PERCY
Ginny Weasley sat on her bed in her dormitory, looking – and feeling – worse than ever. Her eyes were puffy and red and her breathing was shallow. Her hands trembled as they smoothed out the pages of a diary bound in black leather, carrying the name: Tom Marvolo Riddle. She did not look down at the diary, but stared straight ahead, into nothingness. Still her fingers fumbled the page when ink appeared in it, ink that formed letters to spell words, sentences that etched themselves into her mind as they etched themselves onto the paper.
Ginny, it called out to her. Ginny, it said again. Ginny.
There was a time, not too long ago, she’d loved to hear that voice speak her name in the back of her mind. His words were ever so reassuring, his tone ever so soft, but nowadays it did nothing but scare her.
You’ve been avoiding me, Ginny.
She jumped up at that, fearing the worst. She ran. She did not know whereto, but she ran, and ran, down the steps, through the portrait hole, through corridors and down more steps. She still held the diary, clutching it to her chest as she ran. She could not let go of it. Tom was in her mind, and the diary was in her hand. That’s how simple it was.
She had to do away with it. She had to get rid of it. Throw it out. Destroy it.
She was sent tumbling down, lying face-down on the cold floor.
I can help you, Ginny. There’s no need to run.
Her mind clouded but she pushed the feelings of comfort away – they weren’t her own. He was tricking her as he always tricked her. She wouldn’t stand for it. She wouldn’t!
Let me take care of everything, Ginny. Let me help. Trust me.
There was no escape. Desperately she tried to clamber to her feet – a hand enclosed her arm and she yelped, flying back.
Her name was called, but it came from the outside world and not from within. Tom was silent.
She stared long and hard at the person the hand belonged to, her pale face looking even more sickly in the dimly-lit corridor, and her brother looked down at her with a look of concern.
He held out his hand. Ginny took it. He pulled her up and into a hug and she hugged her big brother right back. In Percy’s arms, she was safe.
‘Ginny,’ he breathed, ‘are you all right?’
‘I tripped,’ she said. ‘Tripped and fell. I’m fine.’
Lying came naturally to her, after months of influence from one Tom Marvolo Riddle. She did not even realise she’d lied until she was back in her own bed that evening.
RON
She lay in a puddle of blood. Thick, red, wet, sticky blood. She could not feel any pain. The blood was on her hands, and she was writing with it, writing on a wall: The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware. Then the blood was gone, and she saw Mrs Norris. She saw Justin Finch-Fletchley and Nearly Headless Nick. Colin Creevey. Penelope Clearwater. Hermione Granger. They all flashed by in a second, but she knew what it meant. The blood on her hands – it was back – was theirs, she had hurt them. And now she lay in it, helpless, staring at the one who put her through it all.
Tom Riddle.
He laughed at her. Poked at her with her wand. Taunted her and insulted her family, and there was nothing she could do to make it stop. All she could do was lie there and bleed the blood that wasn’t hers as she felt herself grow weaker and colder. Even the blood was cold, freezing her veins and turning her heart into ice. It drenched her soul until she was too cold to even shiver. And as all she could do was lie there, so she lay, and she lay and she sat staring ahead of her. She was there, yet she wasn’t. She could barely feel the seat below her. She could barely see the faces surrounding her. She wasn’t possessed, she knew what that felt like, but she wasn’t truly herself, either. She was in limbo, stretched too thinly between two worlds.
But then it all just ebbed away, leaving her stranded in the compartment, memories flooding back to her as warmth took over. Seats. Cushions. Trunks. The door, the window, the people. One of those people was the new professor, and he handed her some chocolate. It’d help her feel better, he said. The natural remedy to a Dementor.
Dementor. It drained her face of all colour it still had left. She nibbled on the chocolate and stared at the faces around her. Neville was very pale and looked as though he was about to cry. Hermione was shaken and distraught. Ron, too, was far from happy. He looked at her with that questioning look, asking her if she was all right.
She realised she must look really rough, so she nodded.
‘I’m fine,’ she managed to bring out, though she knew her lie didn’t sound as convincing as she’d hoped. Her whole body was trembling.
But it worked. Ron nodded and looked around the compartment, his face growing even paler than before.
She followed his gaze and saw Harry, who lay on the floor, seemingly having a fit. She wanted to help him up, but her legs were frozen. It hurt to see him. He lay as she had lain. Helplessly alone. Depleted of all strength. Out cold. Left to the mercy of others. She shuddered. It brought her back to where she never wanted to go.
The others were crowded around Harry now, but she just stared. She stared, and stared, until she couldn’t take it any more.
CHARLIE
It was as though her arm had fallen off. It was numb from the abuse it’d suffered under Fred’s grip, having been pulled along to the forest and back to the tent. The pain only set in after he’d released her, and Bill had greeted her, and she had seen the state of him. He was bleeding. A lot. But still he had hugged her to the best of his ability, before wrapping his arm in yet another cloth in a desperate attempt to stop the blood from leaving his body. It was futile, but that didn’t stop him from trying.
Ginny didn’t comment on it. She had no right to; it had taken her far too long to even notice he’d been hurt, too obsessed with her own minor bruise on her arm. And even after seeing Bill, it took her far too long to see the state the others were in. She, George, and Fred had really been unbelievably lucky. Because Bill’s arm wasn’t the only problem.
Percy’s nose was all bloodied up and looked as though it was badly broken in a few places – which it likely was – and Charlie was injured under his ripped shirt. And yet she clung to him like a scared toddler, and he comforted her like an over-concerned mother, and she was sure he had some dragon analogy ready for when they all made it out of here.
But she could smell the blood on him. She could smell the blood and it took her back to the Chamber, it took her back to being Tom’s puppet, it took her back to times she wanted to forget more than anything in the world. She realised too late that she’d jumped back. She realised too late how scared she looked. Charlie looked at her, and had to think her mad. His voice trembled slightly when he asked her that cursed question.
‘Are you all right?’
It was out before she knew it. ‘I’m fine. Really, I am,’ she’d said, and there was no emotion in her steady voice.
And she so wanted to believe herself. She so wanted to curl up on her bed and pretend that night hadn’t affected her, that it hadn’t been terrifying and that she wasn’t shaken to the core. That she hadn’t felt helpless as she saw those Muggles dangling from the air, the same helplessness she’d felt when she had been the one causing harm to people, in the name of someone who could do far worse to those Muggles if he’d been here.
She shuddered. The memories kept coming. And all she wanted was to scream. All she wanted was to cry. But she had to be strong, for Charlie smelt of blood, and Percy’s nose kept swelling, and Bill’s arm still hadn’t stopped bleeding. Dad was still gone. Ron was still gone. Harry and Hermione were still gone. She couldn’t scream or cry.
Sometimes, it was easiest to lie.
BILL
She stared at the letter in her hands. It was short, and likely had been written in-between shifts at his new desk job. Stupid Bill and his stupid concern for everything and everyone. There was no other option than to lie. She didn’t want to, but what else could she say? Bill had enough on his hands with Dad’s recovery and Mum’s … whatever it was she was doing these days. Cry, mostly. Ginny couldn’t blame her. She longed to cry most days. She suffered nightmares most nights. She was not all right, but unlike her mother, she’d never show it. It wasn’t good for her image.
She took a deep breath and put it down on the table, lifting up her quill and dipping it into the ink.
Hi Bill
No, too … not her.
Dear Bill
Too formal.
Bill
No, that was too standoffish. She scratched her head and forced herself to think – how hard could it be? An opening that was inconspicuous. Innocent. An opening any fourteen-year-old would use when writing an innocent letter to her brother.
My darling Bill
She nearly laughed out loud at that one and scratched it out immediately. It was too dumb. She wasn’t his lover (ew!). Hmm … But maybe such an opening helped to make the letter more lighthearted.
So she wrote,
My Darling Bill,
Thank you so much for your letter, it was very thorough. I especially liked the part where you left a cheese smudge on the paper. Anyway, no need to worry about me. I’m doing well. I’m not up to anything dangerous or anything.
She looked around the Room of Requirement. Some of Dumbledore’s Army had already gathered for another session. She shook her head in amusement; neither Mum nor Bill would have to know.
Honestly! Tell Mum not to worry. She probably set you up to this anyway, didn’t she? I’ll see you all in a few weeks. Summer’s not that long from now!
Love,
Ginny
She folded the paper and pocketed it; she’d send it out later with Pigwidgeon. For now, they had to practise. Because the world was looking worse and worse any day – not just because of Umbridge, but because of her Tom. With him out there … nobody was safe. She’d played her part on his side, and now it was time to play her part on the right side.
She just hoped it’d be enough.
GEORGE
It was all over the news. Dumbledore dead. Death Eaters at Hogwarts. It was only a matter of time before the Ministry would fall. Time they did not have. For what would happen if the Ministry fell? What would happen if they lost? What would happen to Hogwarts, and to her family, and to her friends?
She trembled at the thought, but she did not say so to Mum, who sat next to her now. She could not put her through that. She could not put anyone through that. They were scared enough without her input, scared enough without the reminder that she’d felt him as close as Harry did. She’d been with him for a year, and all this only brought back the memories, and they were so vivid, it might as well be happening again.
But they needed her to be strong, now. Harry needed her to be strong. Everyone always needed her to be strong when all she wanted was to be weak. She was weak. She was the little girl curled up on her bed trying desperately not to think about Tom when all Tom did was think about her. And Tom still hadn’t gone. He still held her in his grip with memories in the form of nightmares, with guilt and fear and pain. The same guilt and fear and pain she felt about not having been allowed to go with Dad, to go with her brothers and Hermione to pick up Harry. Even that was taken from her. Even that she could not do.
‘Too young’. That was what they said. Too young to pick up Harry, never too young to be possessed by Voldemort at eleven. No, never that …
They sat in silence on the stone steps leading to the Burrow, she and Mum, because what was there to say? What was there to do when Portkey after Portkey returned without people? No Ron. No Tonks. No Dad and no Fred. Nothing they could say or do would make the situation more bearable, so they said nothing at all, and they did nothing at all. Not until a hairbrush appeared, and Harry and Hagrid appeared with it.
Ginny yelped in surprise. Mum screamed and pulled her down the steps, towards Harry and Hagrid who were getting to their feet. She asked if Harry was all right, fussing over him whilst Ginny just stood there, trying her best to compose herself. She wasn’t his girlfriend any more.
‘Where are the others?’ Mum asked, and Ginny knew it was bad when Harry stared back with a look of surprise.
‘What d’you mean? Isn’t anyone else back?’ he asked.
Mum paled. Ginny knew she did as well. It turned her stomach to hear that Harry had no idea what happened, but what turned her stomach more was his explanation. They’d been chased. Death Eaters. You-Know-Who himself had been present. Her Tom. Her Tom had chased him, and she knew all too well what that felt like.
‘Haven’t go’ any brandy, have yeh, Molly?’ Hagrid asked, interrupting the hug between Mum and Harry. ‘Fer medicinal purposes?’
Mum hurried back to the Burrow, leaving Ginny there with them. She explained how they’d waited and waited and nobody returned. She tried to be as casual about it as possible, to hide her fear that they’d all been killed, or captured, or worse.
Mum returned with the brandy and Ginny took this as a moment to remove herself a bit from the small group, staring out into the distance to try and sort out her thoughts and feelings.
Then a blue light appeared, and it grew lighter, brighter; a new Portkey was about to arrive. ‘Mum!’
The Portkey carried Lupin and George. They spun and fell and all she could see was the blood, the nauseating blood that covered George’s face. She could no longer move. She could only watch as Harry ran forwards, as he helped Lupin carry George’s body – he was unconscious, helpless. She hobbled after them, somehow getting her legs to move her to the sitting room. With the lamps illuminating George’s face, she could see exactly where he’d been struck, his ear was gone, the scarlet blood drenched his face, his neck, and it was still gushing out. Images flashed through her mind, images of her dipping her hands in the blood, images of her writing on the wall with it.
She blinked. Harry and Lupin were gone. Mum was busy with George’s ear, or where his ear was supposed to be, trying to seal the gaping hole so the bleeding would stop. It was a cursed wound. There was no fixing it, not really. She grew dizzy and gripped the edge of the sofa to steady herself, closing her eyes.
She could almost hear Tom’s laughs and taunts.
When she opened her eyes again, the blood was gone. Mum wasn’t there. She was alone. Alone with her big brother. Her George.
The movement was back in her legs, so she walked around the sofa and crouched down beside him, whispering softly, ‘George … Oh, Georgie …’
She could not stop the tears from falling. There he lay, and all she could think of was, What if he dies? What if he dies and I couldn’t save him? She thought the scare with Dad was bad enough, but now …
But she had to stay strong. She knew she had to. George would be pissed if he caught her moping because he lost an ear. But she also knew George would be worried sick if it was herself in his position, if she’d been the one cursed and bleeding out.
‘I’m OK, Georgie,’ she whispered, softly stroking his hand, hoping he’d feel better hearing that. ‘We’re all OK. And you know what? We’ll get them. We’ll show them what happens when you mess with us. Just you wait.’
She could only wish to believe what she’d just said. It was a good thing he couldn’t hear her lie.
FRED
Dies iræ, dies illa, solvet sæclum in favilla, teste David cum Sibylla …
The funeral was a sombre affair, and all Ginny could do was wait for it all to be over and try to focus on other things for the duration of it, for it was about the least Fred thing she’d ever experienced. Fred would’ve hated it. He’d have hated to see them all dressed in black, looking sad, being so … so awfully formal.
But Fred wasn’t here to stop it. He was here to be buried. Gone for good.
It was only when the coffin was lowered and the service had ended that she found some relief. Most people left, to go down the hill the same way they’d gone up. Some Disapparated, not even able to bear walking back down. Others gathered in a far off corner, no doubt bringing up memories or discussing evening plans.
She went up to the new headstone. It was simple, but only because it felt wrong for it to be huge and elaborate – Harry had offered to pay, but that just felt wrong. It didn’t need to be big for him to rest there, nor did it need to be elaborate for it to be obvious they cared. She had a feeling his grave would be amongst the most well-kept ones in the graveyard before long.
She crouched by the grave and put a hand on the hard stone. There was so much to say, but no words to say it. She wanted to apologise, but she wasn’t sure what for. She wanted to crack a joke, since this was Fred, and he needed something lighthearted in times like these, but she couldn’t find anything funny to say. The mood wasn’t right for it.
So she settled for ‘I miss you’.
She settled for ‘I’m not doing well without you’.
She settled for ‘We’re all struggling so, so much, and I wish you’d come back’.
She settled for telling him the truth.
She stayed there for a couple of long minutes until she heard soft footsteps approaching. She did not need to look up to know who it was.
George was a blubbering mess.
Ginny turned towards him, pulling him into the tightest hug she could manage. She was grateful for a way to cry without showing him, and hopeful her embrace would do him some good. It would not bring back his twin, but perhaps it brought him the comfort he needed. The comfort they both needed.
The war might have been won, but they’d definitely lost.