Chapter Eleven
"Blizzard"
The problem with inns, Harry had quickly discovered, is that there's nothing to do. When he'd stayed at The Leaky Cauldron, he'd been perfectly entertained by Diagon Alley and the load of summer homework assigned. While staying in Muggle hotels, he had TV. Not always very interesting, but something to whittle away the hours. The finer wizarding hotels usually had some form of entertainment going on, but Harry had rarely been to one. The Frozen Pine's attractions were the Great Outdoors, and Harry didn't feel much like skiing in a blizzard.
However, he'd stayed here before and remembered the voluntary library down in the lounge. He had found Ginny sound asleep upon his return. Used to erratic time changes and sleeping patterns, Harry wasn't quite ready for sleep. So he'd propped up his pillows and opened The Quidditch Quandary, hoping he was in for a decent read.
Unfortunately, the book was anything but riveting, and halfway through Chapter Three, Harry became distracted by a faint, indiscernible murmuring.
He glanced at Ginny. She was lying on her stomach still dressed in her day clothes, her hair spilling over her back like a fan. One arm was tucked under her pillow, the other dangled over the side of the bed. Her brow was knitted and her mouth moved slightly.
Harry knew enough about bad dreams to recognize the telltale signs. He hadn't witnessed too many, but Ron and Hermione had informed him enough about his own. Knowing how embarrassing it was to have one with witnesses, Harry tried to concentrate on the mediocre book. Hermione always said Harry was the exception to the rule for not waking people during nightmares.
" . . . Harry . . ."
Harry looked up, startled. Ginny's eyes were still closed, but she seemed to curl slightly. Her lips moved soundlessly again until mumbled, slurred words drifted through.
" . . . can't tell Harry . . . he can't know . . ."
What couldn't he know? What couldn't she tell him? Harry leaned onto his elbow, the book completely forgotten.
" . . . no . . . Tom, no . . ."
Harry sucked in a breath. So she was dreaming about the Chamber of Secrets? That'd be what she couldn't tell him.
" . . . he'll hate me . . ." Ginny's face contorted and her fist clenched. " . . . I have to tell him . . . he'll hate me . . . I have to tell him . . ." A pitiful, painful sound escaped her lips as a horrible shudder racked her body. Then she went still, her breathing shallow and uneven, as if she were gasping from pain. "Okay, Tom," she finally whispered, her face slowly relaxing.
Harry couldn't remove his eyes, even though it appeared that the nightmare was over. When he thought about his second year and Tom Riddle, he liked to focus on the basilisk, Fawkes, and Tom Riddle, not Ginny's possession. Thinking that she'd only been dragged into the Chamber one night was easier to digest than a year of Riddle tainting, using, and possessing her.
And to see Ginny surrender like that.
Harry felt ill and wanted to look away. Of course she wouldn't surrender. It took a bloody year of Tom Riddle working on her, and she'd been fighting him, hadn't she? The morning before he took her in the Chamber, she'd been trying to tell him and Ron. How could she surrender in one dream?
How could you let a door haunt you? How could you let Voldemort into your head to give you false visions?
Harry swallowed hard. It was time to stop thinking about that.
He lay back against the pillows and lifted the book, forcing dark thoughts out of his mind, but Ginny stirred, and he couldn't stop his eyes from flying back to her limp form.
Her eyes opened and looked straight at him.
Harry knew guilt was probably written all over his face. Ginny stared at him, her eyes dark and wet. Then she lifted her head to glance at the clock on the nightstand (7:37). She paused for a long moment, blinked, and then pushed herself up, swinging her legs over the bed. Without a word, she disappeared into the bathroom, and a minute later, Harry could hear bath water running.
Already a fog was steaming the mirror, blurring her reflection as she stared somberly. At least she wasn't crying or shaking. But the dream was too vivid as it continued to rip through her core after consciousness.
How could he have done this? Ginny wondered, pressing her hands to her cold cheeks. She had plenty of dreams about Riddle, but they were based off of her memories, real life events. How could Tom be leaning over her bed in Denver, twisting her with his slithery whispers? He was dead. Harry had killed him. She shouldn't be having dreams like this.
"I am in your mind, your body, your soul, Ginny Weasley. I have you. You are not free of me."
Ginny shuddered and gripped the sink edge.
"I can still hurt your precious Harry Potter. I can make you tell him exactly what you did. I will smile as he scorns you."
Those coal eyes burned crimson; she could feel the iciness of his breath on her neck as he leaned closer. "You are mine, little girl."
She turned off the bath water. It frothed and bubbled with the complimentary potions made to soothe and rejuvenate. Fog was steadily clouding the small room, clinging to her skin as she slowly undressed. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she felt Riddle's eyes rake over her. It's my imagination, it's just that stupid nightmare, she told herself, but her eyes peered nervously through the rising mist.
"You can't hurt me," she whispered. "You're dead. And you can't hurt Harry."
"I am in you. I can hurt you. I am hurting you. I can use you to hurt Potter more than I already have."
Ginny bit her lip and dipped a toe into the water. The scalding temperature burned and numbed her foot, but she didn't care. She wanted to burn, to feel pain that couldn't begin to match hers.
"You're a dangerous traitor. Weak, but dangerous, because I can so easily have you."
With a deep breath, she plunged her leg into the large tub. She gasped from the instant, fiery pain, clenching her teeth to keep from crying out. After a minute her leg began to numb. Gathering herself for the plunge, she swung her other leg over the ledge and folded her body into the hot, bubbly depths. A cry escaped her lips and tears rolled down her eyes, but she immersed herself in the physical pain.
"I can make Potter crawl."
"He can stop you. I'll tell him."
A gentle knock at the door.
"Ginny?" Harry called softly. "Are you all right?"
"Of course not," Ginny bit out, her voice wretched from the torture her skin was taking.
"And I would revel in your pain, little Ginny. I will rejoice at Potter's hate. Your pain keeps me alive."
"Ginny, it's not your fault," said Harry, his voice thick and distant through the door and fog. "You know it's not."
She didn't answer. If she opened her mouth again, she would sob or scream. Thankfully her body was starting to numb to the heat, the perfumed bubbles starting to cloud her mind. Soon she would be numb to everything.
Harry tried not to look at the door every two seconds. Or his watch. Two hours had passed without a sound or sight of Ginny. He'd tried to read, but the book was hopeless, and so he'd turned to solitaire with Dudley's old deck of cards (which had been discarded after his cousin had found solitaire to be too confusing). The game hardly substituted worry, and Harry was finding it harder and harder to concentrate long enough to move his seven of spades stack under the eight of diamonds.
What could be taking so long? Rumor claimed that girls took awfully long baths, but wasn't two hours getting a bit extreme? And Ginny hadn't sounded all right. Maybe she's fallen asleep, Harry reasoned. His eyes shot to the door. What if she had slipped under the water?
Harry set his cards down. Aside from not wanting Ginny to drown or die in any way, he could hardly imagine explaining to the rest of the Weasleys why they'd been sharing a hotel room in the first place.
"Ginny?" he called, knocking his knuckles on the door. She didn't answer. "You . . . you haven't drowned, have you?"
A pause, and then, "Not today."
Harry smiled with relief. He turned to go back to his game, but then Ginny called to him.
"Um, Harry? Can you grab my pajamas?"
"Uh, I guess so . . ." Harry stared at the door. He cleared his throat. "Er—where are they, exactly?"
"In my bag," said Ginny, sounding amused. "I thought about displaying them in the window, but . . ."
Harry hurried over to the travel bag, but he paused before unzipping it. What sort of things did a woman put in her bags? He had a haunting vision of very feminine toiletries and undergarments. Knickers. Taking a step back, he stared at the purple and black bag suspiciously.
"Can you find them?" Ginny called, mistaking his delay. "Dammit, I know I packed them!"
"Uh . . . what do they look like?" Please not silk or lace, Harry prayed. He'd have to play solitaire the rest of the night with his back to her.
"Flannel bottoms and the Wheezes t-shirt—it's blue." Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He could handle that. "Oh, and some underwear? Any will do."
No. He could not handle that.
"Harry?"
"Bloody hell," he swore, grabbing the straps.
He knocked on the door. Ginny opened it slightly. She was wearing a fluffy white towel and her skin was unusually red.
"Here," he said, holding out the bag and trying not to look anywhere but her face.
Ginny raised her eyebrows as she accepted the bag, one hand holding her towel up securely. "You didn't have to get the whole bag."
"I know." Harry wanted to scamper.
"It's just fabric, Harry," she said matter-of-factly. "I've done plenty of laundry at home, including yours."
Harry knew his face was burning. "Oh. Well."
"Whatever. Thanks." She shut the door with a little shake of her head.
Harry let his forehead fall against the door. Honestly! He was nineteen; he should be able to handle something as simple as knickers. Had not Dean and Seamus had a deep, profound discussion on what certain, er, styles meant? Of course, that had ended when Seamus had the nerve to ask Ron what Hermione wore . . .
Vigorously shaking his head, Harry shuffled the deck. He could hear sounds coming from the bathroom, but tried to think about Quidditch. Fluffy white towels, silk nightgowns, and lacey knickers should definitely be cleared of his mind by the time Ginny came out. Otherwise he'd have to leave the room and sleep on a couch down in the lounge.
Maybe this entire trip had been an incredibly bad idea . . .
She took as much time as possible. Outside the steamy, misty world of the bathroom was Harry: a reality as burning as her raw skin. Reality meant sucking it up, pretending; or it could mean confrontation. Ginny didn't want to do either.
The mist clung to her itchy skin. Ginny curled her toes into the bath rug as she set about untangling her heavy, dripping hair. The charms helped, but she wanted to dally in this translucent fog wrapping around her like a cocoon.
She'd just tried to boil herself. But couldn't boil away everything—just stew in the remains.
Stewing's all I ever do. "That's why I'm here," she whispered to her reflection. Her freckles disappeared in the blurriness of the foggy mirror. She wiped her palm against the glass and watched her skin curl into water droplets, then slowly blur again.
"Who am I kidding?" she mouthed at the blotchy figure. "I have no idea why I'm here."
Oh, but you do, don't you? a voice whispered silkily in her ear. You didn't tell Joe, but you know. Why else did you cry all over him?
Ginny shuddered. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Did she really decide to face Harry to bring the pain and guilt to a head? To end everything once and for all? Did she honestly want to bring herself to the point where she revealed all to him, laid everything before him so he could crush her and finish what Riddle had started?
"Harry isn't Tom." Her words were empty of comfort. Of course Harry wasn't Tom—that's why his repulsion would end her.
And she wanted the end.
Ginny opened her eyes. The mirror had cleared. She stared at the blotchy, white-toweled girl with tired, sunken eyes. If her skin hadn't been smarting from the liquid torture, she knew it would have been very pale with only a smattering of color. Leaning over the sink, she studied her reddened eyes. Had she passed herself on the street, she would have felt immense pity for the pathetic, ragged girl . . .
"I want this to end," she told the girl. "I just don't think I can."
The girl only stared pleadingly back.
Ginny scowled and turned away. Nothing was going to be solved tonight. Harry was outside, and she'd just have to face him.
Having finished detangling her hair, she plaited it into two long braids. Then she dressed, wishing she had silk bottoms rather than flannel on her sore skin. When she couldn't find any other conceivable reason to delay, Ginny took a deep breath and stepped out.
Harry seemed to be trying hard to be nonchalant, but Ginny had learned long ago when Harry was faking. His feet were propped up on the table (Hermione would have thrown a fit), the chair tipped back, and he wore a very serious look as his eyes remained frozen over the opened book. Playing cards were strewn about the table.
"Good book?"
"Not really," Harry shrugged. He waited a perfect three seconds before looking up, as if he had to finish a paragraph or sentence.
Ginny set her bag on her bed before taking the other chair. The fireplace was crackling. She felt restless, too confined. Squinting at the book, she frowned. "Since when are you into romance novels?"
"What?" Harry flipped the book over, his eyebrows lost under his fringe. He stared at the cover for a moment before turning to the back. "It doesn't say anything about being a romance novel . . ."
"Here," Ginny sighed, holding out her hand. Harry relinquished the worn paperback. She studied the cover of Quidditch Quandary, which seemed innocuous enough, except that the Keeper was incredibly good-looking with his longing gaze directed not at the Chaser launching the Quaffle at his hoop, but the daring, gorgeous-looking Seeker hovering up and slightly to the right.
Trying not to laugh, Ginny studied the summary on the back. Harry obviously hadn't read carefully. "Renton Mondrian is on the way to fulfilling his only dream of playing International Quidditch and winning the World Cup. When he makes Keeper for Puddlemere United, it seems that nothing can stop Renton. Then, during the Cup trials, an opposing team Seeker, Ashton Kensington, enters his life. Renton faces rivalry beyond sportsmanship. Can he stay loyal to both his team and heart?"
"Harry," said Ginny, trying hard not to laugh. "You do know Ashton's a girl, right?"
"Well, yeah, the description cleared that up . . ." Ginny raised her eyebrows and Harry frowned defensively. "Just because the girl is . . ." He seemed to grope for the word appropriate to use in front of another girl.
"Ravishing?" Ginny supplied. "I'm quite sure 'ravishing' came in there somewhere."
"How did you know?"
"The heroine of any romance novel is going to be ravishing, Harry." Ginny thumbed the pages, noticing where Harry dog-eared it. Could he really have gotten through a third of the book without realizing it was a stupid romance?
"Look," said Harry, sounding annoyed, "I just picked it up in the lounge. There's not much to do during a blizzard."
"Sor-ry." Ginny set the book down and folded her arms, resting her chin in the fold. She studied the card game on the table. It was vaguely familiar, she must have seen it played by some of the Muggleborns at Hogwarts. Of course, all she and her brothers had ever done with cards was Exploding Snap. In the Weasley house, a game without destruction or mayhem wasn't worth the effort.
"It's Solitaire," Harry explained, picking up a stack of cards showing their backs.
As she watched, Harry gathered up the cards, shuffled, and dealt, wearing a contemplative expression. He seemed to be collecting himself, and as his eyes flicked toward her, Ginny had a very bad feeling about it. He's going to tread ground we haven't touched in years, she feared, wondering how to avoid it.
Carefully laying his Ace of Diamonds above the line of seven card stacks, Harry said quietly, "Do you still have nightmares often?"
"I don't want to talk about it," Ginny snapped. She wanted to glare at him levelly, but she couldn't meet his eye. Green was too piercing a color.
Harry's thumb twitched on the back of his card hand. "We used to always talk about our nightmares," he said softly, and she could feel the restrained hurt in his throat.
"I didn't realize I was required to," she said coldly, sitting up.
"Ginny—"
But she wasn't listening. Her skin was alive and crawling. "I'm going for a walk," she said coolly.
"But the blizzard—"
"Not outside." Ginny dug into her bag for the writing journal and pen she'd brought along. She couldn't be in this room with Harry's worried, inquiring gaze.
"Look, I didn't mean to—" Harry began, but Ginny only shook her head and firmly shut the door behind her.
Worried that he would follow her, Ginny hurried down the corridor past the repetitive doors until she reached the stairs. Surely he wouldn't make a scene down in the lounge . . .
But he didn't follow, and Ginny relaxed enough not to alarm anyone as she came down the last staircase to the dimmed lobby. One fireplace still crackled for late arrivals, but the desk was closed. However, the lounge held more patrons than earlier, many of them conversing quietly on stools at the bar. Three chess games were going on, and Ginny could smell the evidence of a recent round of Exploding Snap.
Scanning the room, she found a secluded corner away from the chattering minglers. An old, lumpy brown chair was tucked into the corner. Ginny sank gratefully into the familiar, squishy contours of beaten furniture. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine herself sitting in the Gryffindor common room again.
Unfortunately, along with the comfort of crackling fireplaces, howling wind, Exploding Snap, and lumpy furniture, the Gryffindor common room was also rather social. Ginny pulled out her wand and cast a Distraction Charm over her corner to prevent any socialites from dropping in for a chat.
Once she was comfortable, legs folded and journal resting on her right knee, Ginny took to pen.
It was nearly four in the morning when Ginny finally crept back into her and Harry's room. Although a lamp remained lit and the fireplace glowed, it was dark and quiet with Harry's slumbered breathing providing any indication that it was indeed occupied.
Sighing quietly, Ginny put away her journal and flexed her sore fingers. Her writings were becoming too personal, even if she tried to write as if they weren't. She didn't want another diary. Oh no. But the dream had unnerved her far more than any of the others, even the ones with Malfoy's malicious, greedy eye and MacNair's dead body.
They're not just memories, anymore. He's speaking to me. He knows he can take me again, because I am weak. I've always been weak.
She shuddered, and then shook herself sharply to clear her mind. Riddle couldn't take her again. He didn't have the diary. It had been destroyed and Voldemort was gone forever.
"What is there for you to feed off, anyway?" Ginny murmured darkly, tossing her bag on the floor as she pulled back the bed covers.
She'd surrendered a long time ago.
Shivering, Ginny burrowed deep into the covers. Physically and mentally exhausted, sleep quickly won over her disturbing thoughts.