Just a little further… come on, you damnable creature, hold yourself together…

A gray squirrel limped, jerked, and shuddered through the canopy. Its grotesque movements were no surprise, considering what was currently sharing its rapidly failing body. The unstable soul-thing that was at once a rejuvenated Lord Voldemort and a greatly diminished Tom Riddle was quick to discover (after he'd mostly recovered from the extreme mental and spiritual anguish involved in his merger with himself) that creatures he possessed no longer lasted very long. He hypothesized that his current form was now considerably more powerful than the pale spectre he'd previously endured as, though not quite what he was just before his diary, his precious vessel, was stabbed by the infernal Potter child. It seemed to be a positive development, though Tom-Voldemort couldn't help but be frustrated at his sudden lack of mobility. Especially now that he had the mental clarity necessary to know what he had to do.

What was I thinking, spending years hiding from the world like a dumb wounded animal? The squirrel jumped, barely grasping the next branch, then chittered angrily at what felt like two broken paws. Hair fell from it in clumps and its tail had already become a limp, ragged thing. Wandering through rotten leaves and seething at my situation instead of doing anything to fix it?!

Really, it was a miracle that Quirrel had come along. He offered his own body as a free ride back to all of their followers, some of whom surely could've been compelled to bring him back! There were plenty of reasons they'd followed him in the first place, after all, despite the madness! But did old Voldemort make the best of this wondrous gift? No, instead all of his time and energy was wasted on a failed heist, a year shoved inside a garlic-filled turban enduring his host's truly horrible teaching ability, and an obstacle course fit for children in pursuit of a stone he had no need of! To top it all off, he'd lost, his host body melted away by some horrible power of the boy's, and he'd run off right back to where he'd started!

Well, not this time. Albania didn't have much of a magical populace, wizards here were concentrated further towards the Black Sea, but he didn't need a wizard. A nice expendable muggle would do fine for a short jaunt across Europe. Once he returned to Britain he'd work through as many hosts as it took, regain his body with one of the several rituals that'd somehow slipped his mind on the last trip, and start again. This time, he assured himself, without betraying my own ideals.

—

The squirrel's body lost motor function a short while later. A nearby vole lasted a few seconds before total organ failure, and a small bird quickly began to follow suit, falling to the forest floor and convulsing. Tom had almost resigned himself to having to navigate to the nearest village in 'spirit form', which was incredibly difficult and disorienting when he knew where he was going let alone when he didn't, but once again fortune favored him. A fox crept up to the dying bird and gave it a tentative sniff. Through the bird's lidded eye Tom picked up on the bright reddish coloring of its fur and felt a strange pang in the depths of his being. He didn't dwell on the feeling, instead leaping into the fox through the nostrils and quickly dominating its feeble will. With no time to waste they were off, him and the subjugated mind of the vixen, sprinting through the underbrush with their nose in the air, sniffing for human scent or smoke or even running water. A breeze picked up from the south, and he smelled it. Cooking meat.

Spinning on his paws he pushed the fox's body as hard as he could. In short order the source of the scent was visible. A small clearing held a fire pit where a dirty, hairy, clearly down-on-his-luck muggle stood holding out a sausage on a stick. Behind him a tarp was propped up by a few broken branches, and a ragged blanket lay on the dirt beneath.

Merlin's cane, cursed Tom. I doubt this one even has a passport, let alone money for travel. But I'll make do.

—

The unkempt man glanced up from his cooking and spotted a fox standing stock-still at the edge of his campsite. It was a pretty thing, though it looked a little sickly. Still, he wasn't about to share his food. As he opened his mouth to shout and drive it off a strange, oily mist seeped from it and it collapsed. Mouth held open in shock, he was caught completely off guard as the mist flew across the campsite and down his throat. There was an incredible pain in his head, he fell to his knees and screamed so loudly it felt like he was flaying his own vocal cords - a gigantic pair of red eyes stared into his very soul demanding answers in a voice that felt like fire - memories ripped through in flashes of color and hurt - surely this was a demon and he cursed and fought to no effect - something wrapped around his mind and squeezed, then everything went black.

—

Tom looked down at the man's hands, flexing them in wonder. He'd never assumed full control with Quirrel, as to do so would've destroyed his mind and led to his form falling apart much faster than it already was, so this was the closest experience he'd had to having an actual human body in over a decade. Even as an oh-so-close-to-real diary projection he still couldn't feel like he could now. Still, just as with the animals, this was only a temporary measure. Already he was experiencing a dull ache deep in the man's bones, which'd shortly become agonizing as he rotted from the inside out. Foreign souls weren't meant to be in bodies not designed for and of them, after all. Especially those taken by force.

There was movement by the edge of the clearing, and his gaze shot up to it. It was the fox. Somehow, some way, it'd survived their short encounter, and it stared blankly out at him as it swayed on unsteady feet. He smirked.

"Your service was appreciated, little fox." Tom reached down and grabbed the man's dinner from the dirt, pulling it off the stick and tossing it towards the animal. It seemed to be regaining some sense as it flinched back from the nearby impact of the sausage, though it still didn't run. "Here. Take it and go. Lord Voldemort rewards his helpers."

Tom turned his new vessel and began to stroll into the trees, away from the meager campsite. He attempted to whistle, though the man's mouth was oddly shaped compared to what he once had and so it took quite an effort. Soon, however, he was carrying a jaunty tune as he headed down a nearby footpath, using the memories he'd torn from his host to guide his way towards the lovely town of Skuraj.

—

The knife was cold, colder than it had any right being under the August sun. Ginny stood alone in the orchard, her favorite spot, just far enough away from the constant barrage of noise in the house that it was possible to get a little peace. She held that cold, cold knife to her wrist, willing herself to do it, and not for the first time.

It had been weeks, and the emptiness had if anything gotten worse. It felt like her insides had been sucked into the hole in her chest, leaving this gaping chasm, this void which held no light or happiness or hope for the future. The space Tom had left when he'd gone. When he'd been taken.

Ginny didn't resent Harry too much for it. He'd done what he'd thought was right. Just like she did. She didn't expect him, or any of them, to understand, and wouldn't have had to deal with the consequences of that lack of understanding anyway, being dead. But instead she was alive, and surrounded by the hustle and bustle and yelling and demands and chores like nothing had changed. Sure, her brothers shot her pitying looks when they thought she wasn't looking, and her Dad seemed troubled when she was nearby, though he never attempted to talk to her about things. Too busy being a pushover, nagged by her mother, or working his dead end ministry job to care about his only daughter. Too busy tinkering with muggle toys.

The edge of the knife felt hotter as she pushed down. Blood, brilliant scarlet, like rubies, flowed down her arm, and she stopped. Held it there. Then pulled the knife away.

Her eyes felt wet. She was a coward. It was so easy to just let herself die, but to actually finish herself off? Impossible.

There was shouting in the distance. Her mother. Probably going to tell her to clean out the chicken coop or scrub the windows. If she asked about her wrist, Ginny'd tell her a gnome scratched it.

But she probably wouldn't ask.