Title: Methodical Madness

Author: MTS

Summary: When Voldemort takes your mind, he keeps it. Harry/Ginny

A/N: Setting: Right after the theoretical book seven.

It would be their first kiss, the first time he was able to pull her close and kiss that sweet, eatable mouth that had always smirked dangerously at him – the features of her face blurring as she moved closer and closer and closer and his glasses fogged ridiculously with the heat of her breath. And then her lips met his—

He hated to admit to himself that kissing her was pure unadulterated magic, brighter and firmer and gentler and all-consuming. As her mouth opened slightly and he tasted her, deeper and sweeter than ever, Harry Potter felt dizzy with a power he couldn't explain, couldn't dream of, and wished at once that they could be doing this for hours, days even.

But she pulled away, her face in a grimace so fierce that it scared him. Beginning to shake, Ginny stumbled away from him, but he kept hold of her hand. He wouldn't let her run away this time, not when all was safe, the terrible deeds were over and those still standing could smile at last.

"Ginny, what is it? What's wrong?" Harry asked nervously, wondering why his free hand was reaching unconsciously for his wand.

Her mouth slightly open in a way that made him want to cross the distance at once if she it wasn't for the wideness of her eyes, the fear radiating out of her –

"Ginny," he repeated as gently as he could.

"You… you're him," she said, her lower lip trembling and yet she tightened her grip on his hand. "Riddle. You taste like –" She looked away for a moment and then pulled him tightly into her arms, her face against his shoulder.

Harry Potter wasn't sure what had just happened. "Gin, Ginny – what is it, tell me," he said, stroking her hair and wondering why women always cried on him.

"Must be the spell, must be the— oh god, Harry," she sobbed quietly, "I know, I KNOW you're not him, but you – please tell me I'm not crazy, tell me that you're…" She stopped and clung tighter.

It was slowly making sense as she unconsciously caressed his back, fingering letters – a name – against his t-shirt. T-O-M.

A chill took him and he pulled away, pushing her to arms length. Her lips were tightly pressed together now, her eyes narrow and red. She was still as beautiful as ever and words that the dying Voldemort had whispered to him began to grate against him, carving the taunting cry deep into his heart. "That red hair is soft against your cheek late at night, isn't it? I felt it first, you know. She was mine, Potter, she was mine first and will always be mine."

Avada Kedavra had never felt sweeter in his mouth than it had then, obliterating the rotting creature to nothingness.

She blinked at him and he immediately took her face in his hands and kissed her firmly, no tentativeness this time, no hesitation, no fear that she would run away (even though she now had full right to). He held her tight, claiming her as his own – thinking as hard as he could while kissing her that he was Harry, he was Harry, he knew who he was and she would know too. She would know, she would understand.

It was almost like she burned with an unbelievable force and he had to let go of her at once. She stared at him, shocked and angry, a little breathless. "You taste like Tom," she said, gritting her teeth and taking three steps back away from him.

He didn't bother thinking too hard that Ginny knew what Voldemort's younger self tasted like.

"Voldemort's dead, Ginevra. I killed him. You saw me kill him. You helped me kill him."

She looked at him fiercely. "Tom never dies," she spat.

Harry was taken aback at this and unbelievably, his scar faintly began to throb. Reaching up to touch it unconsciously, he stared at her horrified.

"You feel it, don't you. He knew."

"Because you told him."

She let the words hit her, sharper words than he had intended but he stood by them as truth. He knew that she had told him – the eleven year old doodling love poems and crying out in a childlike lust for her hero … and then, of course, the lingering Riddle felt her growing out of the crush into something else – they had even used this strong, intense emotion that never frightened her in the final protection spells — … and finally all the pieces fell into place when she met him in the flesh at seventeen, her eyes defiantly warning the advancing monster away from her as she swore cruciatus without blinking, urging Harry to wait a moment, give her just a taste of revenge for her brothers before he could growl out the AK…

"We went after him together, of course he'd know, he wasn't stupid," she growled.

"This is ridiculous," he said cruelly and kissed her again, harder this time if it was possible. She gasped a little but didn't fight him, her hands sliding down his torso to rest on his hips, pushing him tightly against her.

His scar throbbed again. And there was nothing to explain it, nothing he cared to even think about with the woman he loved willfully grinding against him and her hand pushing one of his hands up under her shirt to touch her, feel the skin that he had longed to caress for over a year now. He felt dizzy again and felt her flinch slightly as his thumb slid over her nipple and yet she seemed to give in to whatever it was.

She pulled away, eyes slightly glazed over. "Maybe this was what I wanted all along, Tom."

His scar burned, an agonizing searing pain, but he couldn't leave now, couldn't push her away in horror and rub at his forehead and focus on alleviating the pain, pushing it away like he had for the past year, forcing himself to concentrate – no – now, he kissed the woman clawing frantically at him with the insatiable desire to consume every inch of her as fast as possible. She moaned into his mouth and he felt the inhuman force of something stronger than himself flowing into his veins and he writhed against her as she began tugging at his jeans.

Everything was wrong. He had been right before, kissing her was magical – he just had no idea how deep and how dark that magic was.

They were lost in each other and unable to stop themselves. And neither of them heard the soft and deadly familiar cackle far away in the corners of their minds.

fin-