Blood. Everywhere. Staining the walls and the sheets and the hard wood floor.
She drops her wand to the floor. She can't even recall what spell she used. She has the feeling it's one she didn't even know.
Well done, Ginevera, comes the every-calm voice in her head.
It makes her feel a little sick. Tom..what did you make me do?
He laughs, and she feels as if her head is splitting in two.
Make you? I didn't make you do anything. You were willing.
"No," she says out loud. " I couldn't have wanted to – I couldn't."
Well, he says, laughing that head-splitting laugh again. Maybe this isn't what you wanted, per se. But it gets rid of all your problems.
"How does this get rid of anything?" she practically screams.
And now she can see him in front of her. And she thinks she is going insane. But suddenly that doesn't matter anymore.
"Everyone who ever hurt you. They're all gone. And they can never hurt you again."
"But, my mum, my dad, my brothers?"
"They treated you like a little girl. You hated it. Admit it, you hated them."
"No," she protest. "I didn't – Sometimes, but – Hermione, Harry, what did they do?"
"Harry never noticed you. And Hermione, well. She was with him, wasn't she? Always with him. Breaking yours and your poor brother's hearts. She deserved what she got."
"No one deserves this," she says, gesturing at the carnage around them. The stench of death and blood is over whelming as she sinks to the floor, and she vomits on the carpet beside her. It just makes the stench that much worse.
He kneels down beside her, an expression of mock sadness on his face. She wants to smack it off his face, but finds she is remarkably weak.
"Now now, Ginny, you can't possibly be angry with me."
She glares in response.
"And if you are, well," he laughs again, and it still hurts her head even though it isn't as severe. "It doesn't matter. Because I have what I need."
"What do you mean?" she asks, fear creeping into her voice.
"In killing the ones you love, you practically sold your soul to me. And now –" he reaches out his hand and brushes her cheek. Expecting it to pass through her, she gets a nasty shock when his icy touch flashes across her skin. She feels as if she may vomit again, but there is nothing in her stomach.
Feeling defeated, broken, and exhausted, she slumps a little and stares down at her bloodstained hands. So small. Dried blood is in the creases of her palms. It goes all over her arms. Onto the front of her white tee shirt. Down the legs of her jeans. She is covered in it.
Her gaze travels from her palm to her wrist. There pale blue veins lie, pumping her life source through her.
And then, in her mind, it all connects. Tom's existence depends on her. Her existence depends on blood. And if she spills it all, she will die and take him along with her.
It has been years since she brought a blade to her skin. She still bears the pale scars. So it feels strange when she walks to her room and pulls a tiny box out of her bedside table. In it are several tiny, Muggle razor blades. She knows they are sharp, as she threw them away as they dulled. She had kept the new blades around as a comfort.
"Ginevera, what are you up to?"
Tom's voice is getting closer. He is walking up the stairs. It is so strange to hear his feet make soft thudding noises against the floor when all the times before his steps had been silent. Ghost steps.
She has made the gashes when he enters the doorway. She has her back to him, and as she turns he catches sight of the blood dripping slowly down her pale arms.
His eyes narrow, but that is all she sees of him before all goes black.