Disclaimer: You saw it in the first chapter. I don't own Harry Potter.
A/N: Well, here it is.
Ginny Weasley took a deep breath. She quieted the monster of her fear that coiled in her chest ("Ice," she thought, almost a mantra, "I need to be ice.") and strapped on all her gear: guns, blades, poisons, potions, and several other tricks of the trade found only on an assassin.
See, the redhead was no longer the cheery, happy—if tainted by darkness a little—Gryffindor teenager that she had been. The war had changed all that. It had changed everything; taking her love away, taking her innocence and purity away, taking away her hope, taking away her optimism. It had given her something, though—Voldemort made sure to make every single person but his Death Eaters werewolves—and with that curse came advanced senses, speed and agility. Beneficial for Ginny's profession. But Voldemort still liked to see all the people tear each other apart as wolves, on a full moon. He enraged the wolves purposefully. It bears repeating: he was an evil, literally soulless, man.
He even, Ginny reflected often, indirectly took away her trademark Weasley red hair and left it pure white. That was what came of using battle-magic non-stop for a year or two and then touching silver as a werewolf and living.
She didn't even know how long it had been.
But now, on Remus' orders (Remus Lupin was both a pre-Second Rise werewolf and the Head of the ultra-secret organization, the Order of the Phoenix, which Voldemort thought he'd wiped out), she had the ability to change all of that. All of that.
Ginny's brown eyes flared, making them seem almost red. There. She was in a fearless battle-rage—well, not the traditional barbarian Viking type. The battle-rage that Ginny could place her mind into was cold and calculating. Worthy of the master assassin Ginny had become.
Now was the most important task Ginny had ever had. The wizarding world was in bondage to Lord Voldemort, having lost the war. But Ginny now had the power to change all that.
The one last chance.
Maybe…maybe there was hope. Hope, with the cold, hard eyes of an assassin and the just as cold blades of her dagger, the worn wood of her wand, and the polished metal of her gun. The wire that could slice off heads like cheese, the poisons she kept, and the blowguns armed with surprisingly fatal darts. The world could not sink any lower, but hopefully now it would rise high.
Ginny held the time-turner that she had gotten off the underground market as she stood in an alley near her destination, utterly concealed from Voldemort with her—interesting—talents. The time-turner, thankfully, was not tainted or corrupted by Dark magic as nearly everything was these days. The black market now was really profiting off items not tainted by Dark magic; becoming quite a white market instead.
There—there was the green dial on the outer rim of the Turner. Turn it so: once, twice, three times. Turn it ten times. Ten times for fifty years. Fifty years back, in this place in London. Where the young Tom Riddle resided in an orphanage.
Colors swirled around and around and around Ginny. It nauseated her, and she had to retch a couple of times in the alley—cleaner, now, and exposed—before she got a sense of her surroundings.
"Come get yer fish right 'ere!" a raucous voice yelled. "Right 'ere! Fresh fish!"
Ginny straightened her black trench coat and made sure that her wand, her guns, her blades (many, many daggers and a short-sword), her little vials of poison, and her assassin's tools were not visible and easily accessed. Then she stepped out of the alley (she had carefully positioned herself in her time to be very close to the remains of the orphanage) and right in the middle of sunlight.
Sunlight?
Oh, right. This wasn't the world where Voldemort reigned. This wasn't the world where it was constantly raining, as if nature was crying for the world, weeping her heart out. That was Voldemort's world.
And soon he would not exist.
The gates of the orphanage rose up sharply in front of Ginny. They were wrought iron, imposing, but Ginny was not intimidated. Little had the ability to really intimidate her anymore, but the orphans playing in the playground just beyond the gates almost did. Having lived so long in fear and among others who feared, Ginny was almost scared to see so many small children so carefree and happy. Well, happi-er.
Except for one handsome eight-year-old, who still looked miserable, the orphans looked utterly cowed by the world outside the gates and by the gates themselves. And that eight-year-old was an eight-year-old who made Ginny's insides lurch with fear and her blood run colder than it already was. She had to keep reminding herself that he was not Lord Voldemort yet—he was no danger yet—and thanks be to whatever diety, she could keep her face utterly blank.
"Yes?" a monitor replied to Ginny's finger to the doorbell.
"I've come to see if I can adopt a child," Ginny said pleasantly. Her face lit up in a smile. It made her look pretty, notwithstanding her white hair and pierced tongue that she really could not disguise. Both gave her a real punk/goth look, especially with the added ensemble of black trenchcoat and black leather pants and multiple other piercings.
"Today isn't an adopting day…" the monitor looked disappointed, and so did the children who had crowded around the fence right when they saw her.
"Oh, but I so wanted…" Ginny trailed off. "Could I at least speak with some of them, and come back to adopt one or two later?"
"Of course!" the monitor exclaimed, and the children's faces cheered up by several margins. Ginny felt a flood of pity for them—she was an orphan, too. Because of the eight-year-old standing there, looking at her.
"Pick me!" a small girl shrieked. Ginny smiled at her, slipping in through the opening gates.
"I might…" Ginny winked at her. "But I wanted to talk to everyone, each of you, in a room separately. I want to see whether you'll suit me…"
"Me! Me!" the kids jumped up and down.
"I know," Ginny enthused. "I'll just pick you all randomly to talk, okay? Then we'll see what we can do."
"You can go to the living room," the monitor said. She pointed it out. "The children will also help you get there."
"All right," Ginny exclaimed. "Now, don't be afraid of me because I look like the crazy person in jail, okay? I'm nice underneath. And I really want a son or a daughter."
"Me first," a little girl announced and pushed her way to front of the line. There were about twenty children out there, not including the evil that was Tom Riddle, who didn't count as a child.
"How about you?" Ginny said, pointing to a little boy. "I said I'd pick you all randomly."
She led the boy into the living room, sat him down, draped her trenchcoat on the back of a chair, and adopted a very serious look on her face.
"Listen," she said. "This is a very deadly secret that I am about to tell you."
The little boy nodded and imitated her serious face.
"You must tell no one until I leave the orphanage, all right?"
"'Kay," the little boy said.
"Do you promise? Blood promise?"
"Bloo' promise."
"I'm here on a mission," Ginny told him. "I can't adopt anyone. But don't tell anyone, all right?"
"A'right."
"I may see you again when you're older. And then you can really talk about it with me."
"A'right."
"Good. Then, next."
Most of the conversations went this way. Except for one little girl—Penelope—who was two and had somehow sneaked into the group of older kids. Ginny found out, by way of a slight temper-tantrum resulting in a floating object that had not been Ginny's handiwork, that the little girl had magical abilities. Not the most pleasant way to find anything out, but it worked. Planning to deal with her later, Ginny told the little witch to stay very still and hide in the trenchcoat that was presently draped over a chair-back. And most importantly, not to move when any noise was made.
Then, of course, there was Tom Riddle's interview. Ginny had chosen him for last.
He stepped in gracefully and closed the door.
"You're not really here to adopt a child," he stated.
Ginny dropped the pleasant mask and pulled out her wand and a dagger, dropping into a crouch. A little bit of surprise was reflected in Tom Riddle's already evil, dark eyes, at the sudden change from friendly woman to deadly, sexless assassin.
"You're right," Ginny agreed, with a feral smile. "Can you guess what I'm here to do?" For the first time in his life, Tom Riddle was scared. He could sense his death, trapped beneath Ginny's gaze like a rabbit is trapped when a snake gazes at it. Tom Riddle still was merely the rabbit, though he would soon be the snake.
"Avada Kedavra," Ginny whispered. A jet of green light shot from her wand and struck Tom Riddle's heart.
Time slowed down as Tom Riddle sunk to the floor, lifeless. For a moment, clocks stopped dead in their tracks, and not just because of a mass breaking of cogs, either. And then—then it changed direction.
All over the world, people—wizards and muggles—felt that gentle tug of fate utterly resisting a change. Professor Dumbledore, Transfiguration teacher and Deputy Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, felt this. And read more into it. Fate had been changed. Time had been meddled with. He Apparated to the location of the disturbance quickly.
But by the time he arrived, Ginny had sunk a dagger with a prepared note stuck on it deep into Riddle's chest. She grabbed the little girl out of the trenchcoat, and spun the little blue dial on the time-turner frantically, randomly, to bring herself into the future.
How far into the future didn't matter; all that she needed was to get out of here. She might as well be a time-hobo, Ginny thought, amused. She wasn't going to belong in any time, now. Might as well enjoy it. Try to get back a normal life—at least, as normal as possible. At least she had Penelope to help out with some normality.
Professor Dumbledore opened the door just in time to see Ginny's face, as it whirled away in the colors of time. He turned his attention to the note pinned to Tom Riddle's chest by a dagger and to the black leather trenchcoat lying on the seat of the chair now, from the little girl's hasty exit.
Who would be terrible enough to murder a child? he thought.
Dumbledore shook his head. It was not his place to wonder about the motives of a crazed murderer when the victim of the crazed murderer was right in front of him. This child was being watched, too…such potential for greatness. But…oh, well. The note was there, waiting to be read. Begging to be read. Dumbledore took the dagger out of the body (a poisoned dagger, as he could see by its sheen), and gingerly grasped the note.
The lettering was calligraphic and a work of art. It read: By my hand, the hand of the greatest warrior of all time, Warrior Master and Assassin Master Ginevra Molly Weasley, born AD1980, justice for the future has been dealt and an evil fate has been averted. I travel the river of time freely now with the daughter whom I have just adopted and already love. I have made certain with this act that children will now be loved as they deserve in the future without living in total fear. Remember my name and honor me when next we meet. Keep this note.
-Ginevra Molly Weasley, Assassin Master of the Highest Order, and Ruler of the Guild; and Warrior Master of the highest degree.
A/N (#2!): Yeah, sorry, I don't have anything deep and meaningful to say except: Here I stand, head in hands, turn my face to the wall. If she's goneI can't go on, feeling two foot small. Everywheere people stare, each and everyday...I can see them laugh at me, andI hear them say: "Hey, you've got to hide your love away...Hey, you've got to hide your love away..."
Wowie. In case you hadn't noticed, I was listening to and typing down You've Got To Hide Your Love Away by the Beatles. Great song, great song. It's on Help! in case you didn't know.
Bye.
