Disclaimer: This story includes characters and situations that are part of the Harry Potter universe, which is copyright J.K.Rowling, Scholastic, Warner Brothers, Bloomsbury, etc. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made in the production of this fanfiction.

Author's note: This is a rather old piece. I think I did it for a challenge, but I can't seem to remember what the challenge entailed. Anyway, I remembered that I vaguely liked it so I polished it up a bit to post here. Hope you like it, and please review!

Red Velvet Cloak

She came, as always, in a blood red cloak.

It clashes horribly with her hair.

I've told her to wear black. But she never listens to me anymore. She just laughs and smiles and goes on her way, in that blasted red velvet cloak.

She hasn't listened to me, ever since I killed that Bones girl. A Hufflepuff; whoever had any use for a Hufflepuff?

I've tried to explain that to her.

She always tells me, "That's not the point."

Well, if that isn't the point, then what is? They weren't even friends. Why does she care if the idiotic Hufflepuff wasted away?

Besides, Miss Bones had a very nice funeral.

She brought a wand this time. I had asked her to.

I needed a wand desperately. In order to make the Bones girl's death look natural, I had been forced to leave her wand – her aunt had accepted the story, said she died of disease, her life sucked out of her by an illness – not a diary. I was alive, wandless, wandering, and found Ginny Weasley.

She hid me in a cellar in the town, because 'I might be recognized' and I asked for a wand, so I could continue my… career.

No, I demanded the wand. I never ask for anything. Asking is beneath me. She finally acquiesced. Now that I had a wand, my troubles would cease. I could stop relying on her, for one thing.

She took off her cloak – her bright red cloak – and shook the rain off of it. Hung it up on the end of the stair- rail. She sat down, smiling, grinning almost.

Why was she smiling like that? It was a catlike smile, a smile that said 'I know something you don't know.'

I pierced her with a glance. "You aren't trying to give me one of your brothers' fake wands, are you?" She had tried that on me for a joke, thinking I would take kindly to her after my wand turned to a rat in my hand. I don't like jokes, especially not jokes on me.

"Of course not," she answered, casually. "I've brought you a perfectly," here she paused, "Real wand."

I furrowed my brow, trying to figure this new game out. She was hiding something, or else that grin didn't fit. "Show it to me, then."

She held out a wand, chattering. "It used to be my brother Ron's. I wouldn't try any serious magic with it, though. It's been known to backfire."

"Ginny, this wand is… broken… and spell-o-taped back together. It's completely useless." I was too shocked to do anything drastic – like chase her out of the cellar.

"Well, what did you expect? We're not so rich that we leave perfectly working wands lying about. Did you expect me to give you my own wand, so you could go and kill innocent people?" She slammed the wand down on the table, but continued to smile. As though she had beaten me.

Now that she put it that way, the idea did seem rather foolish. But I had to get a wand. "Well then, since you are of no use, I'll just have to take one, won't I?" I stood up, took a step towards her.

"Oh no you don't, Tom," she answered, jumping up, her wand now drawn. "Remember your position. I'll turn you in…"

"No you won't," I responded, almost laughing. It always came to this; her mistrust was no longer annoying – merely amusing. "Relax. I won't steal your wand," I sighed.

She looked wary still. She always looks wary – you can see it in her eyes. They've lost their naïve sparkle. But her smile returned and her wand disappeared.

"I've brought you some food," she commented by means of a subject change, opening her basket and pulling out an entire chicken. She sat down. I ate. She talked.

I suppose that's why she keeps me around – to talk to.

And then, as quickly as she had come, she fastened the cloak around her neck, picked up her basket, and with a quick peck on the cheek, left.

She always had that red cloak. Like little red riding hood.

Running through the forest to – who?