Years later she can't shake the feeling, that feeling she always gets in the apprehensive (almost sublime) moment when she lays quill to parchment and writes down notes for Charms, writes down a grocery list, writes down anything at all.
Ginny watches the smooth line of ink on paper and waits, breath caught in her throat, desperate for the second that will come after next. Terrified that any moment that line might slip away, sip away, that the page might drink her words down and send up a Hello, Ginevra and as scared as she is, as much as the very idea makes her head spin, part of her feels... warm.
He's in her bones, her blood. She can feel him now like she felt him then, slick liquid warmth, coursing up her quill and into her fingers to gently encircle her wrist. He holds her hand to the diary and in her bed at night she licks her fingers, draws them over her budding breasts. She's eleven years old and she wants to give him everything.
She's fifteen, now. Those breasts are fuller, and men have touched them; Dean's dark hands were like a revelation on her rosy, freckled skin. She cares about Dean, but every time she commits a syllable to the world of written language she remembers what it was like to be full of a man so much older and more powerful, to have Tom Riddle in the back of her mind and the pit of her stomach, blowing out the backs of her knees and making her hands move. Making her do things.
They tell her she's a great witch, that someday she's liable to teach Charms here herself, but sometimes she feels so empty. A woman grown out of a little girl, a little girl shaped around a vanished man. Her mother bore her, her brothers built her, but everything she is now, she is because Tom touched her deep inside. Got down to the root, down to her soul. Left her gasping and wanting and covered in blood and... content.
Ginny hasn't felt content since. She doesn't know what that means -- why she feels so out of place in the Gryffindor common room, why writing her homework problems gives her such a dark, heady thrill.
Tom/Ginny; this maze of being
Ginny watches the smooth line of ink on paper and waits, breath caught in her throat, desperate for the second that will come after next. Terrified that any moment that line might slip away, sip away, that the page might drink her words down and send up a Hello, Ginevra and as scared as she is, as much as the very idea makes her head spin, part of her feels... warm.
He's in her bones, her blood. She can feel him now like she felt him then, slick liquid warmth, coursing up her quill and into her fingers to gently encircle her wrist. He holds her hand to the diary and in her bed at night she licks her fingers, draws them over her budding breasts. She's eleven years old and she wants to give him everything.
She's fifteen, now. Those breasts are fuller, and men have touched them; Dean's dark hands were like a revelation on her rosy, freckled skin. She cares about Dean, but every time she commits a syllable to the world of written language she remembers what it was like to be full of a man so much older and more powerful, to have Tom Riddle in the back of her mind and the pit of her stomach, blowing out the backs of her knees and making her hands move. Making her do things.
They tell her she's a great witch, that someday she's liable to teach Charms here herself, but sometimes she feels so empty. A woman grown out of a little girl, a little girl shaped around a vanished man. Her mother bore her, her brothers built her, but everything she is now, she is because Tom touched her deep inside. Got down to the root, down to her soul. Left her gasping and wanting and covered in blood and... content.
Ginny hasn't felt content since. She doesn't know what that means -- why she feels so out of place in the Gryffindor common room, why writing her homework problems gives her such a dark, heady thrill.
She isn't sure she wants to know.