Discliamer:

Alas, alack, for I do not

Own anything, but for the plot.

Add to this my lack of skill

With rhyme and certainly you will

Not sue, or kill or even maim

For from this I derive no fame.

o.O

Cognito

It was strange, she thought, that one could experience such pain yet bear no marks from it. Sometimes, in the dark, she found herself thinking that perhaps it was all a dream- perhaps she had made it up. Imagined the pain and the cold and the voices. Other times, the memory felt so real that every part of her sang with a pain that was horrifyingly sweet because it reminded her that she was still alive, and that she hadn't imagined anything.

She began to think she could see her hand if she held it in front of her face for long enough. If she sat, still and quiet, with her arm outstretched and fingers clenched, an outline would form in the myriad of shades that formed the total darkness in which she lived and she could see her hand. Slender fingers pale, nails growing longer than her mother would have allowed, faint creases holding the secret to her future.

Funny. The fortune tellers had never told of this. Of utter darkness and loneliness. Of being forgotten.

She remembered how she'd feared it- being forgotten. Being left behind. How she'd have clung to anything that promised a future worth remembering, how she'd latched onto the first available story and fallen in love. Back when she'd had a name- back when she'd remembered it and known what the sun was.

Somewhere, she knew the darkness wouldn't last forever- that the light would come, and with it reality and a more immediate fear. She longed for that day, and dreaded it.

Sometimes she slept, other times she didn't. Most times she wasn't sure.

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The ministry didn't know what to do, and neither did Harry. Voldemort hadn't been active in so long, they'd dared to hope he'd disappeared, and soon hope had turned to forgetfulness. Now, though, one of their own was missing, and they had nothing to go on. They'd tried to trace the letter, and the magic that had created it. They'd found nothing- they hadn't expected anything else. The Weasley boys had already attempted to storm the ministry, and to be honest, most of the employees were sure they'd succeed eventually, and none of them wanted to be there when they did. Temper, fists, magic and a reputation combined to create a formidable force.

But that gave no one any answers, and they knew they were running out of time. If Voldemort had kidnapped the girlfriend of The Boy Who Lived, he must be more powerful than they'd dreamed.

Harry sat at his desk, head in hands, quill lying forlorn on the desk by his elbow. The letter was untraceable and indestructible. He reread it. Tom. Nagini. Ginny.

Tom. Not Voldemort, but Tom. A name that was less majestic, more ordinary. Older… or, younger. He closed his eyes and remembered the Tom he had known- a young man, beautiful, intelligent, confident and powerful even then. What did it mean, using Tom once more? Voldemort had been a parasite, a burden. Helpless, bodiless and weak. Tom had been young, strong and powerful.

Harry's eyes widened. That, then. Voldemort was gone, and Tom had returned. He must have succeeded in finding a new body- or even, recreating his old one. He'd be seventeen again. Ginny though- Ginny was twenty. Older than the Dark Lord by three years.

Missed his old playmate…

Ginny was no longer a girl, to be a playmate. Harry groaned. It was too confusing, too cryptic. If Ginny were there, she'd figure it out. She was good with riddles, with puzzles. Piecing things together on only a few clues she did better than anyone he knew- even Hermione. He stood, parchment in hand. He couldn't take the letter to Ginny, but he could take it to Hermione. He just hoped Ron wasn't with her- they hadn't spoken since he'd told the Weasleys about the kidnapping, and he wasn't sure Ron was ready to see him.

-----

Hermione lived alone, renting a flat a walk away from the ministry where she managed to write and work without Harry ever understanding what she actually did. He knocked on the door, tapping his foot on the wooden floor of the corridor, waiting. He could hear her inside, walking towards him. The handle twisted, the light glinting of the bronze in a dull, apathetic manner. Brown eyes peered at him from beneath a veritable bush of hair that obscured the dark circles beneath her lashes.

"Harry?" She questioned.

"'Lo, Mione." He swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "Have you heard about… about Ginny?"

Hermione nodded. "Yeah. Ron was here earlier." She stood back and opened the door. "Come inside."

Harry smiled gratefully and walked past her into the lounge room where he stood awkwardly, parchment gripped in his fingers. He was suddenly afraid to hand it over, as if by relinquishing his hold on it, he'd be letting go of Ginny herself. Hermione entered behind him and sat on one of the chairs, feet tucked beneath her.

"Sit down?"

Harry shook his head. "I just- just wanted to ask you to have a look at something. A letter. We got it when Ginny disappeared, and we're not sure what to make of it. Thought you could help."

Hermione stared at him before standing and walking over, hand outstretched. "Well then. What took you so long to ask?" She gripped the edged and pulled it firmly from his hands, smiling. "Don' worry, Harry. I'll tell you everything there is to know from it soon enough."

Harry nodded and relinquished his hold on the parchment. "Thanks, Mione."

She nodded, already staring at the letter and pushed him towards the door.

"Go home and sleep, Harry. Come back tomorrow and we'll talk about this, and then we'll go and find her."

He allowed himself to be propelled towards the door, and stood- nothing left to do but follow Hermione's instructions. He went home, tired, and fell onto his bed fully clothed.

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Thank you to: Eve Granger, dramaqueen109, Princess JB and Mysterious Grey, to whom I send many cyber brownies for their reviews.