Disclaimer: The Harry Potter world and all its occupants belong to J.K. Rowling by virtue of the fact that she created them. This fanfic belongs to me by virtue of the fact that I created it. Any questions? Enjoy!

Remember Tom

His long, thin fingers stroke his yew wand as he gazes down at her, almost carelessly. She is broken, collapsed at his feet. Her fiery hair has turned dull and is tangled about her face, which is streaked with dirt and tears. He raises one booted foot and she breathes in sharply, biting slightly at her bottom lip. He lowers the foot.

"Are we done with the theatrics," he asks quietly, in that hissing whisper that makes her shudder, "or will it be another round with Macnair?"

"No," she says quickly, her eyes large. "Please, no."

"So you will tell us the location of the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix?"

"I can't," she moans. "They've a new Secret Keeper—I don't know who, I swear—oh!"

His boot has connected firmly with her ribs. He leans down and, grasping her by her collar, drags her up to her knees.

"Do you think it will do you any good to protect them, my dear?" he demands in an ironic tone. "I've already killed your precious boyfriend and your brothers. Your parents are dead. All of their dirty traitor blood has been spilled by my wand. And you'll be next."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she sobs hysterically. "I can't tell you, I can't tell."

He releases her in disgust and she collapses on the floor. "You'll be sorry when Lord Voldemort has punished you. Crucio!"

Ginny Weasley was quieter the next day, in her classes. She had a haunted look in her eyes, but everybody had these days. Neville squeezed her hand comfortingly under the table in Dark Arts. Nobody dared do much more.

She is chained in a dungeon. Her body is emaciated and bruised. He stands before her, twirling that yew wand of his over and under like a unconscious habit.

"I killed Harry Potter today," he says in the manner of one commenting on the weather. She releases a cry of disbelief. He raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, yes," he affirms. "It's very true." There is a bit of sickly light coming somehow into the dungeon. It makes him look, if possible, more demented and psychotic. He raises a skeletal hand, almost gently, and touches her cheek.

"I killed Harry Potter today," he says again. He waves his wand, and the corpse of Harry Potter floats into the room. It waves at her in a sick parody of greeting. She feels nauseous.

"He's dead now," he says in a sing-song voice. "He's dead. He can't come between us any longer."

Ginny Weasley sipped at her pumpkin juice and barely touched her food. Minerva noticed the usually plucky Gryffindor girl seemed uncharacteristically morose, even for these sad times, but what was there to do, really? The poor girl had a lot to worry about, and not much she could do.

She is lying on a bed. It's a plush bed with silken sheets. She is chained to the bed, which is a little kinky, but it's okay because a handsome dark-haired man with a lightning-bolt scar is looking down at her with adoring eyes.

"Oh, Harry," she sighs as he runs a finger down her side. He leans in to kiss her neck and she closes her eyes. Her eyes open to a different dark-haired man. His dark eyes are contemptuous and look down at her with lust and possession.

"Tom," she gasps, struggling to pull away. He presses down on her shoulders, pins her to the bed and violently kisses her. "No, Tom," she manages to say.

"You're mine, Ginevra," he whispers darkly in her ear. "Mine."

"No!" she exclaims.

"TOM!"

Ginny wakes up in a cold sweat, tangled in her sheets. Her heart is racing. She calms her breathing before noticing the man standing at her bedside, watching her.

She jumps, and scrambles back in the bed, pushing away from the man.

"Ginny," he says quietly. It is a voice she dislikes to admit she has missed, dislikes to admit she secretly dreams of. "It's been a long time."

"Years," she finally says.

"You've become a woman," he notes, almost clinically.

"Yes."

He isn't carrying a wand. His hands are empty and normal, clasped loosely before him. His dark hair is swept back from a face that is handsome despite its haggardness.

The silence has gone on long enough. She speaks again.

"You're another dream, I think. Not terrible like the others, but somehow more terrible because you don't look it."

"I may be a dream," he agrees. "I just may be, my darling Ginevra. But then answer me this, my dear: why are you dreaming of me?"

She pauses, considers, and he is gone. Had he been there at all?

She pulls the covers up to her face and curls into a ball, hugging herself in a futile attempt to provide comfort in a seemingly comfortless time.

"Bugger dreams," she mutters. "The world's messed up enough without my subconscious playing with me. And I've got Dark Arts in the morning."

And with that, Ginny closes her eyes and drifts back into sleep, but not before her subconscious mind flashed her one final question.

Why are you dreaming of him?

Love? Hate? Review! -K.