so, i haven't been updating particularly faithfully.

oops.

and it's not like i've been doing a whole lot, i just haven't had the drive. you know. got my first paycheck (late, because my bosslady is like that. she called me at 11:30 to get my SIN and birthdate and said the paychecks would be there within the hour. i call at 1:30. no luck. I VISIT at a bit past 2 and still no luck. i had to wait till i was in on saturday), though, and deposited it today, and bought Fight Club (again, bcause I'd lost it) and Schindler's List, and a very green tank top. I just watched fight club twice, once with palahniuk and jum uhls talking, one with fincher, pitt, norton, and bonham carter. i love her, if I could look any way I wanted I would look like if christina ricci and helena bonham carter had a baby.

no parents has been rocking the casbah, although i guess it's a major reason i haven't been updating, i've had the tv to myself, or i haven't been alone. I got Kendra and Mara over for a sleepover --

which.

If any of the calgary crew wants to come, the Y Tu Mama Tambien Night is going to be Wednesday. I will get off work on or before five (I don't rememeber) so come after that, and please tell me, and please tell me if you want to bring anyone and who. Also I have no booze, so don't expect anything. I don't keep track of what my parents have, either.

They come back on Sat/early Sun. Sigh. I've been having such fun. Like REALLY such fun, it'll suck having them back. oh well.

although my glasses broke so getting a real new pair will be nice. I just got them to jack a temple for me.

today the ACCC had a service at my church because father doug was doing the service. I love this guy, I wish he was still rector of my church and not a parishoner at Christ the King now. He baptised me, he confirmed me, he taught me aikido for a while. I miss him a lot, so whenever ACCC has a service at st john's I try to go. He and fr birch suggested an ACCC parish for me to go to next year, huzzah. But yes. This guy is the coolest rector a church could want, and I'm so so sad he had to retire last year. He's totally inspirational, and so perfectly balanced. One of those things he said was that you can't take the bible to be something it isn't; for instance, if he tried to use it as a motorcycle repair manual, he would be sorely disappointed. Or anyway, it was to that effect. And he is a huge Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan. He's awesome.

Also, I've been writing some fic for the one shot club --

sad like

Almost everyone Ginny had known as a little girl was dead by now. Dead by now and she was what, twenty-five? She knows how sad that sounds. Not sad like, oh you poor thing! sad, sad like how did you let that happen sad.

She knows how she let it happen. Well maybe it wasn’t all her fault. But a lot of it had become her fault when she had been the only one to survive the last attack when Voldemort had killed Harry and won, once and for all. There were a few people who were still on her side, none of them very important, who weren’t in the attack and they blamed her for everything, thought she’d set everyone up and killed them all, that she’d been on Voldemort’s side all along. This is what you get, they said, when you trust a girl who’s had Voldemort in her head.

Not that she ever did too much to convince them it wasn’t so. Maybe it was and she’d never even known it, who really knows what goes on in their subconscious, right? It’s fine if you want to blame her. You can. It’s OK.

What she did in the end was the only thing she could do. She left. Moved to Paris, became a card-carrying muggle. Well, she could still do magic, of course, but she didn’t. Buried her wand in the flower box of one of her apartment’s windows, got a job in the art department of a fashion magazine, got a boyfriend. The whole shebang.

She forgot everyone she’d known. Well, not really. But she acted like she had. Learned French well and fast, but never got rid of her rural English accent which everyone she’d met had alternatively called charming or made fun of her for.

Which is why it almost makes her fall over when a cold, low voice says, “Hello, Miss Weasley, fancy meeting you here.” She turns around because the voice comes from behind her, sitting in a little bohemian café, full of smoke. She likes it because it reminds her of the Leaky Cauldron back in the day. The voice is coming from this old man (OK, well he must be late-fifties, early sixties by now, so not old old, just older). His hair must be greying, but looks like it was so blond that it’s not making much difference. He asks her if she remembers him. She says she doesn’t.

“Really, Ginevra, I am hurt.”

“I’m just Ginny now.”

“You were always just Ginny, if what I’ve heard was true. I believe my son had quite the crush on you. Idiotic of him, really, but honestly who am I to refuse to him his little whims?” He sits down and Gin’s getting sort of confused and to be honest, a little offended. Mostly because she’s still got no idea who this is, so all she can say to that is, “yeah, well.”

“Lucky for me – and, come to think of it, it’s probably lucky for you, too, Draco isn’t with us anymore.”

“Woah, you’re never – you’re really never Mr Malfoy. And Malfoy certainly never had a crush on me. Ever. Look, I think you’ve got. Well, I don’t know, but something’s wrong and you should just leave and go back to London and your Evil Master or whatever.” And Ginny gets up and starts to leave because this is just not on.

“No, Ginny. I don’t think I should. I think you should come with me and we can take a carriage ride around the city, or something. I admit, I don’t know all the attractions Paris has to offer, but I’m sure we could find something.”

“No. I don’t think that’s a good idea. What makes you think I would, anyway? I left, you know. I meant it, too.” But Malfoy stands up too and leans so close to Ginny that she can smell magic and a posh aftershave coming off him in waves. “I really think it’s in your best interests to come along now, unless you’d like being Avada Kedavra’d out of existence. I suppose it’d give you and those friends of yours something in common, wouldn’t it?” He strokes her face a bit, subtly takes her hand and leads her out of the café. Maybe it’s because she’s always been a coward but Ginny goes with him. He can’t find a carriage to hire, but he’s got a waiting car anyway and ushers her inside.

“Aren’t you married, though, Mr Malfoy? I don’t think what’s her face would –“

“Call me Lucius. You seem to have warmed up –“

“No, no I haven’t.” Then he gives her a look. “Narcissa is in no position to mind what I do. You will not be able to weasel out of this, Miss Weasley. I am afraid you are not particularly aptly named.” It’s not like she can think of anything to say to this, though she’d thought until now she’d weaseled her way out of wizarding life quite deftly, so she starts to turn to the window, only there’s Malfoy’s hand on her arm, turning her around. Pulling her closer to him, his other hand running up the inseam of her jeans, to where they meet her t-shirt, starting to slip under the waistband as he bites her neck and she can’t do anything until the car stops. Then she can think long enough to ask him what he thinks he’s doing. “You” is all he says, before opening her door and pushing her outside before him, into the open square in front of Notre Dame. It’s Thursday, late. She knows the church won’t be open right now but that doesn’t stop Malfoy from opening the door and walking inside, pulling her in after him by some unholy force of nature. Or that’s what she hopes. There are all these chapels along the sides of the big – the nave. Right. He stops in one and kneels before a bank of candles, lighting one. Praying.

“That’s a mean thing to do. Muggles believe in this stuff.” She tells him. She doesn’t really come here often, but she still tries to be considerate about religion and stuff.

“The Malfoys are an old Catholic family, Ginevra,” He says, turning to face her and walking up to her, putting his hand on her hip. She can feel it’s not supposed to be a nice, comforting gesture, but she finds she doesn’t want to movie. He says, “I think the best thing for you to do is come back to the Manor with me now. Or you can come back to the Manor with me later and in much more pain. It makes no never mind to me which you pick, but may I suggest that you pick quickly, before I choose for you? Because I’ll pick the easiest way that involves least respect for your personal safety, let me assure you.” Ginny looks at him and she can feel herself longing to give in, always the most impressionable person she’s ever known. Always so given to falling in with anyone who’ll pay any attention, needy and willing to do anything for anyone who acts like they’ll care. “I. Well. Why me, and why now? Is there – Tom, is he …?”

“One thing you need to know about me, Weasley, is that you should never question my motives. I have them. You don’t need to know what they are. Tom died with the diary. Do you think Dumbledore would have let me leave Hogwarts with the diary otherwise?”

“Oh.” Ginny’s eyes drop to the ancient stone floor and she’s never felt more lost in her life, except maybe waking up the day after she got rescued from the chamber first year. The thing is, she does wish she could go back home and feel like she belonged their, but it’s hard to feel like that if all your friends think you’re evil. She knows there’s something wrong with this, that she’s going to get there and it won’t be like she thinks it will, but quickly these thoughts are being drowned out by a voice in her telling her at least she’ll be home and that Lucius is so like Tom it won’t make any difference, it’ll be just like old times and just to give up, give in. They always said she was on the other side, and here she has a perfect opportunity to make an honest woman of herself, and it’s so much easier to just give in. It’s not like she has any choice. Then she can feel his lips pressing against hers, his teeth finding her bottom lip, his hands holding fast and strong on her hips. Ginny sinks to the floor, Lucius moving his wand from where it’s been pressed along her thigh. Aware that he was probably winning, that if he had let her think a few more seconds she’d have come with him willingly. She always was so cowardly. But he thinks, as he bundles the pretty limp body he’s been dreaming about for longer than he’d like to admit up into his arms and carries her back to the car to take her back to England, that it’s much more his style to do things this way.

And here's some harry/Tom, in need of a final beta.


Tom knows what’s going on in the present in a sort of jostled, misty way, information from the outside world flowing into the diary by some strange function of magic in general . And he can sort of see. It’s weird what magic will let you do. He can’t see like seeing, but he knows where he is and who’s got him, mostly. Not in any detailed way, but mostly. So why a little boy named Harry picks up his diary and starts writing, Tom gets this impression of him, a boy who wants to trust everyone but shouldn’t trust anyone.

This is exactly the sort of boy Tom was always partial to, in the orphanage, in school. He figured, I’ll be an evil wizard some day; I may as well get a head start. But he was good enough about it that rumours about why he was always so nice to the first year slytherin boys never left the common room. He figured Dumbleodore probably knew, but Dippet certainly didn’t, and all the other teachers probably wanted to – well, he didn’t know. So he couldn’t say that. But the teachers certainly liked him a lot.

And so Tom got a deliciously evil idea to get Harry Potter on his side, totally unwitting and innocent. He starts out slowly, talking to him, feeding him small amounts of information about basilisks but nothing useful, telling Harry some of his less alarming stories about being a Slytherin prefect during the war. Sometimes he takes him into his memories but quickly he stops confining himself to actual memories, creating empty towers for him to sit and talk with Harry, pull his strength and sap his ideas.

Through all of this Tom can tell Harry hasn’t told anyone anything specific, although he knows all the information he’s told Harry about Hagrid and about basilisks and other pertinent information slips to that redhead and the mudblood he hears Harry talk about. But he knows Harry tells no one about the way Tom looks at him, or the way he looks back. Tom knows he should take his time, and that Harry can’t feel used, victimized, or taken advantage of. Tom gives him wine in his dream world and talks to him, leaning back into the old couch and trying to seduce a twelve-year-old. He’d be shocked only he’s done this so many times back when he was a person that by now it’s old hat.

Though really, there has never been a boy he found so attractive as he finds Harry, especially when he starts to notice bulges in Harry’s school pants that correspond with flushed cheeks and a red mouth that hangs slightly open, Harry’s tongue flicking across his lips. Unfortunately for Tom, his hormones seem to work properly even though he doesn’t have a body and it seems like it’s all he can do to wait and bide his time, making Harry completely comfortable, telling him that any feelings he may be having are good ones. To give in, and not be ashamed. He manages to save himself from an our-love-is-good-and-pure speech, though, because a few more visits together and Tom is ready to try his luck, leaning over towards Harry and kissing the boy who looks so much like – oh of course. That’s why he’s been so attracted to Harry. Narcissism.

Anyway, if anyone asks afterwards, that’s what he’ll say, though he’s got a sinking suspicion that the silver scar and the innocence, the drive to succeed, the good running through his veins and the innate hero-ness of this boy may have something to do with it too.

In the memory Harry kisses him back and this is the first of countless nights where they end up sleeping tangled together on this oversized old couch in Tom’s dream sitting room in a Hogwarts tower. This is after hours in which Tom teaches Harry dark magic and tries to corrupt him, while Harry’s goodness still emanates and makes Tom start just kissing him harder, thinking maybe if he kisses hard enough or they swap enough saliva, either Harry’s goodness will rub off on him, or his evilness will rub off on Harry. He hopes it’ll be the second, fear it’s becoming the first.

He starts to go sort of mad, which is very easy when you have a tiny little diary in which to live, seized by the idea that if he keeps Harry’s chest covered in hickies which Harry has trouble hiding in the Quidditch change rooms, if he keeps Harry shuddering under his hands and lips, if he keeps holding Harry tightly at night through nightmares featuring Tom’s older self, and dreams of the younger Tom that make Harry wake up gasping in his bed, having, for all intents and purposes, been asleep since he entered the diary. The idea that seized Tom is that if all this happens, then he’ll have won. That keeping this twelve year old boy crying his name nightly is all that stands between him and invincibility, eternal happiness, eternal life.
Tom’s growing restlessness whenever Harry’s not making indecent faces or clawing at his shoulders and the realization that he’s fast losing control is why it’s actually a relief when Ginny steals back the diary, finding a Tom wild but wanting to carress her tiny little milk white body and forget about the dark-haired boy who was like, but different from himself in some important ways. In Ginny Tom finds not only a willing body, but a confused girl who’s only glad Tom’s not mad at her for trying to flush him down the toilet and is willing to do anything, to let him do anything to her or with her, to get back in his good graces, his charm pulling her in completely. Tom has totally forgotten about the flushing-him-down-the-toilet thing but what with all that happened in between he’s willing to forgive Ginny and just try and use her to fill the void. When that doesn’t work, he gets the brilliant idea to continue with his first objective (kill Harry Potter) and realises that Ginny is probably the best bait he’ll be able to get his hands on.

Voldemort loses any connection he had with the diary. Instead of disappearing in a flash of sharp pain like Tom felt when the fang hit home, this other part of himself just falls away. He doesn’t even notice it, until Lucius comes and shows him the diary, angry now as this first experiment of his has proven a failure. Sort of like the rest of his life, lately.

After what happens in the chamber Harry realise just exactly who he’d been with all this time and this, he never tells anyone, even the Muggle woman he met in that bar, right after seventh year, to whom he told his entire life story. After seventh year, it is only Harry who knows the truth.