The Gold Puppet

Disclaimer: We would like to say that we own Harry Potter, so that we could officially own Tom. Alas, we must convince J.K. Rowling to hand over the ownership first, which means, sadly enough, we are still very poor and don't own anything that you recognize from this fic.

By: Serpent In Red and Nerys

A/N: We'd like to thank everyone for reading, rating, and reviewing: Lady Miya, Mibella, Elspethe, mimi, Risotto, ExSquared, hero-jaejoong.

Mibella: Thanks for the compliment! Well, here it is! Hope you enjoy this chapter, too!

Elspethe: Greatest. Review. EVER. ;)

mimi: Glad you liked the chapter. Both of us do have fics where Hermione is somewhat submissive, so it would be something different, in a sense, to have her fight for control and try to snatch it away from the ultimate control freak *coughs*theDarkLord*coughs*. We do agree that there is something very sexy about Tom begging and when it's specially reserved for that ONE person. *sighs* Ok, now the authors are getting jealous again. LOL.

Risotto: Yep, another fic. Have you been away from Tomione fanfics for a while then? Shame on you. We'll do our best to update soon, but whether it will be Riddle's downfall... ;)

ExSquared: Thanks for the compliment and glad you enjoyed the chapter. Well, he does underestimates Hermione a bit too much sometimes, and curiosity doesn't just kill cats - it kills pride, too. *sniggers* And yes, it's quite unfair how Hermione gets all the fun and all the deliciously evil Dark Lords to do her bidding (and every other guy in the potterverse - points to the huge lists). *pouts* Life is so unfair. Anyway, hope you find this chapter interesting, too! And we do agree with you that there is something sexy about Tom relinguishing a bit of control (hides sentences before he spots it).

hero_jaejoong: We're glad you enjoyed the chapter. And we had fun (checks area if it's safe) having Hermione gaining the upper hand. We won't spoil you on how their relationship is going to develop though. "and dont pretend that you dont love it too...." Serp, do you know what this reader is talking about? (Serp: *stares at Nerys blankly and blinks*) Nope, we both have noooo idea what you mean. ROFLMAO. (*snatches Tom away ... er ... gets snatched away by Tom ... er ... dreams on*). sighs.

Warnings: Abuse, Angst, Torture.

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The Gold Puppet

Chapter 13

Locked inside a magically warded Muggle vault in his flat, Helga Hufflepuff's cup hopped around in the limited space, annoyed. She'd tried to contact her other self, but apparently, Riddle hadn't been wrong when he had taunted her: there was no way she could reach as far as Australia.

Of course, he would know all about how far Horcruxes could reach. Bastard. If ever there was to be an Olympic event testing for hypocritical, no-good, stinking bastards, Riddle would definitely get the gold.

Hermione knew he was off to St. Mungo's again and she was worried sick about Ginny. However, all her careful planning to have Lord Voldemort tell her real self who he was had been foiled by her stupid bodily self. She just couldn't believe what had happened.

A pissed growl left the cup.

Of all the people to go down on, she had to pick him. Ugh.

The cup rammed against the metal wall as if banging her head in sheer frustration.

What was wrong with her? Didn't she have eyes? Did she lose the ability to use her brain completely? Those mood swings at the pub when they were on their way out, surely, she should have recognised those! It was so similar to Harry, especially during their fifth year.

Perhaps she had split her brain, too? Because it seems her real life body wasn't using it.

Sure, she'd recognised some changes in herself. Soul splitting apparently had some odd side-effects—certain personal qualities seemed to enhance, while others lessened. It was like your inhibitions disappeared fully. Of course, she'd always been bossy and controlling in every other aspect of her life ... and she'd always preferred to be that way when it came down to sex as well; but she'd been certain it would scare Ron away if she was that forward, so she'd refrained from the urge—buying her time.

However, she'd spent her holidays getting informed on what was possible when the dolt would finally be ready. Well, she did love to read about everything. And her parents did have a large stack of books about sex and had always been very open about the subject whenever she had questions. Some of the things she'd read about, she'd been dying to try out to see what it was like.

But really, REALLY to pick him of all people. Ugh, ugh, ugh.

Too bad it hadn't scared him away.

The cup scowled.

No, he had actually enjoyed it. Well, it was the only good thing out of this rotten situation, because she had thrown that back in his face when he'd started taunting her about "her" actions. Mr. Overbearing, High-And-Mighty, Control-Freak hadn't liked that. Lord Voldemort had to be in charge all the time.

She sniggered gleefully.

Well, he hadn't been. She, a filthy Mudblood, had bested him. Relishing the moment when her other self had yanked his wand away, tackled, and bonded him, she sighed. That certainly had been fun. The rest would have been fun, too, had it been someone else.

The cup's gold darkened with her mood.

Well, at least it proved she could put theory to practise, but still... why him? Why pick "Seth MacDougal", who so obviously wasn't Seth MacDougal?

Sure, Ron had been an arse, and had she been there in that alley with a wand, she would have sent something a lot more damaging than a bunch of birds at his face instead of crying over him. To go fuck a whore instead of confronting her about her actions with Lewis, the coward! If only he'd said something, if only he'd talked to her like grownups should do, maybe they could have figured out together something was wrong.

But no, he had to show his cruel side to her again by making snide remarks to her, by bringing Lavender along, and do his usual running away from the problems. The stupid Sorting Hat needed its head examined. Arthur Weasley had been right—never trust an object that could think for itself if you couldn't see where it kept its brain. If the idiotic, hypocritical, Slytherin, male chauvinistic pig hadn't burnt down that Sorting Hat on Neville, she would so feed it to the Acromantulas in the Forbidden Forest, never mind that she couldn't get near them without getting eaten first.

If ever she had a chance to leave this cup, the first thing she would do was kick Ronald Weasley's pathetic arse all across the planet. She couldn't believe what she ever saw in him. He'd hurt her so many times over the last years: not taking her to the Yule Ball, completely ignoring her feelings after Ginny made him realise he'd never snogged anyone, using that stupid book to pretend he cared, and then, the icing on the cake really was him leaving her and Harry alone.

No, Ron could drop dead for all she cared. She was never taking him back, ever.

However, Riddle was not a valid substitute. Somehow, she had to inform her stupid, ignorant self about that. Why pick another unfeeling, cruel individual after you ditched the first one?

So what if Riddle was handsome.

Yes, grudgingly, she had to agree with Ginny on that one. Tom Marvolo Riddle was very handsome. Far too handsome. He had a nice, tall, lean body with really great hair, which was so black it seemed to have a bluish shine at times ... and that face ... really ... that shouldn't be allowed on evil menaces as him. It was very fitting he altered his looks before. He should do that again. Yes, definitely. It would make things so much easier if she didn't have to deal with those intense gorgeous dark-brown eyes of his, which could gleam with excitement whenever he talked about magical subjects.

And Merlin, he sure knew an awful lot about magic. It was so nice to finally be able to talk to someone about magical theories, who actually had a rebuttal and didn't look at her with dropped jaws and their eyes set in a glassy, bored manner. He was so damn clever and he knew his Arithmancy. She just loved Arithmancy and no one else took the class, so she'd never been able to discuss it before. Not that they would have been able to see the intricate value of it like Tom could ...

By Godric, she was drooling over ... Tom I-Am-Lord-Voldemort Riddle! Yuck, yuck, yuck.

So, he was intelligent—big deal. She already knew that. Intelligent in his own special delusional Dark Lord way.

The cup rolled her eyes.

Too intelligent. If only he'd been stupider, she'd have won this battle already.

A sigh echoed through the little box.

But ... he was rather easy to manipulate if you pushed the right buttons. She stared ahead into the darkness. She had to figure a way to get him to lay off Ginny. Apparently, she couldn't count on her other self to come to the rescue any time soon, so it was up to her. Somehow, she had to convince Riddle to heal Ginny for real or at least for as far so the redhead could function normally in the outside world again.

What could she say to make him see it was in his "best" interest to leave Ginny alone?

Racking her brain over a strategy to deploy, the cup started brainstorming in silence.

In the mean time, the exact situation, which the cup tried desperately to find a solution to, was moving full speed ahead in the wrong direction.

---

"Hello, Ginny," Healer Lewis said in a most amiable voice. "How are we doing today?"

Nervously, Ginny shifted in her seat, her hands clasped around the edges of the wooden seating.

"Fine," she mumbled.

Maybe she could go home if she just ignored the voices and visuals and stopped telling people what she thought she heard and saw?

"Fine," Healer Lewis repeated, making a notation in the opened file on his desk, while his blue eyes twinkled in amusement. "I see."

Why did that man always sound like he enjoyed her pain? She recalled that intonation well. No, no, he wasn't Riddle. She had to stop seeing Riddle everywhere. He was gone, dead, and as long as her mind kept doing this, they wouldn't send her home. She wanted to go home.

"No more visual or audible hallucinations, then?" he enquired after a brief pause.

She shook her head, not meeting his eyes.

"Seen Tom Marvolo Riddle in anyone today?" he added with an upward curl of his lip.

Not until this appointment.

"No," she whispered instead.

He's not Riddle; he's not Riddle; he's not Riddle.

She knew she'd be alright if she just kept reminding herself of that.

"Good," he praised, while scribbling down something again.

She leaned a bit forward to see what he was writing down, but was unable to decipher it. His script was so tiny, elegant, and neat, and ... she'd seen that handwriting before. She closed her eyes and swung back and forth in her chair—a dizzying, nauseating sensation ran through her body forcefully at the memory of writing in his journal and reading his replies to her.

Not real, not real, I'm seeing things again—like when I tried to kill Dad.

"Hermione Granger is also a patient of mine," Lewis said casually, watching her reaction with clear anticipation.

Ginny's hands clutched to her seat.

Hermione, the Chamber of Secrets, that's how it started, Riddle had possessed her. No, no, it was just a figment of my imagination.

"I hope you don't mind, Ginevra?" Lewis drawled slowly.

All colour left her freckled face. That was exactly what Tom had insisted upon calling her, and he said it in precisely the same tone of voice, though with a different accent.

Slowly, she looked up, in a way people did in horror movies when the monster stood right in front of them and they hadn't noticed it before. The Healer leaned backwards in the chair in a posture he'd never used and that somehow didn't fit his corpulent physique. However, his eyes—that gaze, its intensity. It had the wrong colour, but yet ... it was him. She'd seen him too many times when she'd visited him inside of his journal not to recognise it.

No!

She rubbed her fingers through her eyes to clear it of the frightening image and to make her recall she had to get better.

"You remember Hermione, don't you?"

She nodded, still not done rubbing her eyes, though now she felt like cleansing her ears as well, for he sounded so mocking, so taunting, so ... Riddle-ish. But she had to keep herself under control. Home, the Burrow, her mother, Harry, she had to see them all again outside of these four walls.

"Mind telling me who she is, Ginevra?"

"Ginny," she snapped, looking up feverishly. "My name is Ginny."

"It says Ginevra right here on this file," Lewis responded knowingly. "Besides ..." he paused, tilting his head and meeting her eyes, "I think Ginevra is much more fitting for such a lovely young girl, so I prefer calling you that if you don't mind, Ginevra."

Exactly the same line, exactly. The same smooth tone, the same lack of an actual question mark at the end of the sentence, made clear by the corresponding missing upward infliction at the end of the line.

And how she remembered her silly answer vividly. "Of course not, Tom," and she had giggled stupidly after that.

She had giggled. What a moron she'd been. Her posture tensed and her knuckles turned white from clutching to the seat.

And now that Healer used the same sentence. That couldn't be a coincidence, could it? Maybe he did it on purpose to test her, to see if she would fall back in her delusions?

But he couldn't know; she hadn't shared the information with anyone. Well, she'd talked some to Hermione about it. She was the only one who would listen to her and just hear her out, but she hadn't told Hermione the exact sentencing; she hadn't told Hermione all the details. And he used the exact same words, the exact same tone. He didn't look the part; he was the part.

Maybe she wasn't even here? Maybe this entire conversation took place in her head again as had happened before according to Patrick. She liked Patrick. She trusted Patrick. He was kind to her. He didn't lie to her like this Healer did. Shocked, she realised what she'd just thought and she looked down. George had gone to all this trouble to get her very expensive help and she didn't let him help her. That wasn't right, was it?

"Look at me."

His order echoed through the office like a reminiscence of the past. Unable to do anything else, she met his eyes again. Fear rushed through her as a poisonous enemy. She had to lose this journal; she had to lose it now.

"Answer my question, Ginevra," he hissed. "Or I will become very disappointed in you."

So similar; could it be?

"Who is Hermione Granger?"

"My—my friend," she muttered, staring at him with suspicion.

"So, she is not Tom Riddle?" asked Lewis, pointing his oak wand at her file and closing it in a flutter of leaves.

His journal had always closed like that.

"No—no, she isn't," she stuttered.

You are.

"Are you sure?"

"Hermione is my friend. She is not Riddle," Ginny replied steady.

He only possessed her, like he did to me.

"Do you really think her situation is so similar to yours, Ginevra?"

Had she said that out loud? Shit, she had to be more careful.

But before she had time to recuperate, Lewis continued, "I've spoken a lot with Hermione recently. She's having some very nasty symptoms. She hears voices, has blackouts, and finds herself in places she can't remember how she got there."

Blood drained away from her face. See, she'd been right. He'd been possessing Hermione; maybe he still was? She had to warn her, tell her, stop Riddle before it was too late and Hermione would be dead like she almost had been if it hadn't been for Harry. She had to get out of here and talk to Hermione.

Why wouldn't they just let her see her? Why wouldn't they let her visit, so she could talk to her? She was sure if she spoke with Hermione about it, she could make her understand what was happening. She was sure of it. Hermione was smart; she'd understand; she'd believe her if only she could tell her what it was like exactly. Why had she never been more precise to Hermione what it had been like? Why had she kept some things to herself? She should have told her. None of this would be happening if she'd not felt so embarrassed and hadn't kept so many things to herself. Hermione wouldn't have condemned her, but her silence would condemn Hermione now. Oh Merlin, if Hermione died, it would be her entire fault. She had to get out of here. She had to pretend she was alright. It was her only chance to ever speak to Hermione and explain everything.

"That's what happened to me," she replied demurely, realising she had to give the Healer some response and knowing he would know what had happened to her.

Besides, everyone always told that son of a bitch everything he wanted to hear. The world hadn't changed much. And she had to stop doing this. Healer Lewis, Healer Lewis, Healer Lewis, her mind tried hard to memorise it and to make it so she would believe it.

"Yes, I ... remember it well," he said evenly, placing both hands behind his head.

Remember it well? Odd way to phrase it. And did he really have to sit like that, like Tom?

"So you think because Hermione has blackouts like you did, your situations are alike?"

Now there was an upward infliction at the end of the sentence, but his question had such a condescending aspect to it that the room became chillier to her. She shook her head in denial, knowing that if she said yes, there would be more disgusting potions, more pills, more alleged Healing Charms, and a much longer hospital treatment.

She hadn't felt like herself ever since she entered this building. Only those first few days when Patrick had started his shifts and refused to feed her some of those potions, she'd felt better then, more coherent. She hadn't seen the world dance, or heard people whispering all around her when no one was present. Her mind hadn't made her experience terrifying images, like those bugs crawling over her arms or those flies swarming around her head. Flies that came out of the millions of maggots in the decomposing corpses that covered her floor everywhere. If she had to use the loo, she had to walk over them. Their bones snapped, cracking under her weight; their rotting flesh sobbed around her feet; the maggots tried to cling to her flesh, too—and it stank.

It stank so badly. She was glad that she no longer had those hallucinations, but the experience still clung to her like superglue.

And she was doing it again, resisting her treatment, her cure. Wasn't the fact that those terrible things were gone now a clear indication that her mental health was improving? That those potions and all the rest of it were helping her? That Healer Lewis did have her best interest at heart?

She looked up and glanced at the man, determined to see the good in him and failing miserably. Despite his totally, totally wrong exterior, all she could see was evil. All she could feel was evil. All she could hear was evil. All she could taste was evil. All she could smell was evil. It was like a penetrating cloud you could not escape from. It engulfed you and wormed its way inside of you, until you could no longer breathe anything but that evil.

Everything she could sense had Tom Marvolo Riddle written all over it.

"Healer Lewis" had a smirk on his pitted face that made her grow as cold as ice. But mostly her eyes drew to his stubby fingers, for in it, he was twirling his oak wand around in a too familiar gesture and he smiled at her, oh so knowingly, oh so viciously, oh so dangerously. Her breaths became shallow as she tried to sit as still as possible, as if that would keep the predator across the table from not spotting her, from not harming her. She wasn't safe here; she wasn't safe anywhere. He was always around her these days, always somewhere, in someone around her.

"Ginevra, Ginevra, Ginevra," he clicked his tongue, "when will you learn?"

She trembled in her seat. She had no wand; she was defenceless.

"When I ask you a question, you will reply," he said coolly, rising from his seat in a manner that was far too lithe, far too powerful, and far too sensual for someone in that hideous body. His wand trailed over the desk, scratching the surface threateningly, as he moved around the desk and approached her frozen figure.

"It's what we agreed upon years ago."

He halted in front of her and leaned with his butt against his desk casually, crossing his legs, while staring down at her with an utter vile and triumphant expression.

Horrified, she looked up. She wasn't hallucinating. This was real. He was real. But George ...

"What did you do to the real Healer?"

He glanced at his watch and pulled a little flask from his pocket.

"He still has his uses, takes up a lot of closet space though," he replied, smirking. "I believe it is almost time," he said, "unless ... you'd prefer to see me again?" he winked.

"The only shape or form I prefer seeing you in is as a corpse," Ginny hissed.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," he leaned forward, placing a hand on her shoulder, while his wand pressed in the hollow of her throat. "One thing you need to learn about threatening people, Ginevra, is that it doesn't work if you can't follow through on your threat, which is so disappointing," he said conversationally as if they'd been talking about the weather instead of his murder, "especially seeing how Hermione Granger did give me an important message to relay to you."

Ginny's eyes widened. She hadn't seen Hermione. Was it because he held her captive? But why wasn't anyone missing her then? He was lying. He had to be. He always did.

"She said, 'tell her she has my blessing to kill you.' Too bad you're in no position to do it for her. A couple of more weeks in my care and she will never make that statement again," he said smugly, downing the flask's contents fully.

"What have you done to her?"

"Oooh, and I thought you already knew everything," he mocked.

"I know you've been possessing her, like you did to me."

His laugh danced around her and he leaned back, crossing his arms, while shaking his head. "I am so sorry to disappoint you, dearest. But you were just collateral damage, a vessel needed for a much worthier goal. The Mudblood will—"

"Don't call her that!" Ginny shouted furiously.

"Crucio!"

It was nice to have an office such as this, he considered, while the disgusting blood-traitor thrashed and writhed in agonising pain on the floor; her legs had kicked the chair so violently it lay in several pieces against the door. And her screams were higher than he'd ever heard before, delightful.

Yessss, this room was nice indeed; Lord Voldemort should really copy it and make some minor adaptations to fulfil his needs.

In order to maintain the patient's privacy, the walls were coated in the most powerful Silencing Potions, making sure no outsider would be eavesdropping on the conversations inside. And when his patient light outside was on, nobody could enter without his consent, which only needed to be given mentally to preserve the safety of the Healer inside in case of an emergency.

Still, he had to add his own wards and Silencing Charms, because Unforgivables or other Dark Arts Curses would trigger the hospital's alerts. But it was convenient nevertheless, definitely worthy of looking into one of these days. He released Ginny Weasley of the Cruciatus Curse and began circling her shaking and sobbing body.

"So, where was I?" he asked rhetorically, kicking her around in her side, so she'd have to face him.

Her face was wet with tears and her body still shook from the curse's aftermath. He squatted down beside her, cursing that stupid belly mentally, while he tapped his wand against his chin.

"Now, the Mudblood," he emphasised, staring at her for a second, but the "brave" Gryffindor had no more objections against his wording, "will be much more valuable to me than you ever were. Sure, I possessed her for a couple of times to turn a few things into my favour, but it's not her main purpose as it was for you. No, I need her as she is, Ginevra Molly Weasley. I need that little Mudblood to live up to her potential and become everything she could be, all of course in order to service me, the greatest wizard of all. No, Hermione Jean Granger is not expendable like you were, like your family is, like ... the Saviour of the World will be, soon."

He sniggered, stroking her face with the back of his hand.

"You're going to wish you really did smother her, disgusting blood-traitor that you are, because I promise you when you leave these walls completely 'cured',"—he made little quotation marks in the air with his fingers when he spoke that word in a voice dripping with venomous delight—, "that little witch you once called your friend will be capable of destroying you all with a snap of her fingers. And she will be all mine."

"No," Ginny spoke hoarsely, shaking her head. "No, Hermione would never do that."

He patted her on the head demeaningly.

"Have a little faith, Ginevra. There is nothing Lord Voldemort can't accomplish."

He tilted his head and a fondness that scared the hell out of Ginny spread all over his Polyjuiced features.

"She already went a hell of a lot further with me than you ever did and she's got spunk. Apparently, she is not such a silly prude as you were. Do you know how revolting it is to have to deal with all that nagging about 'Will you respect me in the morning?' and 'Do you looooove me, Tom?'," he snorted. "No, I do prefer a woman who knows what she wants and takes it. Too bad your stupid pumpkin brains brother couldn't see what was right in front of him."

"You—you destroyed their relationship," Ginny hissed.

"I'd loved to take all the credit, but I have to say that dunderhead did a lot of the damage all by himself. Fucking that whore in Knockturn Alley ... beautiful ... I wish I'd thought of it, but I didn't have to. His one braincell made that decision freely." Tom laughed loudly at Ginny's appalled expression. "He made her run straight into my arms, crying. I should probably send him a thank you card."

"Ron wouldn't do that," Ginny said, shaking her head. "He loves Hermione."

"Love, such a stupid emotion. It's why people stop using their brains and act on impulse. If he'd not been blinded by love and had a functioning brain to begin with, he might have noticed something was off about some of her reactions. He might have noticed that she was under the Imperius Curse when he saw her kissing me. But he ran instead, leaving his 'love' right in my arms. It's his M.O. right, leaving people to face Lord Voldemort alone, while he hides behind his mummy's skirts?" he snarled venomously.

"Yesssss, running away, it seems to be the only thing your brother is good at. The only Outstanding he'll ever receive for anything in his entire pathetic, soon to be short life. But then again, your entire disgusting family never did help much. Why do you think I never bothered you lot to begin with? Such an utter waste of my time. I have better things to do, more important people to spend my time on, real threats to eliminate. The only reason you've now gained Lord Voldemort's attention is because all nine of you will be useful in tearing down Potter to little bits and pieces. He's already boohooing over the oaf's death. It will be my pleasure to push him over the edge one joyful inch at a time."

An ecstatic happiness flushed through him upon considering his plans to get his revenge on that blasted ant that just wouldn't die on him, and he rose to his feet, gazing in sheer delight at the girl who would assist him just fine in accomplishing it. He tapped his wand in his hand contemplatively and summoned a bottle from his heavily warded cabinet next. The empty glass was already on his desk.

A whip of his wand and the chair reassembled itself and scooped up Ginny Weasley from the ground. The chair swirled around and landed her with a thud against his desk, her feet underneath it and her arms on the tabletop. A tap of his wand on her head and she was completely immobilised from her waist down. Moving behind her, he placed the glass in front of her and poured the fluorescent green but still transparent liquid from the bottle into it. Casually, he corked the bottle again and banished it back to the cabinet. He grabbed her wrists and rammed them on the tabletop when he noticed her planning to throw the glass to pieces.

"We can do this the hard way or the easy way," he said in her ear, squeezing her wrists so tight she let out a delicious whimper. "Personally, I prefer hard, but if you've even an ounce of intelligence, you'll spare yourself the pain. And believe me when I say, I have so much of this potion, my dear, I could drown the entire planet in it and still have leftovers afterwards. So, try and throw it away, see how much good it will do you."

He released her arms and leaned back coldly. "Drink up, Weasley."

"Wha—what is that?" she asked fearfully.

"Have you learnt nothing in all those years at Hogwarts?" he mocked. "There aren't that many potions with these characteristics. Surely, you're smarter than your brother and can deduce what this is?"

Ginny stared at the potion, confused. She'd never seen or heard of any potion like it, and she was absolutely positive it wasn't a good sign she hadn't. It had to be illegal.

Well, duh, he was using it.

"No?" he continued in that same condescending, taunting tone. "Oh well ... you'll find out after you drink it." He placed both hands on her shoulders. "Now, Ginevra, I don't have all day anymore to spend with the likes of you, so ... bottoms up."

She wasn't moving. She couldn't get herself to just pick up that glass and down it. No matter if it was going to happen anyway, she wasn't assisting him in destroying her. She wasn't.

Abruptly, his wand poked in her cheek.

"Now," he hissed, "or I will hold you under the Imperius Curse and have you visit the sexually deprived male patients in ward seven. It will be so much fun to undo the Imperius once you're inside and helpless against them. They have rather perverse ideas on what women are for and there are eight of them in that one room. You'll be having a lot of 'fun' getting ripped apart. They'll use every orifice of your body in ways you can't possibly begin to imagine, and afterwards, you will still drink this potion."

With trembling hands, she picked up the glass and brought it to her lips. Closing her eyes, she tilted it and swallowed it all as fast as she could, not wanting to think about what was going to happen to her. It had no taste, nothing to identify it with, and she placed the empty glass on the table, worrying about every little alterations, every little detail or sensation she didn't feel inside of her.

"That's a good girl," Riddle purred, satisfied. "You'll be getting all the help you need, Ginevra. Don't you worry. We'll take excellent care of you."

He laughed mockingly, while he stepped back and vanquished the glass.

Panicking, Ginny realised it was like she had drunk water. Nothing seemed to be happening, but that couldn't be it. She had to be missing something. She—

With a cry, she doubled over, grabbing her hair and yelling loudly. Merlin, so much pain, so much sorrow. Every bad decision, every nightmare of her life returned in tenfold and expanded rapidly, enhancing the emotions so much it felt like she was on fire.

"Water," she whispered, her eyes darting around desperately. "I need water."

"No water for you."

The words echoed coldly through her mind, but they brought no relief. No water! She'd die without it. A bloodcurdling scream left her lips and she banged her head hard against the tabletop.

"Stop, make it stop!" she yelled—blood poured from her bruised nose, colouring the wood darker.

Mentally, he called for assistance and pretended to restrain her when they entered. It took six of them to carry her back to her bed and bind her to it.

"Make sure she ingest nothing but Calming Draught for the rest of the day," he ordered in the doorway. "Don't let her drink any water. She's having a nasty side-effect to the Blissflower Potion. Water will make it worse."

He turned on his heels, smiling satisfied, knowing that the Calming Draught would immobilise her body but not her mind and the rest of the effects his potion would give her. The two just didn't mix well together. Ginny Weasley was about to have one hell of a time, and the beauty of it was that no one would notice. They'd think she was quietly resting—"healing".

He snorted.

So, when he was going to feel like it, and he wouldn't for a long time, he'd give her the antidote, and stop the Calming Draught. But by that time, she wouldn't be capable of normal comprehension ever again. She'd be putty in his hands. He left St. Mungo's that day knowing a good part of his job there was done for good.

One Weasley down, eight more to go.


Little did he know, a gold cup was smirking pleased at having found a method to save Ginny Weasley. Nine more to go.

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