it's weaving his way through the years, plunging through, time hanging in pleats like on a sewing needle, and he drinks deep of her vitality, her confidences. until one day, when other happenings threaten to make fools of them--
Harry Potter lays cockeyed on the bed, mussed hair and ear on one sweaty thigh and this is a challenge to take up for once, rather than something he is commanded to do.
not a ghost, but parchment hued and prickling with the surety that the two living people he--loves is not the right word--is most adhered to are here and--
the seventh son is not a son, and is all the same and she bleeds for Tom Riddle, useless as it is (for the blood works no magic, and the pain does not change him), winged her way through the clotted mess that was the chamber of Slytherin, two in one body, haunted by that:
he is Tom and he is Ginny and he is a live wire of feelings about to start a fire and he would heedlessly destroy one Harry Potter because he learned at an early age that what you value does not matter when they go choosing what to dispose of and why not adopt it, then, and preserve yourself from hurt--
Muscular, freckled thighs around his head (she could probably smash it like a melon, at least one day, and it's surprisingly arousing that he trusts her this much, and that his own pleasure is apt to be seen to) and his tongue teasing bits of anatomy he could not put a label to now and he wouldn't dare ask Hermione, the subject matter simply too private, Harry thinks on being chosen for once, and that perhaps being crowned lover and nemesis are two sides of the same die.
what does it mean he'll destroy you, he'll wreck you. Neither can live while the other--survives, but it is sweet torment being the object of affections and the object of want and the pain courses through both of you and the lovely destructive pleasure having Harry Potter at his knees:
she thinks now she is a fool for having wanted Harry, because this burning will bring on destruction; she is not merely Ginny Weasley, she is Tom Riddle, pages brought to life and mirrored before her. and desire for what they call the little death and desire to destroy are not so different. the savior of the wizarding world, not at her throat, not as a a threat, as a sweet promise who shakes his tousled hair over her perspiration-damp thighs and proceeds to wreck her now. and ever. and--
It is a strange thing indeed to consummate a relationship that is as much with your sworn enemy, if one returned to something like teenage naivety, as it is with your girlfriend, and to think that she and you are also the ones who know him perhaps best, in a way, but that she knows him better than you do and better than she does even you, in some sense, sharing the confidences of a hundred handwritten pages. But now he isn't objecting, is Harry.
the hot tungsten wire of resentment glows frenetically, at the envy for Harry Bloody Potter to whom he gave away significance he could never have had just by bolstering everyone's opinion of the boy by believing in the prophecy and having it come true and Tom Riddle was never Oedipus Rex, resisted any notion that he was fated to disaster, but if he had not believed it Harry would be any other boy, not one whose opinion matters in a way Tom Riddle's never did but:
she and Tom wouldn't be here now if it weren't for Tom, if it weren't for the way his attempted derailment of fate backfired on him, especially not Tom but not Ginny either, because without, ironically, that fame, without his being drawn to Ron and their family because he (is this Dumbledore's fault, then, perhaps?) lacked for his own family, she would not be close to one Harry Potter. Would not be now at climax--
he leans, if that is the right word, back, contented at the accomplishment, and thinks, a little, on it. The thought is this: Harry Potter would, ironically, be content in being an ordinary wizard; is, essentially, an ordinary wizard, and if Voldemort would be content to be this way, not to torment Ginny but to let her know this pleasure at his hands and somehow to be this over-confident orphan boy all too like Harry, but whom no one had seemed willing to love, again, the one who was her first something-like-love, well--he might well accommodate Tom.