything. She wanted the reminders to stop, but she did herself no favours by staying here - in the very room that she'd rented back in 1946 - when she'd first gone back in time. Ginny wondered for some time what it was going to take to wipe him from her existence. Perhaps she ought to find herself in the middle of a Confundus Charm; or even better, she could take a page from Gilderoy Lockhart's book. That way she could be certain; no trace of Tom Marvolo Riddle could ever find her or touch her again. She mulled it over in her head as she moved back and forth, but eventually decided on a different course of action.

It had been a while since she'd been to Nocturne Alley. She had not set eyes on Borgin & Burkes since the day she returned from her mission. Perhaps it was as simple as what Elizabeth had sought out in Pride and Prejudice, the same Muggle book she'd read back in 1946: a need for closure. If she were to see the shop again, could she finally close the lid on what had been a tumultuous three years of remembering her biggest mistake? Of feeling her scar burn - the place where Tom had drawn blood and left his mark? Of his kiss? She didn't know what it would be like to revisit that place, nor did she particularly care that it may hurt her. It had to be the place where it all began. At this point, anything would help her to be rid of him.

Decided, Ginny threw on her evening cloak over her sweatshirt and jeans, and tied the strings together. The bar was quiet and empty down below as she waded through the hall and down the old stairs. Only the faint glow of candlelight lead her to the main fireplace, where a small cauldron of Floo Powder hung to the right. She had to be barking mad to think this was a good idea. It was incredibly late, which meant that she would have to be extra careful and quiet if she was really going to go from the inside. Ginny didn't think that viewing the shop from the outside would help her with anything; not when Tom Riddle's ensnarement of her began with a handsome face behind a piping hot mug of tea, juxtaposed by ancient artefacts.

She paused, her fingers buried deep in Floo Powder, while she stood motionless in the hearth. It had been a long time since she'd recounted his face.

Tom.

Why couldn't she kill him when he'd murdered Hepzibah? Why?

"Borgin and Burkes," Ginny whispered, and a cascade of bright green fire engulfed her figure.

It was dark. So dark, in fact, that Ginny couldn't help but think she must've mispronounced the name and ended up somewhere unknown. A sense of dread washed over her, as she scrambled to reach for her wand in her back pocket. "Lumos," she whispered. A faint blue light lit up the tip of her wand, and she extended it before her. Relief, but not elation, came as she found herself standing in a familiar kitchen. Nothing had changed, save perhaps the table and chairs; it was just as she'd left it back in 1946. There was a significant mess compared to how it was kept back then. Cups and dishes were strewn without discretion over the various countertops, and there was a faint scent of mold. Careful and quiet with each step, Ginny controlled her breathing while she moved. Her movements in this space were practiced, almost ritual. She circled round the table and towards the old, wooden stairs. They had aged significantly. Worried that she may announce her presence inadvertently to those sleeping inside, she mumbled a soft Muffliato charm, and took the first step toward the attic.

The place she'd shared with him.

"Ginevra."

The fear she thought would never come seemed to grip her with such an intensity that, in that moment, she was petrified. She knew he was not up there as she'd left him; she understood that Harry had killed Lord Voldemort many years ago, and now, she was chasing a ghost from a different time. A young, handsome Tom Riddle who had not yet descended into madness. A ghost she never should have experienced. Was it truly her goal to find closure - to make herself feel better, or more alive? Ginny could not say. She was afraid to face that same space again, terrified to recount the look in his eyes as he cursed her again, and again, and again. Unwilling tears pricked at her eyelids, and Ginny moved to steady herself on the railing.

There had been a time, however shameful as it was, that she had truly lusted for Tom. They had effectively become unwitting friends, then lovers, then nothing at all. Although she understood his darkness as predetermined and unyielding, she had once actually wanted to be the reason that he abandoned his dark ways. Why was that? Was it because of his smile, the way he offered her quiet comfort, or perhaps the way he sought her out with such desire? Or had she... developed real feelings for Tom, the Tom back then? She had always disregarded these thoughts as lunacy and suppressed all the memories of her tryst with the Dark Lord in order to stay sane in her own reality. It was only now that she began to ruminate over these thoughts, back in the place where it all began, that her mind raced.

Why was it that they shared such a connection - even after all this time?

Bravely, she took a step up and the misshapen scar on her neck seared. Ginny winced. Each step brought her closer to the door; the one they'd once kissed fervently upon, the very one he'd stumbled in drunk from a night out with pre-Death Eaters and she'd watched, amused, as he acted like a normal young adult would. The shadows under Ginny's eyes were illuminated as she ascended each step. Eventually when she reached the threshold, her hand lingered over the doorknob. She had half a mind to turn around and flee from this idiotic idea. After all, who knew if someone new had taken residence in the attic? She didn't feel like she was in her right mind. Harry's announcement had sent her spiraling. That was the only logical explanation. Even though the time between 1946 and present day was so distant, an unspoken electricity pulled at her soul. It was though they'd been here just yesterday. There was an inherent fear - despite her ability to be rational - which told her that he would be there, waiting for her, behind the door.

He's long gone.

Ginny's fingers turned on the cold brass, and the door opened. She peered inside quite carefully with her wand at the ready, only to find that the space which had once been a temporary domicile was now nothing but a storage area. Long gone were the days that Borgin & Burkes had enough of a reputable reputation to offer housing to employees, let alone have one in their employ that was not family. Besides, she always assumed Tom had been an exception from their regular practices. Ginny took a careful step inside, and reached up her right hand to toss back her hood.

Dusty boxes of books and scrolls were stacked to the ceiling, and large artefacts haphazardly covered in clothes stuck out between them. Old or useless relics had been long forgotten. The air was stale and tepid. Some boxes were askew, rifled through and left tipped over. Ginny carefully weaved her way through the chaos, her eyes scanning the room as she moved. She could make out the legs of the couch she'd slept on underneath the mess, and above, the rod where the curtain had once hung to separate their space. It had long since been removed, but the old rings that kept it in place still sat along the rails. Her eyes followed the familiar path that lead down towards Tom's area. To her surprise, his desk sat undisturbed by rubbage. There was a fine layer of dust that covered most of the contents. A shammy cloth was hung over a large object, which she knew to have once been his cauldron and flasks. Her heart hammered in her chest as she drew closer, and raised her wand over the surface of the old oak.

Tergeo, Ginny whispered - a dusting spell she'd learned from her Mum - and suddenly the desk was clear. She swallowed and moved her wand to glance over the books stacked neatly in the corner by his old lamp. When she'd left this place for the last time, these books had been strewn all over the floor in Tom's Horcrux-induced madness. The War On Dissent. Advanced Vanishing Spells And How To Improve Them. There was even a copy of Hogwarts: A History by Bathilda Bagshot. They'd all been books she'd watched him read, their corners now bent and yellow with age.

And yet, most surprising of all, was that tucked underneath these stacks of thick texts was a slender book with a familiar lavender cover.

Ginny could hardly breathe as her trembling fingers reached out to pull the small spine from the pile. It had always felt like a dream, her journey back in time and her months spent with Tom and Abraxas and Borgin and Burkes. It never really felt like those days, which were a microscopic blip of time in this reality, could transcend history. She never would have known if Lord Voldemort remembered her in this time because he was long since dead. It seemed that her imprint on this life had been... inconsequential. If it hadn't been for that photograph she'd seen downstairs six years ago, there would've been nothing to tie her from there to here.

Except this. It was her copy of Pride and Prejudice.

It was still here.

Ginny stifled a sob, both out of fear and sheer anxiety. She raised a hand to cover her mouth with her wand, the other clutching the book tight in her fingers. She could remember lounging on the sofa, lazily skimming the words of Elizabeth's plight as Tom would lean over to swiftly kiss her forehead, it was never love - she had to remember that - it was never born of feelings - because Tom wasn't capable of love and she was not able to love him.

Her fingers move before she has time to stop herself, and she carefully opens the front cover. And, perhaps more startling than the fact that all of this was real and that her book was actually here, was a word scribed eloquently in ink on the blank of the front page. It was preserved under the jacket for almost eighty years.

The graceful slant of the G.

Tom's writing.

Ginevra.

Instinct overcomes her shock and Ginny moves her hand from her mouth. Still racked with trembles, her fingers hesitate over the beautiful etch of her name, wandlight shuddering as her fingers quaked. This wasn't here before. She would've noticed it among the countless times she opened those pages. When did he write this? Did he write it after the New Years Eve party? Or maybe even after she'd left?

How long did he stay in this apartment, and why hadn't he thrown this away?

The second her finger presses to the ink, a shock so intense and jarring ricochets through every fibre of her being. It was just like the first time they touched, an instant connection forged through the diary of his Horcrux.

A faint glint of moonlight breaches through the small window.

Fifty-four years in the past, Lord Voldemort staggered to the ground.

"M-My Lord!"

"Are you all right, My Lord?"

"Someone check him! Goyle!"

A roaring fire cracked from across the dining room of Malfoy Manor. Two cloaked figures rushed forward from a semicircle of many more towards the crumpled figure of their leader. They hesitated to get any closer to him, their faces flickering with anxiety in the firelight.

Tom drew in a hot, angry breath. His nostrils flared, while his fingernails scraped at the floor. Impossible. He would not look weak in front of his friends. The feeling had come so sharp and sudden, but it was not one he was unfamiliar with. It was infuriating to be embarrassed by such a weak, unprovoked bit of magic. Tom snarled and staggered to his feet. One of his friends moved forward to offer their hand, but behind the sheath of his hood, Tom glared towards them.

"Do not touch me." He rose, and the useless muscle of his heart nearly palpitated. It had been three years since he'd experienced such a shockwave. Tom glared down at his right hand and flexed his pale fingers. They had just been in the middle of a discussion about the planned expedition to the Giants. The sensation was entirely unnecessary.

Tom had not thought of Ginevra in a long time, and good riddance.

"My Lord," Tom's head snapped to the right. Back-lit by the fire, Abraxas pulled his hood from his head and lay it gracefully along his back. It wasn't a knowing look, but the heir to the Malfoy legacy had shared far more… experiences with him than his other followers. He could almost see the hesitation in his face, even now, to not call him Tom. "Is there anything we can assist you with - anything at all? Or shall I continue the discussion - "

"It is not your place to decide how we proceed, Abraxas." Tom hissed, and withdrew his own hood. A long mop of chestnut hair was tailored perfectly to his face. His skin was deathly pale and his fingernails much longer, but by and large, he continued to look like the same Tom Riddle that he'd once been. There was an emptiness in his eyes that could terrify some, but not Abraxas.

"Of course, My Lord."

Tom surveyed the room.

"Abraxas, you will continue to lead the discussion and give me the details at a later time. I have something to investigate." Without another word, Tom turned on his heel and swiftly made his way down the opposing corridor to the library. An anger boiled deep in his veins. How dare this cursed, tainted magic make him vulnerable? It would need to be eliminated. He thought it was already, that their cut ties meant no more of this unprovoked nonsense. And yet, somewhere out there, he was assured that Ginevra continued to exist even if she had vanished without a trace. There'd never been any unraveling of the mystery, oh no; she vanished at his weakest and continued to live on, his possession, without him.

The time had long since past where Tom cared, though.

All he cared about was getting rid of this feeling, and her, once and for all.

"My dear Ginevra, what am I going to do with you?"