AN at the end of the chapter.

Chapter 11
They May As Well Be The Same

"III"

February 15, 2008

They ask, why? But she doesn't feel the need to explain. She tells them it's for a good reason.

Who, or what, do you need to bind so badly? Have you found Gefn's gift?

There's a beating in her stomach that feels something like apprehension. "Look, I think I've explained enough. Your turn."

Moody exchanges a glance with Harry. It's loaded with some unspoken agreement that sends a trickle of disquiet down her spine. She feels edgy, ready to bolt.

"Well," Harry begins hesitantly, "Voldemort… he— he isn't really gone."

Whatever she had been expecting to hear, this is the farthest from it it could be.

"Wh— what!?" she stammers, "he died when he tried to kill you as a baby! Everyone knows that!"

"Remember how I used to meet with Dumbledore, back in my sixth year? I'd see you meeting with him every now and then as well."

She nods.

"Well, we've been trying to kill Voldemort, this whole time. And after Dumbledore died—"

Ginny feels dizzy, there's a rushing in her ears. She can hear Harry still explaining, but it's a hum in the back of her mind. Her thoughts spin and spin.

"How is he still alive?" she interrupts Harry, "where has he been this whole time?"

Harry and Moody exchange another look. Moody sighs, and gestures, "go ahead laddie, she might as well know. A secret for a secret," he pins her with a glance.

"Fine, fine," she answers impatiently, "ask whatever you want."

"Why did you fake your death?" Harry asks quickly, before Moody can ask anything. Moody glares at him.

"Answer mine first, and I'll tell you."

Harry begins to tell her a story about ripping souls and small prisons, of needless murder, and hidden, secret places.

Then she tells him a story of a diary, a sixteen year old boy, and her way to trick him.

"But after I had locked him away in my mind for so long, the void was able to weaken his prison. I felt it, I think, when I was in the void. It was as if it was trying to take something from me. It knew, in a way, that there was more than one mind in me. Anyway… it was enough, I guess, to loosen his prison, so by the time I got back to England, he was free. I couldn't let him try to possess me again, so I bound him the best I could and decided I have to put all my energy into finishing Læsanir. And so here I am. Trying to finish it."

Both Harry and Moody are staring at her in shock, their faces drained of any color.

"What?" she demands.

"The boy's name— his name was Tom Riddle. Was it not?"

Ginny is beyond feeling surprised now. Of course they know his name. Of course they do. "Yes," she answers tiredly, "yes, it was. How do you know him?"

"Well," begins Harry hesitantly, as if walking to the gallows, "Tom Riddle, well he was… or he is... " he pauses again looking positively tortured, Ginny's gut twists.

"He's Voldemort," Moody interrupts impatiently, "Tom Riddle, is Voldemort's given name."

It's all a haze after that.

She numbly moves about her tasks, fulfilling the request for Gefn's gift. The complexity of the gift fell insensibly dead around her ears, the buzzing in her head drowning everything else out.

She knows, abstractly, that she is in shock — Tom is Voldemort, Tom is Voldemort a constant refrain over and over in her head. She supposes she shouldn't be surprised. One evil to another, they may as well be the same.

They may as well be the same.

They aren't exactly words of comfort, but they're logical enough to slowly ease her out of her insidious spiral.

They may as well be the same.

"III"

Gefn's gift, Seiðer looks no different than Læsanir, as unfinished as it is. A gossamer thread of red string, seeming endless, spooled in diaphanous pools. The dwarfs had left her with instruction on how to weave it into Læsanir, and in complete darkness, she completes the task.

Seiðer thrills among her fingers. It is simpler than she thought, just a single strand, unwoven with fate. She supposes it is the physicality of a ley line. Something tangible from magic. She doesn't know if Dumbledore would even have known how to explain what it is, beyond that, pure magic.

She joins Seiðer with Læsanir, completing the strand. The most powerful binding in the world, looks nothing more than a fine red thread, spooled endlessly in her lap. Her mind rings with purpose. She's been working towards this goal for years, almost two decades. She can finally be rid of Tom. Her most recent brush with him seven years ago, in the woods outside of the Burrow, seems far too recent for her liking. The iron will of her mind had been enough to cage him before the void had shaken her apart at the seams. But since, the tattoo binding she'd roughly burned into her thigh locked him tight inside of her mind.

She turns back to Harry and Moody, "ready?"

With somber nods in affirmation, Harry's eyes set hard, and Moody's perpetual scowl deepens. "We're ready lass."

They draw their wands, as she passes them on end of Læsanir, "I'll release my hold on him and bind him in Læsanir, don't let go," she warns them. Then…

Ripping.

Tearing.

She feels like she is broken in two. Darkness stutters across her mind, shouts and gruff voices washing over the background. And she fractures.

She lies on the floor.

And cries.

February 18, 2008

In the strange days that follow, Ginny finds herself feeling different. She'd left Harry and the Professor outside of the cave, after they'd ripped Tom out of her head. She left the shard of him bound in Læsanir for them to dispose of; they assured her they knew exactly what to do. She couldn't even care at that point. She was anxious to just put as much distance between her, that cave, and the two of them.

She still feels detached, dispassionate. Her mind feels sore, raw, constantly nudging the space where she had kept Tom locked for so long, like a tongue seeking out a missing tooth. She moves about her tasks in a daily apathy; she wakes up, she gets ready, she reads or studies, she makes herself food, she goes to bed — each movement listless. She lies in her bed staring at the darkened ceiling.

Tonight, the moon is very bright.

February 20, 2008

She sits in torpid solitude, staring at the patterns in the paint. Her mind slips around the hole left inside it, something that feels like fury burns deep in her gut. Or maybe it's loathing. Does she miss him? The loathing digs a little deeper.

Why does she feel so empty, like she lost a part of herself.

AN: Voldemort never came back.

If Ginny never went to the chamber, the Weasleys never would have gone to Egypt, their photo would never have been in the Prophet, Sirius would never have seen the image, broken out, tried to find Peter, Peter would still be scabbers, and Voldemort would still be hidden away in Albania. Crouch never would have linked up with Voldemort either, since that was only because of Bertha, who Peter brought to Voldemort.

But Voldemort still would have been the wraith he was, and have the horcruxes. As far as we know from the books, no one else searched for him or sought him out. Quirrell happened upon him in his travels, and he actively reprimands his followers for not trying to find him when he returns in GoF.

That said, for the purpose of this story, I think we can assume if Ginny didn't get possessed, Voldemort wouldn't have returned.

Sorry this chapter is so late, my life has gotten very busy and then I also had a bit of a writing block trying to figure out where I was going to go with this chapter. I have the overarching storyline fleshed out for the story, but I come up with each chapter as I write them.

Thanks for pointing out my spelling error last chapter mat94, you're right, it is Gefn, not Gofn.

Thank you to everyone! Let me know what you think, leave a review :)