Sorry I haven't updated anything in a bit. I've been busier than usual. As it is, this part was technically already written, and all I had to do was proofread it. I'll try to put the next one up very soon, since it's so short and it's already written, as well.

If the writing in this seems really jerky, try to ignore that. That's part of it. I'm going more for the experience than a fluid story.

Part One

The summer heat was sweltering. After finishing her chores early, Ginny headed outside with a glass of icy water and one of her mother's paperback romance novels that she had swiped. It was an unusually hot July day, and Ginny could practically see the waves of heat radiating from the cracked ground. In the distance she could hear Ron and Harry batting something on broomsticks. Normally she would've joined them…it would be good practice if she ever wanted to play Quidditch professionally. Today, however, she was just too hot. Too hot and too tired.

She laid the book over her knee to save her page and leaned her head back against the chair, squinting against brightness of the sun. She sat like this for several minutes, trying to focus on the rare cool breezes that rushed by her. A loud crack came from the direction of Harry and Ron, but she didn't bother to look. It was probably just one of her brothers, come back to visit for the afternoon. They had been turning up more often after the war had ended, especially George. The death of his twin had hit him harder than it had anyone else in the family – and that was really saying something. Mrs. Weasley still rushed out of the room to cry whenever Fred's name was mentioned, and Mr. Weasley's mouth twisted whenever the subject came up. Ginny missed him terribly as well, but she refused to cry. Fred wouldn't have wanted any more sadness in the world, she was sure.

She sighed, and was just considering starting on the book again when a voice behind her asked "Good book?"

Ginny jumped and turned around to see George standing behind her, with one hand on his hip and his missing ear pointed down toward his shoulder where it was nearly hidden beneath the hair he'd been growing out.

"'Charming the Chevalier'," he read over her shoulder. "I didn't know this was the sort of stuff you were into, Ginny." He grinned.

She laughed. "It's mum's, and don't you dare tell her I've been reading it. She'd hex me to kingdom come if she knew I'd borrowed it." She snapped it shut and handed it to her brother. "Here, hide it while we go inside. I haven't got any pockets." He stowed it away.

On days like this, Mrs. Weasley usually made large lunches that weren't to be missed – even Mr. Weasley took off from work and came home for them whenever he could. Ginny grabbed George's hand, and together they set off for the house. These lunches were the one time that they truly felt like a family again.

As bright and beautiful as the day had been, it had all faded into the back of Ginny's mind as she lay awake in bed that night. She had left the window open to let in any breezes that might come, but it was a vain hope. Grudgingly, she resigned herself to sleeping on top of the blankets. It was just too warm to even consider covering up. She didn't like the feeling of sleeping above the blankets. It left her feeling exposed, even if there was no chance of anyone coming into her room.

Nights had gotten worse for Ginny. In addition to the nightmares that she still suffered through, she now awoke nearly every night feeling a presence in the room with her. It was always in that same place – to the immediate right of her bed. Each night it fled before she had time to shine her wand at it. She was becoming increasingly paranoid and losing sleep. Even her mother had begun to notice, preoccupied as she was with trying to return the household to normal after Fred's death during the final battle.

This night, Ginny was awake long after the rest of the Weasleys had dozed off. When she finally checked her watch, the time read just after three in the morning. She sighed and closed her eyes, rubbing the palms of her hands over them in frustration. A moment later, she rose and went to grab an old robe from her bureau. She spread it over herself on the bed and used it as a makeshift blanket. It wasn't as warm as one of the quilts would have been, and it made her feel less exposed. She burrowed her head into the pillow and tried to count breaths until she fell asleep. Just as she was about to slide into her dreams, the wind howled through the room. She hardly heard it, and slipped under a moment later.

The next morning Ginny awoke feeling exhausted. When she examined herself in the mirror she found dark circles under her eyes. The skin around her eyes was translucently pale, despite her feeble attempts to sun herself, and she could see the purple of the veins under her eyelids and beneath her eyes. She flipped the mirror over and brushed her hair without looking at her reflection before heading down to breakfast.

Afternoon found Ginny once again sitting in a chair under the burning sun, reading another one of her mother's novels. This one ('The Mage's Mistress') featured a picture of a girl who looked not unlike Ginny on the cover, with her flaming red hair and determined jaw. Ginny found this most amusing, and she was passing the time imagining herself in the most embarrassing scenes from the book with various dark, handsome men playing the role of the male protagonist and lover.

She was deeply immersed in her own imagination, seeing in her mind's eye the man from the story swooping up a fainting, victimized woman. While Ginny herself had never fainted for any petty reason, she didn't mind imagining herself from time to time as the heroine of a story which featured a dashing hero who charged to his lady's rescue with no regard to the peril of the situation. Of course, Ginny mused, she did indeed have a dashing hero in her own life. If something were to ever happen to her – Merlin forbid – Harry would swoop in to rescue her as surely as any hero from a romance novel. The image of Harry in ancient magical armor, brandishing a giant staff like the mage in the novel caused Ginny to smile.

Her thoughts were interrupted suddenly by a glint of something dark off to her right. She quickly turned her head but nothing was there. She shook her head and dismissed it as a figment of her imagination. Picking the book back up from where she had set it on the dry grass during her daydream, she resumed reading about the majestic Thomas and his fair Giselle.

The next few nights dragged by slowly. Ginny was falling asleep more quickly now that she was worn out, but she rarely stayed asleep for longer than an hour at a time, and the shadowy figure that she kept seeing out of the corner of her mind had become a permanent fixture. She hardly even bothered to look at it anymore, and instead she turned her back to it and huddled under her old robe for protection. But the protection of the robe didn't keep the hairs on the back of her neck from standing up, and she began to feel like something was touching her in the darkness, slithering up and down her spine like a snake. She began to think that she was cracking up from exhaustion.

The shadowy figure that had been invading her thoughts during the night show began to show up consistently during the day. Ginny had taken to helping her mother with things around the house, rather than lie outside and read. The flash of black never seemed to appear when she was around her mother – or anyone else for that matter. She sought the safety that came with being with someone else, even if this did mean that she spent very little time by herself.

She continued to seek this protection by lazing around with her father when he returned home from work. She even helped with a few of his new gadgets that he'd grabbed from work. With Harry's help, they'd dismantled a muggle toaster and an electric lamp within the space of a few weeks. Ginny began to look forward to this time spent with Harry and her father, and she was tempted to ask to borrow the lamp to leave on during the night.

One night, Ginny awoke from the deepest sleep she had managed in days. Disoriented, she started to sit up before realizing that the dark figure was once again standing next to her bed. She froze and reached under her pillow, fumbling for her wand. She managed to light the tip nonverbally and, in one sudden movement, she pointed it to her right, directly at the figure standing there.

Standing directly in front of her was the sixteen-year-old figure of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

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