Congressus

Disclaimer: Dude, I own nothing and make nothing, Have pity and don't sue.

Thanks to: Eve Granger and Tweeny-weeny, for reviewing. Many cookies and much love.

Author's Notes: Okay. People have mentioned Harry's a little OOC. I'm basically working of the Harry seen in the early chapters of OotP- the whining, annoying, self-important Harry. He's going to get a little nicer here though, and hopefully he'll continue to improve.

Eventually this will be D/G.

He stared, lost in thought, in memories. Ginny hiding behind the stairs, blushing. Ginny grinning shyly from behind Ron. Ginny flying chaser for Gryffindor. Ginny in his arms, smiling. Ginny on the floor of the chamber, dying. Ginny.

The parchment was rough in his hands- heavy. A physical manifestation of all the fears they faced each day, of the danger they had known but never quite comprehended. He wandered unseeing through wizarding London streets and alleys and gateways, lost in misery and despair. He wasn't even sure why, but he knew one thing. Whether Ginny survived or not, he'd lost her. Perhaps forever. He hadn't listened, hadn't noticed, and had dismissed her thoughts and dreams and life as less important than his own. He'd taken her worship for granted, assumed it would always be there because it had always been there. He'd never thought that once he'd accepted it he'd have to make an effort because he hadn't had to before. Of course, it probably wouldn't have mattered to her. At first she'd have been ecstatic just because he'd noticed her. But eventually she'd have realized.

He sighed and looked up. He was being stupid, he knew. Self-pitying and depressing. And he still had to tell her family. It was later into the evening now- they'd all be at home, at least Molly and Arthur would be. You could never tell with their sons.
He grimaced and apparated with a slight pop.

The lounge was in a state of what could only be called a surreal kind of chaos. Molly sat, feverishly knitting, tears dampening the wool as it knotted and snagged and unraveled. Arthur stared, his arm around his wife, pale. George was restraining Fred, both arms wrapped tightly around his twin. Harry couldn't tell if it was to stop Fred from killing him, or if George just needed to strangle someone- and Fred was the closest human. Ron, though. He sat there, crying silently, so still. He was never still- always moving, tapping, and fidgeting. His mouth was slack and his eyes wide. Only Bill and Charlie were absent- both working. But Harry knew they'd be home soon. He sat on the lounge, parchment on the coffee table, looking so small, insignificant, terrible. But at least Harry was still alive. No one had tried to curse him yet, with the possible exception of Fred. He hung his head.
"The ministry will- will do everything they can, I'm sure. And-"
Mr Weasley looked up and interrupted him.
"What about you, Harry? What are you going to do?"
"Me? Well, I-I mean," Harry struggled with his answer. He knew it should be simple. He knew what he should do- what he should have started doing the moment Ginny was missing. But he hadn't. He hung his head again and continued in a whisper. "I'll look for her. I will." Again he looked up, eyes fever bright. "I'll look for her."
Mr. Weasley nodded, slowly, as if he were… disappointed, but relieved. Molly began to sob, and he gently took her by the elbow and led her upstairs. George had his brother under control, and both of them were leaning against the wall, red eyed and pale, but calmer. They stared at him- identical, sorrowful stares. Fred turned abruptly and left the room, almost running up the stairs. Only George and Ron were left.
"Ron, George, I-"
Ron stood and began to walk towards him, each step propelled by words spat from his mouth as if they left a foul taste. "You were supposed to look after her. Protect her. But you just ignored her. It took you two days to take this seriously. Two days to tell us." He stopped, his 6"5' frame towering over the couch. Harry stared, openmouthed.
"Ron, I didn't think that-"
"Save it, Harry," and with that he stalked from the room.
Harry turned to George, eyes pleading, beseeching.
"George-"
He looked away before answering. "You couldn't even answer, Harry. Dad asked you-" He raised his eyes. "Dad asked you what you'd do. He gave you a chance to make what you did better. But you couldn't even answer. Don't find her, Harry. Bring. Her. Back."
"What if I can't- I can't find her?"
George just stared, and left.

The floor was cold and hard on her skin. Her knees and breasts were pressed hard on the ground, and her neck ached. But she couldn't move. If she moved, they'd notice her again, and then, and then something bad would happen. She wasn't sure what, but she knew it would be bad and painful and she'd had enough of pain.

They had come for her not long after Malfoy had left. She couldn't tell who they were because they all wore the masks and robes of a Death Eater. There had been five of them. Two had grabbed her arms, one had led and the other two had followed. All had their wands out, gripped tightly, and in the hand furthest from her. She hadn't fought them. She'd known it wouldn't do her nay good- likely it would just make the whole process more painful.

She was regretting that decision. After what they'd done, a little extra pain wouldn't have mattered.

He'd been sitting in a chair by an unlit fireplace. The room was dark; the only source of light was the glow coming from the wand of the Death Eater who had led her there. Other Death Eaters stood around the room in a loose circle, silent and imposing in their uniform malevolence. The ashes in the fireplace had shifted; some had risen into the air- lifted by a wind that was neither real nor imaginary. Everything was still- no robes moved, no floorboards creaked, no man breathed. And she blinked. Suddenly everything seemed to rush back to her. The ashes fell in rewind and the chair in front of her slowly turned around.
She gasped involuntarily. His hair was thick and black, immaculately parted and gleaming in the pale light. His face was pale but fresh and even sitting down she could see the muscled legs and broad shoulders. He looked like he was seventeen again; only his eyes belied the image so well crafted. Blue again, but deep and cruel, and an iris rimmed with blood red. No mere mortals eyes. Eyes of someone long since dead, but who refused to acknowledge his passing. He had smiled, cold and cruel, and risen from his chair.
"My dear Ginevra," he crooned, coming ever closer, hand outstretched. "Ginny. I have missed you so." His fingers brushed along her jaw and down her neck, caressing her throat. "Have you missed me also?"
She swallowed and opened her mouth to answer, "One does not miss a Nightmare," but the words did not come. She began to choke, to struggle for air, to shudder and gulp and retch.
"Ginny, Ginny. Come child. Did you not miss me? You must surely know the answer. Tell me the truth, child. Lies are not heard in my presence." With this last he smirked, as if the idea amused him.
She hung her head and whispered, "Yes."
He smiled, triumphant.
"Then you must come and sit by my feet. We have much to… do."
The words escaped her mouth before she had time to think.
"I will never-"
The choking began again, as the spell, or whatever it was picked up on her intention. But the act of defiance cleared her head, and she saw what had happened. He would hear truth as he wished her to give it, and as she gave it, it would become truth for her. A coercion spell, or something like it. With this knowledge came an idea of how to combat it, but before she could grasp it in her mind Voldemort's hand connected with the side of her head. She looked up, dazed, into his now furious eyes.
"You will not defy me!" The scream was distant, behind the ringing in he ears. "You will submit!"

And the first cruciatus hit her. It was not the last.

By the time they had finished with her, she was lying limp on the floor- the only thing saving her from unconsciousness was the knowledge that surely more pain would come soon. When, she never knew. Only that it would come. Cruciatus or other, it would come. They had each yelled it, every last one of the hooded, robed figures that surrounded the room. And she had watched, detached. It was as though she had left her body and was observing from somewhere else, As if she were simply viewing something that had happened long, long ago. But at the same time, she had known she was in her body, sobbing, screaming and almost dying.
But now, now they were done. They talked talked talked in her ears and droned on like bees. She couldn't move because she was too tired and in too much pain. But they still talked and ignored her, and she stayed still until the talk faded and the room faded and even the pain faded, but only a little bit.