Title: Broken Silence Author: Katy Rating: PG13, nothing really happens that is high rated, it is just a bit dark Pairing: Ginny/Another girl, I don't think I'll tell you quite yet if you don't mind. Warnings: Dark, suicide and femslash. Gosh that is a hell of a lot of warnings for my first fic.. What ever happened to me being a 'nice girl'? What would my mother say now! Disclaimer: If you are under the misapprehension that this could possibly be mine then you are not only wrong but extremely misguided. Author's Notes: As I said, this is my first ever finished fic. So I am a tad nervous.

I need to give my undying thanks to Enismirdal for her wonderful expertise, she managed to correct my grammar, point out when I wasn't making any sense, make me actually write this and then actually let it out to annoy all you lot with! Not only that, but she also kisses me lots (so under- rated darling!) and eats Bailey's ice-cream with me when I feel sad.. So lots and lots of kisses for you, not like I wasn't going to kiss you anyway. but there we go. Can never kiss too much, that's my philosophy. Thanks sweetie

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The Watcher

I remember the first day that I ever asked mother to explain. I was about seven, I should imagine. It was, as far as I can recall, my first ever question of note; my first that contained anything of more substance than the contents of the next meal. What I asked was in actual fact very unimportant. Well, it was an important question in its own way, but it wasn't the fact that I asked this one question over any other that mattered; the whole incident was, when you look at it objectively, entirely insignificant. But to me, it changed the world. That was the difference you see - I said that it was important, a turning point, a milestone - so it was. Her response taught me that these were not the sort of queries that should ever be uttered. Or I am sure in her pretty head never even considered.

I was spoilt, I was never shouted at, and if I persisted in wanting something for about a week, I would always get it. I lived in a beautiful house in Bath, on the Crescent, hidden from Muggles in a simple yet ingenious fashion: that it wasn't at all hidden. It stood in entirely plain view, for everyone to see. I always thought that it was the most elegant method of hiding; I still do, in a way. I have no excuse for myself, I have no one to blame. My fall from grace is entirely my own and I am proud of it.

It started as I have said when I asked without a trace of what was to come; why was it that we followed a Lord who was defeated by a baby? My mother, who hated to scowl, such an ugly expression she always said, allowed a look of displeasure to flick across her face. That was all, and then she tuned and walked out of the room. I felt immediately a sense of foreboding; not fear, not actual terror, just unease, knowing that nothing was right, that at that instant it may never be right again.

The next week I was given my first lesson in becoming what my parents were. Given a book and told to read it, told that it would answer my questions. Told that it was an exciting secret, even more important than the fact that we were more special than Muggles , even greater than the fact that we lived among them. I was told that I would never ask questions again once I had read this book, told it was an honour to be given it this young. Told everything in fact; I hated being told, not being allowed to question, and I realised then that questioning was not expected.

The Story of Our Lord, it sounds amazingly like it should be the title of some ridiculous religious work of some cult or other. And in its way, it was. It was clearly written to impress. Bound in leather, it was large and heavy. Written in language that made me think it was truly ancient, and to almost laugh when I found out years later that it couldn't have been written more than a decade ago. So I read it, and knew immediately that I couldn't have anything to do with it.

Have you ever had to keep a secret? Knowing something so vital that to even think it too often could cause death. Have you ever lived under thunder clouds that seem to threaten to descend at any moment? Hiding something that is so central to your very identity that not to express it feels like the worst kind of treason.

I realise that I sound like a pretentious wanker, well apart from the fact that I don't have the anatomy, but at that time that is what it felt like. As if I would burst from having not to tell a soul. From the age of seven I was a stranger, an alien in my own home. I read the book, the whole vile mess of it, and I felt disgusted. I don't know why. Maybe you need pain in your life to identify with the dark. Maybe it is only revenge or hate that can drive you to do that. I have to say I don't know. But whatever it was, I didn't have it.

I knew that I was different, and I hated it, with a passion that I had never felt before. I couldn't cope and I didn't know how to live with myself. I had no role models and no grounding. I was so lonely. I learnt though. I grew to love hiding; it became part of my identity. Apart from what was hidden I had nothing, I was terrible at what my parents tried to teach me, nothing special at school and my friends were there but only as a recurring theme in my life. Nothing life altering. People viewed Slytherins as evil, but though quite a few of us had parents who were death eaters and quite a few of us were destined to join them, it was still hardly a topic of polite conversation.

So I lived in secret and thought in secret and dreamed in secret. Never sharing becoming more and more hidden until I could not even remember what I had been like to be free. And while my housemates silently learnt the dark arts and ransomed their soles I watched and couldn't turn away. Knowing that it was just as wrong to watch and do nothing as it was to do it yourself. Hating that which I had become, hating what they wanted to be. So I watched, silently, never taking part, always watching. Until it became my obsession. I was the ghost of Slytherin, and they never knew it. It was all I had to take pride in; I failed my parents and my school. I was never brave enough to report them to stop it; I just sat silently and watched.