Poppet

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/66210085.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con,
Underage Sex
Category: F/F
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationships: Tom Riddle | Voldemort/Ginny Weasley, Tom Riddle | Voldemort/Ginny
Weasley/Moaning Myrtle
Characters: Ginny Weasley, Moaning Myrtle, Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Diary Tom
Riddle, Penelope Clearwater, Poppy Pomfrey, Percy Weasley
Additional Tags: Chamber of Secrets AU, Female Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle's Diary,
Grooming, Possession, Manipulation, Dark, Smut, Horror, Mind Games,
Gaslighting, Victim Blaming, Slut Shaming, Dreams and Nightmares,
Praise Kink, Power Dynamics, degredation, Humiliation,
Dehumanization, Rape, Forced Nudity, Cunnilingus, Marking, Forced
Masturbation, Object Penetration, Loss of Innocence, Dom/sub, foot
worship, Voyeurism, Blackmail, Semi-Public Sex, stress positions,
Temperature Play, Watersports, Bed-Wetting, Puberty, Body Horror,
Non-Consensual Body Modification, breast milk, Plushophilia, Forced
Incestuous Thoughts/Comments, Snakes, Bestiality, Bondage,
Strangulation, Fisting, Sadism, Torture, Knives, Blindfolds, Forced
Pregnancy, not exactly but the vibes are there, Bodily Fluids, Blood and
Gore, Mindbreak, Ritual Sacrifice, Murder, Bad Ending, hints of
Tomarry at the end, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, this is really REALLY dark
y’all, Dacryphilia, Implied/Referenced Incest, Inappropriate Use of
Legilimency (Harry Potter), Bladder Control
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2025-06-05 Updated: 2025-07-28 Words: 19,315 Chapters:
4/10
 Poppet
by veryaver

Summary

Dear Tom, I think I'm losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over my robes
and I don't know how they got there.

Dear Tom, I keep having these dreams.

Dear Tom, Percy keeps telling me I'm pale and I'm not myself.

Tom, is it normal to feel this ache and emptiness in my core?

Tom, there are all these bruises on my body and I don’t know where they’re from.

There was another attack today and I don't know where I was.

I can’t stop fantasizing about you, Tom. Please, I want to stop.

Something’s wrong and you’re the only one I can trust.

Tom, what am I going to do? I think I'm going mad…

Very dark Chamber of Secrets AU where fem!Tom twists Ginny into her personal plaything.

Notes
This starts out fairly grounded (which is it’s own warning—the first three or so chapters are a
somewhat more realistic view of an eleven-year-old girl being groomed for sex, gaslit &
raped by an older teenager), but ends up truly depraved and taken to horrific extremes that
would not be possible without magic. PLEASE read the tags. I am not kidding about any of
them.

In terms of the intense violence/gore and MCD, that will only be in the last chapter. The rest
is rapidly escalating mind games, weird sex dreams, and increasingly degrading scenarios in
both the real and dream worlds with the aim to break Ginny. (Still very much rape tho! It’s all
rape). If you think I am missing any tags, please let me know and I will add them.

The quotes at the beginning of each chapter are directly from the Chamber of Secrets book—
all of them are Tom quoting Ginny.
 Chapter 1
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

No one's ever understood me like you, Tom. I’m so glad I've got this diary to confide
in…It's like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket.

There’s a girl in Ginny’s dream. She’s maybe about Percy’s age, with a prefect badge to
match. Older than Ginny, anyway. Old enough that Ginny feels her heart beat-beating at the
thought of approaching her.

Ginny’s only a firstie, and the girl is so…grown-up and cool. Way too cool to be bothered
with the silly concerns of a first-year. Her robes are perfectly pressed and tailored, jet-black
and hanging off her body in a flattering way that Ginny’s third-hand school clothes could
never manage, even if Ginny had a body like that: lean and lithe, but still evidently filled out
into the shape of a woman.

The girl is gorgeous, in a way Ginny hadn’t realized real people could be. Perfect skin, pale
as porcelain. Blood-red lips; neat, dark brows. Her hair is dark too, pulled back into an artful
bun at the nape of her neck. One perfect wave has escaped to rest against a high, sharp
cheekbone, framing that beautiful, aristocratic face. Ginny is possessed by a desire to brush
back that curl, to touch that smooth cheek…

She flushes, feeling small and clumsy and ugly and poor, and curls her fists into her pockets
instead.

They’re at Hogwarts, on the grounds outside the castle. There are other students around,
enjoying the sunshine, but they’re hazy and indistinct in the way dream-people often are.The
girl is seated on a low stone wall that’s half built into the hill, casually leaning back, one leg
dangling over the wall, the other tucked beneath her.

She’s writing in a familiar black diary, her white quill scratch-scratching against the page.

Ginny frowns. “Tom?” she asks, incredulous. Her voice cracks a bit on the name.

The older girl looks up. Her eyes are a deep, dark brown, and intensely sharp, even as they
crinkle in a pleasant and welcoming smile. Ginny feels like she’s the only person in the
world, the way Tom looks look at her.

“Ginny,” says the girl. Her voice is low and throaty, the invitation in it clear. “Come sit.” She
puts down the diary and holds out a slender hand to guide Ginny into the grass next to her.

Ginny goes, stumbling a bit, but manages not to embarrass herself too badly as she sinks to
the ground. Tom’s hand feels like smooth parchment on her fingertips. “H-hi,” she says.
“Um, it is you, isn’t it?”
It’s just…she’d thought Tom would be more, well, tomboyish. They’d talked about it, a bit.
The way Tom had been mercilessly teased for her masculine name, having been named after
her deadbeat father, apparently. The way Ginny felt both stifled and coddled with her six
older brothers, sometimes lumped in as ‘just one of the boys’ and sometimes put on this
horribly restrictive pedestal as both the baby and the girl.

“This is a dream,” says Tom. “So it’s not really me. But, yes, I am Tom. Hello, Ginny.”

“Hi, Tom,” Ginny squeaks.

Tom fusses a bit at Ginny’s robe, straightening the lapels, brushing her hair limp ginger hair
behind her ears. Ginny flushes with embarrassment. It’s the kind of babying her mom does,
or Percy sometimes. Like she’s a little kid who can’t even dress herself properly. She doesn’t
want Tom to think she’s a baby.

Ginny pulls back a bit, scowling. She pats her own hair down into place.

Tom raises her hands in easy surrender, chuckling. “Alright, alright. You’re a big girl; you
can do it yourself.”

Ginny scowls harder. “I’m not a baby,” she says.

“I never thought you were,” says Tom. “I just…I’ve been trapped in that diary for so long. I
wanted to—I haven’t touched anybody in fifty years.” She blushes, shoulders slumping, her
long lashes shading her eyes as she looks down, miserable.

“Oh,” says Ginny, feeling horribly guilty. “You can touch—I don’t mind.”

“Really?” Tom asks, bright and breathless.

“Really really,” says Ginny.

“Oh,” says Tom, a wicked grin playing across her lips. “You’re going to regret that.”

Before Ginny has a chance to react, the older girl has wrapped her hands around Ginny’s
waist and hoisted her onto her lap, arms encircling her in a tight hug.

Ginny shrieks and flails, laughing all the while. “Tom!” she protests. “Let me go!”

“Mmmm,” says Tom, pretending to consider it. “I think not.” She rests her chin on the top of
Ginny’s head and holds her even closer. “I think I shall keep you.”

Ginny’s a bit grateful now that the way they’re sitting means that Tom can’t see how
flamingly red her face grows at that pronouncement. She squirms into a comfier position on
Tom’s lap and buries her face in the older girl’s shoulder to hide her mortification and
pleasure. There’s a weird swooping feeling in her stomach that she’s never felt before.

Tom strokes her hair, humming contentedly. “Talk to me, Ginny,” she says. “Tell me about
your day.”
“Okay,” says Ginny. It’s a bit awkward at first, actually talking out loud, but Ginny’s used to
spilling all her secrets and troubles to Tom and eventually it all just comes pouring out. Every
time she tries to stop, Tom tells her to keep going, or asks another question, and before she
knows it, it feels like hours have passed in this strange dream.

Over the course of their conversation, Tom moves down from petting her hair, to caressing
her face, to steadily stroking a thumb up and down her neck, dipping just below the collar of
her robes, then tracing back up to her ear. Her palm rests softly against Ginny’s throat, the
pads of her long, slender fingers light on Ginny’s pulse point.

Her other hand is splayed across Ginny’s hip, making sure she doesn’t fall. Her fingers dig
into the outside of Ginny’s thigh, over the robe; her thumb brushes back and forth over
Ginny’s belly, bunching worn fabric beneath it as it goes.

Ginny’s heartbeat is racing, in her throat and in her stomach and in her ears. Tom must be
able to feel it beneath her fingers, which now feel blazingly hot against Ginny’s skin.

“Um,” she says, shifting a bit. Her face must be flaming red.

“Yes?” murmurs Tom. Her lips are close enough to Ginny’s ear that she can feel the warm
flutter of air with every breathed out word. “You were telling me about Colin’s latest
photograph of Harry Potter.”

“R-right,” says Ginny. She is warm all over. The world is going in and out of focus. She feels
terrified. She doesn’t know why.

Tom doesn’t stop petting her.

It…it would be rude to ask Tom to stop, right? Tom has been trapped in a diary for fifty
years. And it’s not like Tom is hurting her. She’s just—Ginny doesn’t even know what it is
she’s feeling. It’s…nice? But also so, so scary, for no reason at all that Ginny can point to.
She feels tingly and terrified low in her gut, like she wants to run away but also like she
wants to hold Tom closer, and it’s confusing and scary and Ginny doesn’t know what to do.

It can’t just be the cuddling that’s making her feel like this. Ginny snuggles with Luna all the
time, or she used to. She hasn’t really seen Luna much since school started. She’s just been so
busy, with classes and getting to know the castle and Tom.

“Ginny,” says Tom, low and commanding in her ear. “Tell me more.”

The older girl nips lightly at the top of her ear, so fast and light Ginny thinks she must have
imagined it.

“Um, Colin, right,” says Ginny. “Well…” She continues on her story.

As time goes on and nothing horrible happens, Ginny finds herself relaxing. It’s nice, even,
having someone close like this. Comforting. Having someone pay her this much attention, for
hours and hours, just listening, truly listening to her. Taking Ginny’s concerns seriously.
Offering murmurs of sympathy and the occasional piece of soft-spoken advice.
Ginny loves her family, but she doesn’t think anyone has ever spent this much time just
focused on her. There’s seven of them; of course her parents and siblings don’t have the time
to listen to her whine and stumble through her thoughts. And even if they did, they all think
she’s just a little kid. Silly and stupid and delicate. They don’t respect her.

But Tom does.

And Tom cares. Isn’t the proof of it in how tight she is holding Ginny, how close she clings
to Ginny’s every word?

It’s nice, Ginny decides. It’s nice and comforting and a little bit thrilling, talking with Tom.
She’s just not used to having someone like that, so that’s why it feels a bit weird.

By the time the dream fades into the nothingness of dreamless sleep, Ginny has completely
dismissed her earlier, irrational terror.

By the time she wakes up, she can scarcely remember it existed.

Even the memory of Tom—of what they talked about for hours and hours under the warm
and dizzying light of the sun—even that is fading.

But she can still feel the echo of Tom’s arms around her, comforting and confining.

The diary is under her pillow, along with a self-inking quill, and Ginny is writing before she
even realizes it. She always writes to Tom in the mornings.

I dreamed of you last night, she writes, still too sleep-fuzzy to be embarrassed at the frank
confession.

Really?

Yeah. Was it really yoDid you also dream?

I can’t dream. It’s part of the curse that stuck me here.

Oh.

Was it a nice dream, at least?

I think so, yeah. Yes.

Good. I’m glad. What happened?

I can’t really remember now. I think we just talked. And you were holding me.

That sounds like a wonderful dream.

Yeah.

I wish I could hold you for real, Ginny. You deserve someone nice treasuring you.
Thanks, Tom. I wish you could hold me too.

Alas. We will have to make do with what we have.

I suppose.

Say, Ginny?

Yes, Tom?

Will you hug yourself for me?

What?

Give yourself a hug, and pretend it’s me.

Um, ok. Now?

Yes, now.

Feeling very silly, Ginny kneels up on her mattress, wraps her arms around herself, and
squeezes. Her pajamas—one of her brother Charlie’s old and worn shirts that reached all the
way down to her knees—bunch up under her fingers.

She imagines the dream-Tom that her mind had made up: those slender, perfectly manicured
hands and that honey-sweet voice. The red curtains of Ginny’s four-poster bed are drawn
closed, but her stomach still squirms with embarrassment at the idea of any of her roommates
seeing her doing something so ridiculous.

But Tom had asked her, so she does it anyway. She even strokes her thumbs up and down,
gentle-like, just the way Tom had in her dream. Though…she hadn’t stroked Ginny’s arms,
had she?

It’s hard to remember.

Shaking her head, she bends back down to write:

I did it.

Good girl.

The Tom-dreams continue. She gets used to Tom cuddling her, holding her close, trailing her
fingers up and down Ginny’s body.
Real Tom—Diary Tom—always asks her to describe these dreams after. To tell her what it
felt like, to be touched. Tom, Ginny thinks, must be very lonely.

She wishes she could give the older girl a real hug, not just imagined ones in her dreams.
Dreams that the real Tom can’t even actually feel or experience. She only can get the
secondhand experience through whatever Ginny writes in the diary.

So Ginny dutifully recounts how it feels in greater and greater detail, even as she grows
embarrassed and uncomfortable with just how much Tom wants to talk about this.

She doesn’t always remember the details of the dreams, so she finds herself making it up
sometimes just to satiate the diary. Imagining what Tom would do. New ways the older girl
might touch her, or she might touch Tom.

I’m dreaming vicariously through you, Tom writes. And if you share them with me, it’s like I
was really there.

So Ginny shares her dreams. At Tom’s prodding, she even shares the bits that make her feel
embarrassed, or uncomfortable, or weird.

These are all normal parts of life.You have nothing to be ashamed of.

I just felt dirty in last night’s dream, and small. You were so put together, and perfect, and I
was just…me.

Everyone feels awkward at your age. You’re going through puberty; your body is
changing. It’s completely normal, I promise, that you feel worthless in my presence.

Oh. Okay.

You’re not worthless, though. Without you, I wouldn’t be able to experience anything.

Thanks, Tom.

Of course. I am flattered that you think of me as perfect. What do I look like, in your
dreams?

Beautiful.

Oh, really? Tell me more.

“You think I’m beautiful,” Tom murmurs to her in her dreams that night. They’re on the
grass, on the hill beneath Hogwarts. Tom has once again pulled Ginny into her lap, though
this time they’re facing each other, Ginny straddled over Tom’s legs, her robes hiked up
around her.
Ginny turns beetroot red. It’s one thing to write it to Tom, and a whole other to confess it to
the older girl’s face. Even if it is just a dream.

“No, no, don’t look away.” Tom nuzzles Ginny’s head out from where she’s hidden it in
Tom’s collar. She runs a thumb down Ginny’s jaw, grips her chin firmly and tilts Ginny’s face
up to stare into her own.

Ginny swallows. Everywhere that Tom has touched tonight is flaring with icy-hot echoes.
Her cheek, her jaw, her neck, her chin. Her lower back where Tom’s other hand holds her
fast. Her face is on fire. She can’t tear her gaze away from Tom’s deep, dark eyes.

“You think I’m beautiful,” Tom whispers again, ducking down to breathe the words in
Ginny’s ear, and Ginny feels her head nod. She’s not sure if she’s moving it of her own
volition, or if Tom’s firm grip is puppetting it up and down.

“Say it,” orders Tom.

“You’re beautiful,” Ginny says. It barely comes out above a whisper, her voice cracking on
the words.

“Mmm.” Tom grins, slowly, pleased, and pulls back just the tiniest amount. “And what about
me, Ginny Weasley, do you find so beautiful?”

“Your—your hair,” says Ginny. Her heart is beating in her throat.

“My hair?” says Tom. She pulls her hair out of its bun, leans forward over Ginny’s face so
that those long, dark, wavy curtains brush against Ginny’s shoulders. “You like my hair,
Ginny?”

“Ye—yeah,” says Ginny. She can smell Tom’s shampoo all around her, a sharp, mint-and-
vellum scent that makes her almost dizzy with its intensity.

Tom smiles. “What else do you like about me?” she asks.

“Your eyes?” Ginny tries, because she can’t look away from them, dark and intense and
hungry in a way she’s never seen anyone look before.

“My eyes,” echoes Tom, and her lashes sweep down as she studies Ginny’s body beneath her.
“You like when I look at you?”

Ginny feels pinned in place, small and scared, when Tom looks at her like that. She feels like
her diaphragm has been transfigured into butterflies, and those butterflies are trapped in the
cage of her skin. But, “yeah,” she says, because obviously that’s the right answer, and she
doesn’t want to hurt Tom’s feelings, and also she also feels important, when Tom looks at her
like that, and that’s basically the same thing as good, and she’d already said she liked Tom’s
eyes, and isn’t that the same thing as liking it when Tom looks at her?

“Tell me how much,” says Tom.

“How much?” Ginny asks, confused. She tries to squirm away a bit, but Tom’s hand on her
back holds her firmly in place, so instead she just kind of grinds herself into Tom’s lap. The
butterflies seem to have flown down, down to where her legs are straddled around Tom’s, and
her heart is vibrating like a rabbit’s. She still can’t turn her face away from the older girl, chin
held tight in Tom’s fingers, but she can close her eyes against the unfamiliar onslaught of
feelings in her body.

“How much you like me looking at you,” clarifies Tom. “Though I can feel how much you
enjoy it, you naughty girl, humping me like a bitch in heat.”

“What?!” Ginny’s eyes fly open, and all she can see is—Tom. Tom’s fathomless eyes on hers.
Tom’s red lips turned up in an amused smile. Tom’s dark hair in blinkering, dizzying curtains
around her.

She doesn’t—she doesn’t quite know what those words Tom was saying meant, put together
like that, except that they make her feel dirty, and dizzy, and wrong.

She wants to—she wants to wake up. She wants this dream to be over now.

She tries to get up, but Tom presses her robed hips down into Tom’s own, pulls her face right
up to Tom’s until their lips are almost touching. “Tell me how much you like it,” Tom
breathes, and the warm, moist air from her words puffs straight into Ginny’s mouth. She feels
a tingling, low in private parts, which feel dreadfully exposed and open, spread over Tom’s
legs, even though Ginny is wearing underwear and her robes—though the robes provide no
protection from Tom, hiked up as they are around her.

“I—I like it,” Ginny says. She doesn’t understand how this happened so fast. She doesn’t
even really understand what exactly it is that’s happening—except it’s, maybe, is this…sex
stuff? She thinks it might be, even if they haven’t done, like, kissing or anything. Kissing is
supposed to come first, right? And can it even be…that between two girls? Ginny’s mind
reels, unmoored and unnerved.

Tom continues to push Ginny’s hips down into Tom’s lap, in a steady, rhythmic grinding.
Ginny feels herself take over the motion, almost on instinct. It’s better, slightly, now that
she’s controlling it and Tom’s hand is only a steady weight at her back. She doesn’t dare stop,
scared that Tom will push her even farther if she lets up for even a second.

“How much do you like it?” Tom asks. Her eyes are curious and cold.

“A lot,” says Ginny, praying that it’s the right answer, that it’s the answer that will let her
leave. Her head is spinning. “I like it a lot.”

“And what is it exactly that you like a lot?”

“The—um.” Ginny struggles to remember. Because she doesn’t like this, whatever it is. She
doesn’t like it at all. She wants to cry. “Looking at me! I like it a lot when you look at me.”

“Good girl, telling me how you feel.”

Ginny blushes in mortification. Her abs are beginning to tremble with the effort of rocking
herself up and down. She feels like she’s going to pee herself.

“Since you like it so much when I look at you,” murmurs Tom, “I guess I’ll just have to do it
some more.”

Her nimble fingers slide down Ginny’s throat to unbutton the collar of her robe.

“Um, Tom?”

“Yesss,” whispers Tom. “Say my name. Just like that.” The first button pops open. Her other
hand, still low on Ginny’s back, dips even lower. It curls itself around Ginny’s butt and
squeezes, tight. Tom doesn’t let go.

Ginny whimpers. She didn’t—she just wants Tom to stop. But she doesn’t want to say Tom’s
name again, not if…if that.

It scares her.

Tom scares her.

The next button slides open, and Tom moves her fingers down.

The older girl isn’t holding her in place anymore, but Ginny can’t seem to pull away. She
can’t seem to move at all.

“I said,” says Tom, in a low, sultry hiss, digging her nails into Ginny’s butt cheek and
pinching, hard enough to hurt, as she pops another button open, “say my name.”

“Tom!” Ginny squeals and bucks away from the pain, rocking her whole self into Tom’s
body.

Tom laughs, low, and does it again.

“Tom! Stop, please. You’re—you’re scaring me.”

“Am I?” asks Tom. She’s undone the buttons all the way to Ginny’s belly button now. She
pushes Ginny’s robe back, first over one shoulder, and then the other. The fabric pools down
behind Ginny, falling over Tom’s hand, over Tom’s lap.

Ginny’s own hands are still stuck in her sleeves, at her sides. Her whole chest is completely
bare and flushed under Tom’s gaze. She knows other girls her age, some of the other girls in
her dorm, have started wearing stays—or, for the muggle-borns, bras—but Ginny doesn’t
really have a reason to yet, her chest still painfully flat.

Tom leans back on her elbows, just looking. Her legs fall apart, just a bit, as she shifts back,
and Ginny’s legs are spread even more open with them. Tom’s hands settle softly on Ginny’s
fabric-covered wrists.
Ginny squirms, uncomfortable. The tingly feeling low in her gut is back. Tom’s eyes are dark
on her body.

“How am I scaring you?” asks Tom, a faint hint of amusement in her voice.

“I want to stop now,” Ginny whispers. She can’t meet Tom’s eyes.

“I’m just looking,” says Tom. She seems genuinely confused. “You said you liked me
looking.”

“Yes, but—“

“Did you lie to me?” Tom’s eyes tear up at the idea. Her lips tremble.

“No!” Ginny hastens to reassure her. “But—“

“So you do like it,” Tom says, breaking out into a relieved smile. “You’re just playing coy.”

“I…yes?” says Ginny. She feels so, so exposed. “I mean, no. I mean—I don’t know.”

Tom cocks her head, her perfectly groomed eyebrows furrowing as she studies Ginny
intently.

Ginny flushes from the crown of her head all the way down to her underwear, all of that skin
exposed to Tom’s gaze. Her heart is beat-beat-beating between where her legs meet, where
they’re splayed out over Tom’s.

“Oh, I think I understand,” says Tom, eyes following the splotchy red blush from Ginny’s
face, down to her shoulders, to her chest, her nipples, her belly button, and then even further
down to where Ginny’s robe is pooled upon their laps. “You don’t know what you’re
feeling.” Her eyes return to Ginny’s own, crinkling into a kind a smile. “You’ve never felt
this way before.”

“I—no,” Ginny confesses, “I haven’t.” She feels…relieved? that Tom seems to know what’s
going on. That she seems to understand, even if Ginny doesn’t.

“That’s alright,” says Tom. “I know what you’re feeling.”

“Great,” says Ginny. “Can we stop now?”

“Hmm,” says Tom. “Let’s see if you can figure it out. I’ll give you some clues. Alright?”

“Al-alright,” Ginny agrees. A guessing game sounds better than—than whatever was
happening before.

“First clue,” says Tom. Her gaze remains soft on Ginny’s eyes. “Your face is flushed.” She
brushes the back of her knuckles against Ginny’s cheek, and Ginny can feel the heat follow
the older girl’s fingers.

“Any guesses?”
Ginny bites her lip, shakes her head.

“You’re biting your lip,” says Tom. Her fingers travel down to rest on Ginny’s lower lip, then
dip between her teeth as she pulls Ginny’s mouth open. “You’re practically drooling. That’s
clue number two.”

“Haaa,” says Ginny, because she can’t say anything else. She can feel the wet muscle of her
tongue, the tip of it trapped under Tom’s two fingers. Saliva pools behind her teeth, but she
can’t swallow, not with Tom’s fingers holding her mouth open.

Tom’s gaze is on her mouth now. Tom is looking inside her, and there’s nothing Ginny can do
to stop it. Ginny is naked, practically, her mouth held open on Tom’s fingers, her legs held
open on Tom’s lap, her robes in complete disarray around her. Tom’s hair is down, but it falls
in perfect waves around her face and she’s otherwise perfectly dressed and collected, leaning
back as she studies Ginny’s naked body. Drool overflows and spills down Ginny’s chin, and
Ginny feels so, so small and disgusting.

Her eyes water then, and hot tears and snot start flowing silently down her face to mix with
the drool. She tries to wipe her face off with the hand Tom’s not holding down, but Tom’s
other arm—the one with its fingers still in her mouth—is in the way.

Ginny sniffs. It doesn’t help.

“You’re leaking,” says Tom. She raises her free hand to follow the gross line of snot and
drool and tears from her chin down to Ginny’s bare chest. “Here,” she says, her fingers
curling behind Ginny’s teeth and sending out a fresh wave of drool, which her other hand
then smears into Ginny’s sternum, then down into her belly button. Ginny’s stomach
instinctively curls in, her body tries to buck away, and a hot pulse of something spasms
between her legs.

Tom seems to know exactly what just happened, because the fingers at her stomach dip
quickly down under the drawstring of Ginny’s thin underwear and stroke where that burning
pulse just flared. “And here,” Tom says, still stroking. Her thumb rests on that throbbing
pulse point, rubbing intense, burning circles that spiral up into her stomach, and her first two
fingers dip even lower. Ginny rocks away, legs jerking, but she doesn’t get far with Tom’s
fingers hooked in her mouth at one end and hooked into something else at the junction of her
legs.

Ginny feels like a fish, speared through on both ends.

“You’re so wet for me,” Tom says, and it’s true. Ginny’s mouth is a mess of drool; she’s
leaking from from her nose, from her eyes. And there’s more wetness gushing around Tom’s
other hand, from where Ginny’s legs are splayed open on her fingers.

Ginny doesn’t know—she doesn’t think she’s peed herself, but it’s so wet down there, and she
can hear all these embarrassing squelching noises coming from her, and the more and faster
Tom rubs at that pulse point, the more Ginny feels like she really, really needs to pee.
Ginny is rocking again, her already sore abs working herself back and forth and up and down,
trying to escape—or trying to get more? It feels like lightning, like magic, like the spark that
traveled through her when she was able to pick out her own wand, except more, except too
much, and Ginny can’t do anything except squirm on Tom’s fingers and stupidly drool, and
she’s breathing so heavy, panting like a dog—

Like a bitch in heat, Tom had said, and Ginny still doesn’t know entirely what that means, but
it feels true.

Tom, she tries to say, stop, but it comes out more like, “Haaam.” She doesn’t even get the
second word out at all. Her lips close around Tom’s fingers. The older girl’s skin tastes salty
and slightly metallic. A bit like ink; a bit like blood. Ginny finds herself sucking almost
automatically as the fingers spear deeper into her mouth.

“Good girl,” says Tom, and Ginny’s crying but she feels so warm in her stomach when Tom
praises her like that, so she sucks harder and she squirms, and she feels so disgusting, and
stupid, but she can’t stop.

There’s a pressure building up in her belly, and a fiery jolt every time Tom’s fingers curl up
inside her somewhere she didn’t even know existed. She’s going to burst.

“Oh, does that feel good, pet? Writhing like a desperate worm on my fingers?”

“Mmmm,” Ginny whines, high and frantic, around Tom’s fingers. She doesn’t know if she
means yes or no.

“You’re pathetic, aren’t you? Covered in your own mucus and filthy slick, begging me to get
you off because you don’t even know how to do it yourself.”

“Hhhhnnn,” Ginny tries to protest, but, like she’s a puppet, Tom’s two fingers hooked into her
throat and the rest of her hand clenched tight around Ginny’s jaw, Tom nods Ginny’s head for
her.

Ginny quickly starts to nod her own head, bobbing it up and down, so she doesn’t choke
around the fingers stuffed down almost to her tonsils, or worse, throw up all over herself. It’s
true anyway, what Tom is saying. She is pathetic.

She’s gross, and pathetic, and sobbing, and still that desperate, aching, burning feeling is
growing inside her, higher and more intense than Ginny could ever have imagined anything
feeling. Tom’s fingers pound into her from the inside, bruising, and her thumb rubs out waves
of fire that ripple up through Ginny’s tummy and down through her trembling thighs.

She’s going to pee herself. She can’t help it. It’s too much. She’s already disgusting, but if she
pees herself, she’ll also be peeing in front of Tom, on Tom, like a baby still in diapers, and
the shame and humiliation makes her sob.

“Come for me,” Tom commands, pressing in everywhere all at once, and Ginny—breaks
open. She feels herself gush around Tom’s hand in her underwear, tries to scream and buck
her head away from Tom’s fingers in her mouth.
Ginny falls forward onto Tom’s perfectly-ironed robes, shaking and sniffling. She sobs,
broken and so, so ashamed. Because not only had she just—done that, but it had felt good.
For a blistering moment, she had just felt alive, and it was the most wonderful thing she’d
ever felt.

Tom removes her fingers from Ginny’s mouth. The other fingers inside her are still there,
stroking much more slowly now, almost absently, gently, but still wringing out a few jolting
spasms from Ginny’s worn-out body.

Tom pushes Ginny back off her robes and wipes her drool-covered hand clean against
Ginny’s chest, first down and across one nipple, and then the back of her hand across the
other. Ginny can’t even bear to look at the older girl, instead hanging her head in
mortification.

Tom’s fingers are still moving lazily inside her, sending the echoes of sparks to twitch
through her every few seconds.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

Ginny nods, miserable. “I’m sorry,” she sniffs out.

Tom tuts and cups her face, tilting it up so that Ginny’s forced to meet her eyes. “Why are
you sorry?” she asks.

“I—I peed myself,” Ginny whispers.

Tom chuckles softly. Her eyes are so, so calm and understanding. “No, you didn’t,” she says.

“I did,” Ginny cries. “I felt it.”

“Hmm.” Tom withdraws her hand from Ginny’s soaked-through pants, leaving with a final
pet over the fabric. She holds her dripping fingers to Ginny’s lips. “Taste,” she says.

Despairing and deserving of whatever she gets, Ginny opens her mouth to suck these new
fingers in.

It tastes—sweet, kind of. Like flowers. And also a little bit salty. Gooey, rather than wet.
It’s…not horrible. And it’s definitely not pee.

“Good girl,” says Tom, as she sucks. “Cleaning me up so well. You see? It’s not pee.”

Ginny nods around Tom’s fingers. She’s mostly not crying anymore.

Tom brings her fingers out of Ginny’s mouth. These ones, she wipes in Ginny’s hair.

“What is it?” Ginny asks. Her voice is kind of sore in her throat. “If it’s not pee?”

“Arousal,” Tom answers patiently. “Wetness, slick. There’s all kinds of names for it. But it
means you’re enjoying yourself, that you wanted me inside you. And then, when I made you
come, when you orgasmed, it gushed out even more because you were enjoying yourself
even more.”

“Oh,” says Ginny, blushing.

“Do you know what you were feeling now?” Tom asks.

“Um…arousal?” Ginny guesses. She’s not sure if that’s a feeling name, or just what the, um,
stuff is called.

“Exactly,” says Tom. “And now you know what arousal feels like, for the future. You know
what it feels like when you get turned on.”

Ginny ducks her head and nods. She can feel the…arousal drying in sticky clumps in her
hair.

“And how does it feel for you?” Tom is—petting her again, running a hand up and down her
side. It’s normal Tom petting, though, like she always does, except this time Ginny’s whole
top half is bare and shivering in the air.

“Um—hot,” Ginny says. She tries not to squirm under Tom’s gaze. “A bit tingly? In my
tummy. A bit terrifying.”

“Mm.” Tom smiles, pleased. “That sounds about right. And to think, the first time you ever
got turned on was just from me looking at you.”

“Y-yeah,” says Ginny.

“Tell me how it felt,” Tom orders, “to have been so turned on that you begged me to strip you
and finger you until you came.”

Ginny rears back a bit, shocked. “I didn’t…”

“One look from me and you were debasing yourself like a proper little slut.”

“I’m not—!”

“No? You didn’t crawl onto my lap? You didn’t grind your dripping, dirty cunt on my legs
because you’re an insatiable little whore?”

“Tom!” she protests, growing red again. Her stomach sinks inside her, and she doesn’t know
if it’s shame, or, or—arousal.

“You didn’t tell me just how much you liked it as you begged me to take your clothes off?”

“That’s not what happened,” Ginny says, uncertain. Because she had—she had told Tom she
liked it, hadn’t she?

Had she begged? Surely not. But Tom seems so certain…

“You didn’t moan my name around my fingers as you got yourself off?”

Well, yes. Sort of. Ginny squirms on Tom’s lap.

“You’re not getting turned on again just by hearing the filthy, slutty things you’ve done?”
Tom whispers in her ear. A single finger swipes through her—her arousal, then holds the
proof to her lips.

“Tell the truth, Ginny.”

Ginny sucks in a sharp breath, breathing in the scent of her shame as she does. “Yes,” she
says.

“Yes what?” Tom prompts. She tweaks one of Ginny’s nipples, and Ginny squeaks at the
shock.

“Yes, I’m, um, turned on.” Ginny’s face is on fire.

“Why?” Tom asks. Her thumb is running just beneath the drawstring waistband of Ginny’s
pants, back and forth across her lower stomach, but refuses to dip any lower. Ginny just
wants—she wants this over with.

“I…because I, um, you were telling me the—um, what I did.”

“And what did you do, Ginny, that made you so horny?”

“Horny?”

Tom tweaks her other nipple.

“Ah!” She jumps up a bit and then comes down hard, landing on her opening, where Tom
had been fondling her before. She feels empty now, without Tom’s fingers there.

“Turned on,” Tom defines it for her. “Aroused. Lustful. Horny.”

She pinches Ginny’s buttcheek this time, the one she hadn’t touched before, and Ginny once
again rocks away from the pain and straight into Tom.

“What did you do, Ginny, that made you so horny?” Another pinch, on her stomach this time.

Ginny squeals and shifts back, falls forward. “I…um, I, you were looking at me?”

“And that turned you on?” Pinch, on her thigh.

“Yes!” Ginny presses herself as close to Tom as she can, starts trying to free her hands from
where they’re still tangled in her sleeves.

“Why?”

“Why?” Ginny asks, somewhat frantic as she tries to escape the constant tweaking and
pinching from every direction. All she’s succeeding in doing is rocking herself once more on
Tom’s lap, pressing down on that point Tom had circled so strongly, getting herself more and
more worked up, more and more aroused. “Because…” She tries to remember what Tom
said. “Because I’m a slut!”

Her voice cracks and she immediately goes flamingly red all over.

“Yes,” says Tom, running a gentle hand down Ginny’s flank, soothing the sharp points of
pain she’d littered there. “You are. And what kind of slutty, whorish things did you do?”

“I, uh, I begged you to, um…”

“To what?” Tom is toying with the waistline of her panties again.

“To, to take my clothes off.”

“Oh?” says Tom. “You want these to come off?” She twists a handful of the thin fabric in her
hand and hoists it up, giving Ginny a wedgie, except it’s in the front. And in the back. It’s an
all-over wedgie, and it hurts.

Ginny whimpers, swallows, nods.

“If you want something from me, you have to ask for it,” Tom says. “I’m not a mind reader.”

“Please, Tom.”

“Please what?” She hoists the wedgie even higher, and Ginny rocks up onto her knees.

“Please take my pants off,” Ginny forces out.

“That’s a bit of an odd request,” says Tom. “Why?”

“Please,” says Ginny. “It hurts.”

“Wearing pants hurts?”

“Yes.”

“You’re that much of a slag?”

“Yes! Please, Tom, please.” She casts around desperately to try and figure out what Tom
wants her to say. “I’m a slag; I’m a slut. I need my pants off because I want you to look at me
because it turns me on. It makes me horny because I’m such a slut. Please.”

“Very well,” says Tom. “If you insist. Stand up.”

Standing puts Ginny’s crotch at exactly the same height as Tom’s head. She lets her robe fall
completely to the ground as she stands, tries to pinch herself to wake up, but nothing
happens. She’s stuck in the dream.

Tom takes her time pulling Ginny’s plain cotton underwear down. She toys with the string
that ties them to Ginny’s waist, only pulls them down a little bit at a time, pulls them back up,
 then down, then up again until Ginny begs her again to take them off.

Then, she just stares at Ginny’s most private, intimate parts, smirking and way too close. Her
breath is hot on Ginny’s folds. But she doesn’t do anything until Ginny begs for that too.

In the morning, when she wakes, Ginny is covered in sweat and her pants have been kicked
off onto the ground. Her sleep shirt has been pulled up and over her neck to land somewhere
behind her bedframe. She’s completely naked, and the space between her thighs is soaking
wet.

She can hear her dorm mates getting ready for the day. She doesn’t dare join them in the state
that she’s in. She’ll just have to skip breakfast, and maybe be late to class.

Last night’s dreams are already fading into a muddled impression of sex and fear and pride
and shame. Ginny can barely remember any details, any specifics of what was said or done.

But she remembers begging for it, and she feels with bone-deep certainty that she’s dirty, that
she’s ruined, and that she’s a worthless, filthy slut.

Chapter End Notes

Wizards don’t have elastic underwear or bras, change my mind.

Also, it’s very hard to write a sex scene without the word “electric” or any reference to
electricity.
 Chapter 2
Chapter Notes

Please pretend that I added the ‘internalized homophobia’ and ‘medical kink’ tags. I like
the order the tags are in now, and I’m too lazy to go back and re-tag everything to make
it fit.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Dear Tom, I think I'm losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over my robes
and I don't know how they got there.

There’s something seriously wrong with Ginny.

She keeps waking up naked. And…aroused.

She puts her pajamas on every night, she knows she does, but her sleep-self doesn’t seem to
want to keep them on.

She wakes up, limbs all askew, hot and aching and yearning for something she doesn’t even
know what. She feels hollowed out. Empty. Like she needs to be filled.

Sometimes her limbs are still tangled up in her sleep clothes, almost like they’re tying her
down. Other times, she’s managed to completely lose them.

And she’s wet. Down there. All the time, it feels like, like she can’t stop thinking about it, but
especially when she wakes up.

But it isn’t just that, she’s also generally drenched in sweat and drooling all over her pillows,
which is just kind of gross and embarrassing, and she woke up moaning the other morning.

Her roommates, thankfully, seemed to buy her story that it was just a normal waking up and
stretching moan, even when she refused to emerge from behind her curtains, which she knew
was weird and suspicious, but she was naked, her legs somehow stuck spread open in her
tangled bedsheets, and she couldn’t stop thinking about…about something. Disconnected
sensations: sharp, stinging nips at her most sensitive areas; the echo of someone kneading her
butt open, grip too tight and pressure too harsh; the salty-sweet scent of her own arousal; a
heady flash of dark, possessive eyes and ruby-red lips.

Ginny might actually die of mortification if her roommates found her like this.
Thankfully, Tom teaches her a spell to ward her bed curtains. It’s a complex, multi-part thing
—a silencing charm combined with a different spell that keeps anyone from seeing inside,
even if the curtains are cracked, along with a notice-me-not and a different spell to keep
smells contained (mortifying), another charm to keep anyone from opening the curtains, all
anchored together with runes carved into the bed frame—that Ginny thought would be well
above her ability to cast, but Tom said she believed that Ginny could do it, and then she did!

It’s kind of cool, having an older friend to teach her neat stuff like that. She bets even the
twins would have trouble with this kind of thing. It doesn’t stop the dreams, or her
humiliating horniness and continual unconscious desire to strip herself bare, but at least no
one else has to know what a freak Ginny is.

Because she is—she knows there’s something wrong with her. She’s perverse. Perverted.
Normal people don’t do what she’s doing. Don’t think so much about…sex.

Except Tom says they do.

You’re just a bit of an early bloomer, writes the older girl. Trust me, by third, fourth, fifth
year? All anybody is ever thinking about is sex.

Ginny’s not an early bloomer, though. Her body is still twig-thin and lanky, with none of the
womanly curves, or hair, or all that stuff that some of her classmates are beginning to get.

Yes, but you’re very mature mentally, says Tom. It doesn’t surprise me that you’re ahead of
the curve here, too. Just like with your magic—you were able to master that advanced
warding for your bed, after all. Normal eleven-year-olds can’t do something like that. But
you’re different. Special.

Ginny flushes at the praise. I had a good teacher, she writes.

Well, that goes without saying, says the diary, and Ginny imagines a conspiratorial smirk.
Seriously, though: your peers now might think you’re a perverted freak if they ever found out
about what you do in your bed at night, and of course be frightened by your more mature
behaviors—and yes, people, especially children, mock and deride what they’re not advanced
enough to understand—but it really is just because you’re a bit beyond your years.

Ginny’s stomach sinks at the reminder of how utterly humiliated she would be if anyone
found out about her…perversion. She doesn’t think it would be too much of an overstatement
to say that her life would be literally over.

She knows Tom is just trying to comfort her, but sometimes the older girl isn’t the best at it.

Still, Ginny has to give her points for trying. And for not mocking her or running away even
though she knows exactly how much of a perverted creep Ginny is.

Ginny hadn’t even really meant to tell Tom about the dreams. She knew they weren’t the kind
of thing you shared. But she was just so used to sharing everything with Tom, always, and
Tom was always keen on hearing about, like, bodily sensations and stuff, since the older girl
didn’t have a body anymore, and it had just, kind of, happened.
But Tom hadn’t judged or made fun or anything.

Ginny had still been a bit confused as to what was actually going on—she didn’t remember
her dreams very well at all, didn’t have the words to describe the sensations she was feeling.
She just…she was wet all the time, and empty, and aching, and she kept waking up drenched
in her own fluids with vague, embarrassing memories of skin on skin, sharp pinches and
tooth-scraped nips.

Whenever she thought about it, she felt nervous and squirmy and excited and horrible.

But Tom had been so, so understanding. Even as Ginny didn’t have the words to explain.

They’re called wet dreams, Tom said. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s normal. Most of the
time when people talk about them, they say it’s a thing that happens to boys, but girls get
them too. It just means you’re growing up, exploring your sexuality.

There had been a long pause, long enough for the words to disappear, and then, almost
hesitant: I used to get them too, when I still had a body. They were…mortifying, especially in
that they were completely out of my control. But honestly, I miss even that now. I wish I could
have —Sorry. Forget I said anything.

And after that display of vulnerability, of trust—Ginny had only had the diary for a few
months, but she already knew how proud Tom was, how rarely she admitted to feeling out of
control or wanting anything—Ginny couldn’t not share what she remembered, at least.

And Tom…gets it. She understands, maybe even more than Ginny does. She commiserates
with how distracting these new feelings are, even as she herself can’t feel them anymore.
Ginny feels bad sometimes, talking about it, not just because she’s a freak, but because she
almost feels like it’s mean, or gloating, dangling descriptions in front of Tom of what she can
never have again.

But Tom insists that it’s okay, that she’s honored Ginny trusts her with stuff, that she enjoys
listening to Ginny’s troubles and helping her find solutions.

It’s so, so nice, having Tom always near to consult.

Sometimes, when Ginny is thinking about…sex (which is almost always, nowadays), and
when she’s awake and can actually remember her imaginings, she finds herself thinking
about Tom. It’s weird, because she would think she’d think about Harry Potter—he does still
make her chest all fluttery with his bright green eyes and tousled, dark hair and his stoic
silences—and sometimes she does, but mostly she thinks about Tom.

It’s an imagined Tom, because obviously she doesn’t know what Tom actually looks like, but
the Tom in her imagination is the coolest, most beautiful girl in the world, all dark and
assertive, smirking red lips and a stare burning with intent.

She feels especially bad and dirty about these fantasies, like she’s…taking advantage of Tom
or something, just because Tom is willing to explain this stuff to her. The older girl, if she had
a body, would probably never even give Ginny the time of day, anyway. She’d probably be
grossed out if she knew Ginny was having these thoughts about her.

Because they are gross thoughts, and even creepier that they’re about somebody she knows.
Especially somebody like Tom, who is so completely dependent upon Ginny for everything.

When she thinks about Harry, she thinks about, like, holding hands and sitting together in the
Great Hall and his face drawing nearer to hers, maybe for a kiss. Maybe there’s some
adventures or heroism thrown in there.

When she thinks about Tom, she thinks of being pushed back and held down by a bruising,
assertive grip. She thinks of hot, wet heat sucking up and down her body, of teeth biting her
tongue, leaving her lips scraped raw. She thinks of fast, violent, pounding pressure, deep
inside her, where the aching wetness comes from. She thinks of being swallowed whole,
strong, sticky pressure squeezing her from all sides, suffocating her as she is devoured and
consumed. She thinks of searing lightning burning through her body as she’s wracked with
savage spasms.

Her thoughts about Tom are bruised and raw and disturbing, and they make her so, so terribly
aroused.

Ginny doesn’t know what it means, that she’s having these thoughts about Tom. Because…
it’s weird, right? Even weirder than the rest of Ginny’s horrible perversions. And not just
because they’re so violent and intense. If they’re thinking about…sex stuff, girls should be
thinking boys. Not other, older girls who are stuck in diaries.

She doesn’t know who to ask about it, either. Normally, this was the kind of thing she’d talk
to Tom about, but Ginny can’t ask the older girl about her horrible violent fantasies about
Tom herself.

The idea of asking Mum about Ginny’s increasing perversion is absolutely off the table: she’d
received a basic talk on her (yet to come) monthly cycle, and the basic idea of what sex was
from her mother, but Mum had also been very clear that she felt Ginny was nowhere near
ready for anything even close to that kind of thing. Not until after she was married,
preferably.

Plus, Mum isn’t exactly shy about sharing her opinions on girls who slut around. She might
not use that exact language around Ginny (at least, not when she knows Ginny is listening),
but Ginny remembered more than one rant about the unladylike habits of Charlie’s friend
Tonks and her many boyfriends, and a judgmental tirade on how the lead singer of the Weird
Sisters was “whoring herself out” (that last one had been delivered to Dad while Ginny was
supposed to be asleep, after Mum had confiscated Ginny’s copy of the latest Weird Sisters
album for being “inappropriate”).

So, Mum is out of the question. For similar reasons, so are all the other adults she knows. She
can’t imagine asking Dad about this kind of thing, or Professor McGonnagal.

There aren’t books on this kind of thing in the library. Or well, there are, kind of—diagrams
of bodies and fertility star charts and birth control potions and sex rituals—but they’re all in
the restricted section. She couldn’t find anything even close to relevant in the normal stacks.
She only knows about the restricted books because of Tom (when she’d asked about the
general topic).

She briefly considers asking Madam Pomfrey—it does kind of have to do with if something
is wrong with her—but it’s not like she’s sick.

Well, she is. But not in the illness sense. More in the seriously disturbed sense.

The frequent thoughts and dreams are making it hard to focus on class—she’s constantly late
and distracted, losing time and getting lost, and they are affecting her body—she’s always
leaking now, it feels like, from her…there. Plus she always feels hot and squirmy and achy
inside, and even something as simple as sitting down makes her aware of her constantly
tingling private parts. That can’t be normal. How would people function?

But Tom had offhandedly mentioned the devices that healers use to, um, examine down there
if something is wrong, and the idea of having her legs spread, wide apart and completely
bare, so Madame Pomfrey could crank her open and see inside her...that sounds so painful
and humiliating Ginny can scarcely imagine it.

And what if she got wet while it was happening? Then Madam Pomfrey would see what a
perverted freak Ginny was, that she got…turned on just by the tight-laced old matron looking
at her and hurting her.

Because once the thought occurred to her that that might happen, the idea of it—being forced
open as wide as her legs could stretch and held splayed by metal stirrups, being pinched and
prodded and poked all over as the matron thoroughly examined her, being tutted at by the
school nurse for how slutty and wrong she was—made her feel that tingly excitement-fear
she now knows is called arousal (Tom wrote her the word) and then it immediately became a
recurring part of her perverse fantasies.

She doesn’t think she is attracted to Madam Pomfrey of all people. The woman is practically
the same age as Great-Aunt Muriel, for Merlin’s sake! And she’s just as strict and wrinkled
and constantly displeased as Great-Aunt Muriel, too.

Oh, and ew, now Ginny is imagining having sex with Great-Aunt Muriel, the woman keeping
up a constant, biting tirade on everything that is wrong with Ginny the whole time. What is
wrong with her?

Ginny needs to figure this out.

The problem is that she doesn’t know who else to ask. The adults are all out, which just
leaves kids. Bill might be able to help, and he wouldn’t tell Mum, but then she’ll have to put
all her problems in writing, and borrow an owl from either Mum or Percy, and what if
someone else sees it? That isn’t an unreasonable fear, especially given that it happens all the
time that her various siblings read each other’s correspondence, what with sharing only two
owls (that is, if Percy can be persuaded to share—otherwise it’s just one owl for all of them).

Charlie is out for similar reasons.

(The diary, of course, doesn’t have this same problem about putting things in writing because
the words in it disappear almost as soon as they leave her quill, and also no one else has
access to Tom.)

Of her brothers still in Hogwarts, Ron is barely any older than her (and definitely isn’t
thinking about sex stuff at all yet), the twins aren’t that much older and would definitely
make fun of her, and Percy is…Percy. All tight-laced and respectable.

Percy might also be her best option, which is just sad.

Ginny kind of wishes she had any older sisters. She’d kind of been thinking about Tom like a
sister, but then the thoughts had started, and…

Well. Sister doesn’t feel anywhere even close to right anymore.

She doesn’t even have any friends she can ask. It’s already the middle of October, and Ginny
just…hasn’t really made any friends. She’s not close to any of her roommates (it doesn’t
help that, before Tom taught her the privacy ward, she’d had to keep hiding from them
behind her curtains because she kept finding herself naked and horny in her bed, and then she
felt even more awkward when she did talk to them because she remembered being naked and
horny around them, and then felt like such a monstrous creep for being that way in the first
place, for thinking about having sex with girls).

She hasn’t made any friends in any of the other houses, either (again, the constant, distracting
arousal doesn’t help with being able to, like, hold a normal conversation, plus Ginny didn’t
really know how to make friends to begin with).

There’s Luna, but they haven’t really talked since the beginning of the school year, when
they’d been sorted into different houses. Which is normal, Tom says, and understandable, but
Ginny would feel awful just dumping all her problems on Luna. Plus, Luna is too…innocent
for this kind of thing.

Ginny already knows she’s disgusting for being all horny and lustful around her roommates,
who are just innocent little children. She definitely doesn’t want to do that to Luna.

She just wishes she could talk to Tom about this! Tom knows all about this kind of stuff,
since she’s older, and she’s good at explaining, and so understanding, and she says that it’s
her job, anyway, since she was a prefect before she got cursed—

Wait. A prefect! That’s who she could ask.

It doesn’t even have to be Percy. She could ask a girl prefect, one who isn’t also her brother,
which is way less embarrassing.

…Maybe not one of the Gryffindor prefects, though. She has to see them every day, and what
if they decide that Ginny is like, a threat to her roommates or something, and they bring in
McGonnagal or kick her out?
No, after thinking about it a great deal, she decides to ask the sixth-year Ravenclaw prefect,
whose name is Penelope Clearwater. Firstly because Ravenclaws probably know if there are
books on the subject (or at least how to research stuff if not), and won’t think too badly of her
for trying to learn more, even about something like this. And secondly because Ginny doesn’t
recognize her last name, which means there’s much less of a chance of this getting back to
Mum.

It is horrifically nerve-wracking, working up the courage to talk to Clearwater. But she just
keeps reminding herself that she’s a Gryffindor, and she has to be brave, and she has to do
something (because honestly, this is getting so out of hand—she feels like she’s drifting
through her own life, like nothing is real except the all-consuming, monstrous desire inside
her).

She does it.

And Clearwater (“call me Penny”) is so nice about it. She doesn’t know everything—Ginny
isn’t an idiot; she isn’t just going to tell a prefect of all people what a monstrous freak she is
—but she knows that Ginny has been having all these, um, sexual thoughts, and feelings, and
dreams, and how it’s distracting her from everything, and she can’t focus properly, and how
her body will start feeling all…aroused, even during inappropriate times like class, and also
how she sometimes has, like, sexy thoughts about girls, and also teachers (she can’t bring
herself to admit she’d been imagining Madam Pomfrey specifically, because if she’s going to
have fantasies about a teacher it should at least be an attractive one, not one who was literally
a century old), which can’t possibly be normal, can it?

(Ginny may have broken down into an incoherent ramble and then burst into tears all over
Penny and confessed more than she intended.)

But Penny is so nice. She lets Ginny cry all over her, and she says it’s okay, and that Ginny’s
feelings are perfectly normal, and she even volunteers to give some muggle books on the
subject to Ginny. Apparently, in the muggle world, there are books specifically written for
girls Ginny’s age to explain their bodies and these kinds of feelings, and Penny’s mother had
had several different talks with her over the summers about bodies and sex and feelings and
puberty, and had sent her off to Hogwarts with a whole wide range of books on the subject in
case she had any questions while she couldn’t even phone up her mother to ask.

It’s such a Ravenclaw thing to have done, though apparently Penny’s mother is a muggle.

Anyway, it’s a good thing she did, because Penny is very much not impressed with the state
of sexual education in the wizarding world, and she has made many copies of these books
and considers it part of her prefect duties to share them with the younger Ravenclaws (and
some of the older ones, too). So Ginny really lucked out with her choice to ask Penny
specifically for information.

Ginny can barely make it through the conversation with the older girl, blushing and
stammering the whole time, but the books really are helpful.

Apparently it is normal for, uh, sexual thoughts to come up even at inappropriate times
during puberty, and for it to be distressing (or not). And for them to be about people you
aren’t actually attracted to, or wouldn’t want to have sex with in real life. One of them even
says that it’s perfectly normal to have these thoughts about older kids, or adults you know, or
to have crushes on your teachers and so on, but obviously it would be very bad to actually act
on those fantasies. Ginny did know that much.

The wetness thing, and the dreams, are also normal. The book recommends talking to your
parents or your pediatrician if you get too distressed or think something is wrong, but Ginny
is definitely not doing that. She’s not even entirely sure what a pediatrician is. She thinks
from context it might be like a healer, except you have a personal relationship with a specific
one even if you don’t have a long-term illness? It’s a bit confusing. Anyway, she has no idea
how to go about contacting one, and she’s already ruled out Madam Pomfrey as an option, so
it doesn’t matter.

It turns out that the thinking sex thoughts about girls was also normal, at least in the muggle
world. There was even a name for girls who liked girls like that: lesbian. Or gay, which could
also be for boys who liked boys. And people who liked both were bisexual. Ginny had never
heard any of those terms before, but it was…comforting, she guessed, that she wasn’t a
complete freak. The books kind of implied that it was a bit weird and uncommon, even in the
muggle world, and that many people were scared of gay people because of some kind of
muggle disease thing, but overall the books seemed to say that it was normal-ish. One of the
books compared it to being a redhead: that there weren’t many people who had red hair, but
even so it was a perfectly normal color of hair to have.

Well, Ginny already has red hair, so maybe she’s just an extra super rare type of person. It
sucks and it’s horrible and she kind of really hates how much she’s always thinking about sex
and feeling aroused basically all the time, but maybe this is just normal puberty things, and it
will taper off in time?

If she started early, shouldn’t she also stop early?

Maybe Ginny’s not quite as much of a monster as she thought she might be.

Then she finds herself on the grounds, somehow. She’s not entirely sure how she got here, or
where exactly she is. But there are feathers all over her, and she can taste blood and the echo
of violence, and she is so, so ridiculously horny. And exhausted. Aching and empty and
needing someone to force her into the right shape.

She clenches her fists, cleans off the feathers, and forces herself to stumble up to the castle
and back to her warded bed, where it’s safe and she can talk to Tom.

Unfortunately, Tom has no idea why Ginny might be missing pieces of her memory or
covered in rooster feathers. She suggests it could be stress; recommends Ginny try to get
some more sleep. Ginny is too ashamed to tell Tom about the, um, arousal part.

And it probably is good advice to get some more sleep. Ginny doesn't know why, but she's so,
so tired. Utterly drained. So she tries to sleep more, even despite the dreams. It helps her
exhaustion, but the dreams are only growing more visceral and intense. She can almost
remember snatches of them now, and they're terrifying. Disturbing and deranged.
The books don’t say anything about how violent Ginny’s sex thoughts are. There’s one
mention about how some people enjoy “rough” sex and some like it more gentle, and you
shouldn’t let anyone pressure you into stuff that you’re not ready for, but she doesn’t actually
know what that means.

She doesn’t think those thoughts are normal. The ones where she thinks about being hurt, or
humiliated, held down, bruised and bitten, stripped naked and terrified, and it makes her…
arousal all the more intense. Like her whole body is throbbing with fear and need.

There’s a very simplified drawing in one of the books, showing a girl lying back in one of the
stirrup-chairs Tom had told her about. The book describes how your legs are held apart at an
easy height for a gynaecologist (which is another type of muggle healer) to look at you, and a
speculum is inserted inside your vagina and cranked out to hold you open, wide enough so
the doctor can shine a light inside to peer in and examine your insides, and then a sampling
stick, kind of like a wand, is stuck up in there too to take scrapings. The book says it’s not
nearly as scary or painful as it sounds, but Ginny doesn’t see how that could possibly be the
case.

The drawing doesn’t actually show anything, more shapes and colors in an abstract idea of
what humans look like in profile. The girl leaning back on the chair has a blanket or
something draped over her lap, though obviously that doesn’t stop the gynaecologist—who is
also very obviously also a woman—from sitting in between her legs and seeing everything
there is to see. The muggle healer’s arms disappear into…somewhere between the girl’s
thighs.

That’s probably part of the abstraction. There’s no way you could fit someone’s hand up
there, is there?

Then again, aren’t babies supposed to come out of there?

It doesn’t matter. Ginny is never going to go to a muggle gynaecologist. Or a magical healer,

at least not about this kind of thing.

But there’s something about the picture…

She keeps returning to it, looking at it over and over again in her bed with the curtains drawn
closed and her privacy runes activated.

She imagines that she’s the girl in the picture. Sometimes the blanket is there; sometimes it
isn’t, and she’s completely bare from the waist down. Sometimes she has her robes still on,
just pulled up. Other times, she’s buck naked.

No matter what, she is utterly exposed to the woman between her legs. Her heart beats tight
in her stomach. Her private parts tingle.

The healer—sometimes a vague, faceless idea; sometimes Madam Pomfrey; sometimes

imaginary-Tom; sometimes Penny, which makes her feel even more guilty—pokes and prods
at her private areas. Ginny is never quite sure what they’re doing even in her imagination, but
she can almost feel how much it hurts. Sharp, lingering pinches all over her inner thighs, then
up, and up, and up. Insistent pressure of imagined hands pushing her legs apart until the
strain is actively painful. Metal pincers and fingernails squeezing her flesh.

The healer sniffs and scoffs, displeased. “Disgusting,” she says. “I’ve never seen anything so
shameful. And look, you’re glistening wet. Are you getting off on this, you vulgar, nasty little
creature?”

Ginny’s face burns. She looks up to the ceiling, to the canopy of her bed. She’s alone, and
fully clothed, but she can feel hot, moist breath against the folds of her lower lips where her
own legs mirror the bent-knee position of the girl in the drawing.

She wants to close her legs, squirm away, deny the horrible accusations her mind is throwing
at her. But if she moves, she makes it real. It’s just—it’s a visit to a healer, it’s professional;
it’s just in her imagination. If she moves, it becomes...something she has to acknowledge.
Something she’s actually doing.

Despite all the…thoughts, and the dreams, Ginny hasn’t actually touched herself. Ever. Not
in real life.

Masturbation. That’s another new word, from the books.

“I’ve never seen such a repulsive pervert masquerading as a little girl,” says the imaginary
healer/Pomfrey/Tom/Penny. She can feel the older woman’s eyes on her, the phantom echoes
of fingers and tools. “I wonder, is it just as monstrous inside?”

An imagined crank punches into her. Ginny gasps, clutches her bed sheets, does not
otherwise move.

It’s not real. She feels her lower lips blink open around nothing, hears a popping kind of
squelch as her entrance blinks open, stupidly gaping and fluttering like a beached fish.

“Mm.” Ginny imagines the woman’s lips pursing in disapproval, so close to her entrance that
they’re almost kissing her insides. Her legs twitch. “Just as I feared. There’s all this filthy
slime up your hole. It’ll have to be stoppered up, of course, to stop your degeneracy from
spreading.”

Ginny’s hands clench her sheets even tighter. She imagines the healer taking those sheets, or
a towel, stuffing her full with them, drying her out painfully from the inside with no regard
for her comfort. Forcing an extra-large potions cork in after, dangling down a bit, so thick and
large it would leave her bow legged and waddling when she was sent off to class, and
everyone would know how filthy and foul she was.

Ginny whimpers, swallows heavily. Her chest is heaving. It’s not real. She stares up at the
canopy. She can’t look down at herself. It’s not real.

“Might need to stuff and stopper up that whining mouth of yours, too,” muses the healer. “Or
at least get a muzzle on it.”

Like a bitch in heat.

Ginny shakes her head against the unwanted thoughts, imagines being muzzled and caged
and collared like a dog, stifles another whimper. She knows that her bed is warded, but what
if the wards fail? What if someone hears? She can’t stop her breathing from coming in hot
and heavy pants through her nose, wild and uncontrolled.

It’s just her imagination. Nothing’s happening.

“There’s a good girl,” says the healer, patting Ginny’s flank, and Ginny’s heart both soars and
sinks at the imaginary praise. “Can’t do anything about you being such a sickening beast, but
we can at least train you up a bit.”

Ginny shivers. She’s soaked through with sweat. Her insides pulse around nothing.

“Oh, and there you go again, spewing out your filthy slick all over the bed sheets. Honestly,
Miss Weasley, have you no self-control? This will require punishment, to keep your
disgraceful behavior in check, don’t you agree?”

Ginny closes her eyes. It’s not real.

She feels a pinch at one of her lower lips, like nails digging harshly into skin.

She bites her lip to keep from screaming (or maybe moaning?).

“I said, don’t you agree you deserve to be punished?”

Yes. How could she not? She’s been sneaking around the school doing who-knows-what,
filled with horrible, violent thoughts; has been perving on her fellow students and on Madam
Pomfrey; has been getting turned on by all the above; has been enjoying it, probably; has
been acting like a child, like an animal, like a vile, violent beast with no self-control.

It’s not real. If she responds to the voice in her imagination, she makes it real.

Ginny screws her eyes shut, tries to make it all go away.

“Hmph. Very well, then. If you’re going to be a recalcitrant child, then you won’t get the
punishment you know you deserve. That you know you need.”

And she did; she did need it. Ginny wants to sob with how much she needs—she just needs
this to make sense. And being punished for being bad makes sense.

If she’s punished harshly enough, perhaps she can even be forgiven for—for how horrible she
is. How perverse. How broken.

“I’ll leave you to stew in your own whorish juices. But Miss Weasley, you know that you
deserve the harshest of punishments. If you’re going to be stubborn now, I see no reason I
should help such an ungrateful creature in the future.”

Ginny can feel the squeezed out droplets of hot tears trailing down her face. She wants...she
needs—
She can’t say it. Not for real. Not out loud.

“Fine,” says the healer. “Be that way. But if you want to be fixed, you’ll have to beg for it.”

Ginny sobs, brings her hands up to cover her mouth. Sniffles against the snot that wants to
come out. She feels horrible: disgusting, aching, and wanting.

She knows, somehow in her mind, that the imagined healer she had conjured up is gone. If
Ginny wants something, she’s going to have to do it herself.

She lays in her bed, sweat-soaked in her robes, legs splayed akimbo, hands clasped tight over
her mouth as she struggles not to fall apart.

Tom is in the diary under her pillow, and she feels so, so guilty for making the other girl stay
near her when she’s so perverted. Even though of course Tom will never know, trapped as she
is inside those pages.

Ginny wants…she wants to stuff herself up with the bedsheet until she’s less filthy and wet.
She wants to…to touch herself. She wants Tom to touch her.

If she does, it will just prove what a monster she is. What a freak.

She wants…she wants to be punished for this. To be hurt. She deserves to be shamed and
humiliated, be belittled and outcast, but she doesn’t want anyone else to know.

Slowly, hesitantly, she brings her hands down from her mouth. And further down. Not…
there. But on the outside of her thighs.

She takes a nervous breath, and pinches herself. Hard. It’s not—she’s not touching herself.
She’s not giving in to her horrible, filthy desires.

But there’s...relief, as soon as the pain hits. The arousal climbs even higher in her swooping
stomach, almost unbearable, but she—her mind is quieter. Less conflicted.

She does it again. Gasps at the sharp pain. Her eyes water. She thinks about hitting herself,
slapping her butt with a harsh and open hand, spanking herself with…something hard, like
her hairbrush. Or, closer to what she actually deserves, a belt. A lash.

Something painful. Something that leaves a mark.

There must be spells that do that. There are stinging jinxes, she knows. There must be…
whipping hexes?

Fear and arousal at the idea twist painfully inside her guts.

She thinks of someone else spanking her. She’s never been spanked in real life. Fred and
George had, after turning Ron’s teddy bear into a spider. Mum had been furious, and taken
them each in turn over her knee.
 There had been a lot of squirming, and yelling, but neither of them had actually been hurt in
the end. It was loud, but not actually damaging.

If their Mum knew what kind of perverted freak Ginny was, what would she do?

Would she be angry? Horrified? Disgusted?

Disgusted, Ginny decides, as the feeling clicks into her, certain and settled.

Would she try to beat it out of Ginny? Would she force Ginny over her lap, pull up her robe
and pull down her pants, see the damning evidence of Ginny’s perversion between her legs?
Would she punish Ginny the way she deserved, lash her until she couldn’t sit down? Would
she lecture on just how much of a disappointment Ginny was?

Horrified at the direction her thoughts are taking—Mum, really? How awful can she be?—
Ginny forces herself to sit up and straighten her robes. The arousal is still there, unbearable,
and the deep, burning desire to be hurt, but she forces herself to ignore it.

It’s late at night; she can’t leave her room without getting into trouble. She can’t fall asleep
with these horrible feelings coursing through her.

She takes out a quill (she always carries a self-inking one in her pocket, now) and fishes out
Tom’s diary from under her pillow.

Dear Tom, she writes, reckless, and so, so tired of keeping this secret from her best friend and
confidante, I keep imagining horrible things.

What kind of things? Tom writes.

And, urged on by Tom, Ginny tells her everything.

Chapter End Notes

Honestly, Penny’s sex-ed books are pretty good, especially for 1992. Too bad Tom is so
good at twisting words and reality to suit her.
 Interlude: Tom I
Chapter Notes

This whole unplanned Tom interlude got wildly out of control, so I’ve split it up into
three chapters. Chapter count has gone up accordingly, and I’ve given in and edited the
tags, so read again if there’s anything you’re concerned about.

There’s some passing mentions of scat and fantasies of mutilation in Tom’s thoughts, but
not enough where I felt I should tag it. It’s more to do with the
humiliation/dehumanization than anything else, but, uh…be warned? Tom’s mind in
general is REALLY dark.

Poppet :

(1) a magical doll or figurine in the shape of a person, used to aid in casting spells and
performing rituals

[…]

The grass is greener now, and it actually smells like grass. Fifty years in the diary and she
was never able to conjure up smells in her dreamscape.

Not until now.

Not until Ginny Weasley.

Tom grinds her feet down into wet soil, relishes the texture of it in between her toes. More
and more, the world around her is growing stronger. More real.

And so is she.

Tom had been weak, trapped inside the diary. So weak. Barely able to even sense the outside
world, let alone influence it.

Now…she is still weak. Possessing an eleven-year-old girl with no mental defenses, when
that girl had practically invited her in, had slept with Tom tucked beneath her pillow, when
that girl was dreaming and therefore at her most vulnerable—doing that should have been
child’s play.

The mental arts have always been Tom’s greatest strength: knowing what people are thinking,
if they’re lying, what they’re hiding. Legilimency. Subtly inserting her own thoughts and
desires into their minds, if she cared enough to do so. Otherwise, blackmail or the Imperius
worked just as well, though neither was without its risks or downsides.
The first time Tom had possessed Ginevra Weasley, she had barely managed ten seconds in
control of the younger girl’s body before she had to retreat back to her diary, and it had
absolutely exhausted her to her core.

Still, it had been enough. Ten seconds to strip little Ginny bare in her bed, and the foolish
idiot has been spiraling ever since, isolating herself and begging Tom to make it even easier
to cut off all her pesky little human connections.

And the connection with Tom is there now, insidious but unmistakable, after that first time.
Enough to where Tom could do it again, easier the next night, where she could send little
spikes of feelings to Ginny throughout the day, hints of arousal, shame, fear. Brief, fleeting
sensations of pain and pleasure.

Sex, for Tom, has never been about sex. She didn’t lie to Ginny when she said that she had
not enjoyed her own body turning on her in the midst of puberty. Of course, unlike, poor,
pathetic Ginny Weasley, Tom had had enough power of mind to put a stop to any
distressing…feelings.

No, the sex itself isn’t what does it for her. But turning other people’s bodies against them?
Having them completely under her control, forcing them to do things they would never have
otherwise considered, having them debase themselves, humiliate themselves, hurt
themselves, making them beg for it, all for the merest glimpse of her approval?

That, Tom enjoys very much.

And she enjoys hurting people. She enjoys breaking them. Putting them in their place.
Forcing them to acknowledge just how far above them she is.

She can do that with mind magic. With the Imperius. With torture. The Cruciatus. There are
ways and ways and ways, and Tom enjoys them all. Enjoys finding new methods to break
people. To make them break themselves.

And sex, she’s always found, is a great producer of shame, and silence. Neither Amy Benson
nor Dennis Bishop had ever confessed what Tom had made them do in that cave.

Or, more accurately from their perspective, what they had done to each other whilst Tom
watched and mocked them.

There is something so very delicious in making her playthings complicit in their own
debauchery. It makes them so…biddable.

Benson and Bishop had been before Hogwarts, before she even knew she was a witch. On
them, she had used wordless, wandless compulsions, only somewhat aware of the magic she
could harness even then. Only somewhat aware of the sexual nature of the particular torments
she’d chosen.

Them, she had simply wanted to humiliate, and making them wet their pants—making them
wet each other’s pants—had been the most humiliating thing she could think of at that age.
Well, that and teaching Benson what it truly meant to be a brownnoser, after the girl had
gotten particularly vicious in her mockery and torment of Tom for daring to do well in class.

She hadn’t expected that Bishop would enjoy having the girl’s nose, and then tongue, up his
ass. Or, well, he didn’t enjoy it at all. He’d been scared, and disgusted, and confused.
Terrified and betrayed and ashamed that his body was doing things he hadn’t told it to.

But his body had enjoyed it, and that made his shame and terror and humiliation all the
worse.

And Benson’s, as well.

None of the three of them—Bishop, Benson, or Tom—had really had a good understanding
of sex at the time, but they’d all known enough to know it wasn’t something you talked
about.

And none of them ever had. Bishop and Benson out of shame (and fear, but shame was by far
the larger driver), and Tom because she had no wish to be punished or further vilified.

Thankfully, the wizarding world’s mores around sex were fairly similar to those in the
muggle world, and Tom had been able to continue her…little experiments at Hogwarts.

And Ginevra Weasley will be the culmination of her work. Her magnum opus.

Unfortunately, it seems that at least the muggle world’s views towards sex have become more
permissive in the past fifty years, if Penelope Clearwater’s books are anything to go by. (For
giving those books to Ginny, and for being a potential confidante for the girl, the Ravenclaw
prefect will die.)

Tom had of course very quickly figured out how to spin Ginny’s newfound knowledge.
Sexual thoughts and desires are normal, and so Ginny has no need to go to anyone for help.
But Ginny’s thoughts and desires are not normal, and so she should be deeply ashamed of
them and hide them from everyone as best as she could.

It is a delicate balance, but Tom prides herself in her ability to string that needle.

It helps, of course, that social mores in the wizarding world move much more slowly than in
the muggle one, and Ginevra Weasley is a good little pureblood witch, with all the
deliberately inculcated ignorance and stupidity so endemic to their society.

It doesn’t surprise Tom that stupid, stuck-up Lavinia Vance—who’d been several years
beneath Tom in school but even as a second-year had been shaping up to be a real intolerant
and intolerable killjoy—had married some blockheaded Prewett and birthed a daughter just
as stupid and strict and judgmental as she was. All the better for Tom, honestly, that Molly
Weasley-née-Prewett is just as critical and controlling and insipid as her mother. Strict
parents, Tom has found in studying her peers, made for secretive and shame-ridden children.

Just the way Tom likes them.

Tom had toyed with the idea of leaving Lavinia’s granddaughter in the same state as
Shakespeare’s Lavinia when she was done with the girl: mutilated, raped, tongueless and
handless so she couldn’t communicate.

There were spells, dark magic, that could make the amputations permanent, unable to take
even the most rudimentary of prosthetics.

It would be an even worse violation in the magical world than the muggle one—a handless,
tongueless girl can’t hold a wand, can’t cast spells. Tom can cast wandlessly and wordlessly,
but she’d long ago learned she was an exceptional anomaly, even among mages.

Ginny Weasley would be little better than a squib. Useless and disfigured. Considered less
than human by her people’s own standards. And she would be. Unable to talk or write; unable
to do magic; only able to make disgusting little choked sounds and screams—what would
separate her from an animal, at that point?

She’d need to obliviate the girl, of course, to cover her own tracks. Dumbledore was still
around, and other legilimens. And if Tom was going to do obliviate the girl anyway, she may
as well take away other memories. All of them, even. Every memory that made Ginny
Weasley…Ginny. That made her human. Tom would take her memories of her family, of
being loved, of being cared for. Her memories of societal norms, of learning to wear clothes,
to use the toilet. Of language, and learning.

She would leave only the animal need to rut, and the trained-in knowledge that the girl—the
creature, the worm— was dirty, useless, less-than, deserving of punishment. She would be
nothing but a naked and broken wretch, soiling herself and grunting and begging to be fucked
and hurt by any passers-by, even her own family, whom she wouldn’t recognize as such. The
most pitiful a creature could possibly be. Tom would have taken everything.

Unfortunately, such fantasies will have to remain fantasies—she has a different use in mind
for little Ginevra Weasley. One that will require the loathsome chit’s death, which Tom will
also greatly enjoy. But Tom is sure she can wring out some…interesting levels of degradation
from the little slut before killing her. And during.

After all, Tom needs the girl to willingly offer up her body and her life to perform the ritual
she wants. No possession. No Imperius. No active mind magic that could disturb the ritual.

Though of course that doesn’t mean that Tom can’t use those tools in the coming weeks and
months to prime the girl. To convince her it is all her idea. To shape her into a pretty little
poppet for her personal use.

It has already taken months of waiting, of gathering her strength, of siphoning off as much
energy as she can from Ginevra, for Tom to finally be strong enough to possess the child for
more than a few seconds (and to perform complex magic whilst possessing her, with Ginny’s
wand and Ginny’s untrained magic).

Five minutes, that’s all she can manage. If that. Barely. It’s infuriating, being reduced to such
a weak state.
But again, it’s also enough.

Tom uses Ginny’s body to round up and kill all the roosters on campus, preparing the way to
awaken her monster once again. A summoning charm in the Forbidden Forest followed by
several stunners (both well beyond little Ginny’s actual ability, but just barely within her still-
growing magical power level). Tom, in Ginny’s body, pants on the ground and forces the
stupid child’s body to remain functional even past its natural limits and magical exhaustion.

Any more active magic is out of the question, and Ginny’s weak body is on the verge of
either collapsing or completely rejecting her, but there is no point in wasting a perfectly good
flock of sacrifices.

She’ll almost certainly pass out when it’s activated, and little Ginny will be aching and
exhausted for days, but Tom thinks she can manage a sacrificial ritual—there, the energy
comes from mostly from the sacrifice, not the conductor (unless the conductor is the
sacrifice, which Ginny Weasley will soon be—but not today).

Tom strips the girl. Ritual magic is best done in the nude to avoid contamination, and this one
especially requires her meat-puppet to be bare and exposed. Tom regrets that she doesn’t
have the time or energy to properly explore and defile the girl’s body.

She keeps her diary close at hand. It is, after all, herself, and lends her strength.

Tom quickly twists and cracks open the roosters’ necks, killing them one by one as she
exposes their lifeblood. There are three of them. A good number, a powerful number.
Magical. Seven would have been better, but three is still good.

She dips her (Ginny’s) fingers in the rapidly cooling rooster blood and paints it all over the
girl’s body. Her hands are shaking violently, Ginny’s mortal confines barely able to hold the
extra power that is Tom. Her vision dips in and out. This will not be the most precise or
exacting of rituals. She can’t risk doing anything volatile or that will have a chance of
backfiring if a line is misplaced. So no runes, which is a pity.

Still, blood magic is powerful, and sacrificial magic even more so. Even unshaped. Even
when the sacrifices are mere roosters.

She smears the blood over Ginny’s eyes, focusing on her connection with the girl, so Tom
will see what Ginny sees. Or, if she’s lucky and the ritual takes strongly enough, control what
the girl sees. Over her ears, so Tom will hear what she hears. On her forehead, over her brain,
so Tom will have access to her thoughts and mind. On the nape of her neck, over her
brainstem, where arousal and fear and all the more primal emotions are housed.

On Ginny’s lips, her tongue, her throat—both inside and out, Tom forces her to swallow
down a fresh gulp of blood—so Tom will have say over what she says, so that Tom will be
inside her. Her sternum, which represents her magical core, and all across her chest—her
heart, her lungs. Her breasts—or lack thereof, as of yet—sticky, bloody swipes across each
nipple for the life-giving symbolism. Low on her stomach, over her uterus, for the same
reason.
Tom grinds blood-soaked fingers roughly into Ginny’s clit, for no other real reason than that
she can claim this part too, Ginny’s pleasure and desire. The harsh and bloody fingers she
shoves up the girl’s cunt add to that claiming, and also further the life-giving connection. It’s
a bonus she doesn’t have the time to revel in that she can feel the sharp pain of Ginny’s
hymen breaking around her fingers, Ginny’s own blood and innocence driving the ritual to
even higher heights.

She doesn’t worry that the girl will notice—she’s been sending aching and painful feelings
into the girl’s cunt for weeks, and despite what misogynistic lore might say, Tom is well
aware that the hymen can heal. Magic will speed that healing too.

Her vision is almost entirely gone now, the body’s spastic trembling reaching unsustainable
levels. Tom swipes blood over Ginny’s feet, falling to the earth. Her hands, of course, are
already soaked with blood. She grips the diary tight in them, douses the book in blood, feels
the blood-soaked connection to the object that houses her very soul.

“By blood and will and sacrifice, let this connection be made and strengthened,” Tom rasps
with Ginny’s tongue. She can’t quite tell if the words come out garbled, but it doesn’t matter:
she can feel the magic take. The blood soaks into Ginny’s skin, into the diary, like it was
never there. The corpses of the cocks vanish into magical energy, slam into both of Tom’s
bodies—the diary and Ginny.

She blinks and shudders, as her connection to the body stabilizes slightly—it still wants to
pass out or fall apart under the strain of so much magic, and Tom is still moments away from
being pushed out, but she has those moments.

Moments just enough to re-dress Ginny and stumble out to the edge of the forest before the
weak, pitiful body collapses and Tom falls back into her diary.

It turns out later that she had missed a few feathers—must have been separated from the
cockerels before she killed them, and Ginny is a little confused and suspicious, but Tom
easily convinces the girl that the solution is to sleep more, to spend more time in Tom’s
domain, to actively seek out the corruption that Tom is using to ensnare her.

It helps that Ginny’s body and magic are utterly exhausted from the ritual—the exhaustion
serves both as proof that the girl does need more sleep, and as a means to muddle the foolish
child’s thoughts and dim her ability to reason.

The ritual was only moderately successful, unfortunately. Tom does not find it that much
easier to possess Ginny—a few days after the ritual, she thinks she could maybe manage an
hour if she doesn’t do any magic, or half that if she does, but doing so will deplete all her
energy reserves.

It will be enough to open the Chamber of Secrets, to link herself to the basilisk once more. So
that the snake’s kills will be Tom’s kills, and she can absorb the much greater energy from
human sacrifice.

She will start with petrifications, however, she decides, not straight killings—those will give
her less power, but she doesn’t want the school to be closed down, as it will take her months
to gather the magical energy she will need for the final ritual. She can’t afford to lose her
hunting ground in the meantime, or her connection to the basilisk, or risk having Ginny move
to somewhere where people might pay more attention to her and notice that something is
wrong.

It’s fine, even if she feels like she is continuously scraping by at just barely enough power to
reach the simplest of goals. Tom can be patient. And possession will become easier, will take
less effort and power, the stronger the connection between her and her little puppet grows.
The more Ginny pours her heart and soul into Tom, the more she allows her life to be
consumed.

Tom can afford to be patient. She has to be.

 Interlude: Tom II
Chapter Notes

Tom has really seized on to the whole incest thing, which wasn’t supposed to be such a
large part of the fic in my outline, but now it is and will be going forward. (The
Pomfrey/medical fantasy was also a complete surprise to me and not in my outline
whoops)

There’s no actual incest (Tom doesn’t like sharing), but wow does she really enjoy
forcing Ginny to think about it and then shaming her for it.

Poppet:

[…]

(2) a plaything; puppet; marionette

[…]

One upside of the rooster-sacrifice ritual is that Tom can fairly effectively legilimize Ginny
now. Which means she can lurk in the back of Ginny’s mind, see what she sees, listen to her
thoughts.

Insert her own.

No longer just feelings and sensations, Tom can insert entire ideas into Ginny’s waking mind,
or sentences, sounds and images or even whole scenes.

It still takes effort, and power, but not nearly as much. Tom has to be somewhat conservative
in changing or adding thoughts, but just watching and listening? That’s useful enough—and
easy enough—that Tom pretty much is constantly half-lurking in the depths of Ginny’s mind
now despite how annoying and frivolous and idiotic she finds the little chit.

Seeing the outside world, knowing what’s going on, feeling it, is worth the annoyance.

Plus, she finds a great deal of amusement in the thoughts Ginny has been hiding from her
diary. Her little crush on “imaginary” Tom. Her naive, intrusive fantasies about Poppy
Pomfrey of all people, somehow both intensely sexual and strangely sexless.

That hadn’t even really been Tom’s doing. Yes, she’d told Ginny about gynaecological chairs,
hoping to scare her away from talking to anybody about what Tom was doing to her body.
And yes, Tom had pushed intense fear and arousal and shame into her when describing it.
But Ginny somehow translating that into fantasies of the strict older woman inspecting her
and finding her wanting? Ginny returning to it, over and over again, looking at the still,
clinical muggle cartoon image as if it were the most captivating of pornography?

Tom couldn’t have scripted it better.

Well, she could. And she does.

She brings little Ginny’s fantasy closer to life, ramps it up. Adds in the kind of degrading
words that sweet, innocent Ginevra is too sheltered to conjure up on her own.

She lets the older healer remain a faceless amalgam of authority figures in Ginny’s life. She’d
prefer it be her and only her, of course, but Tom doesn’t think Ginny is quite ready to
remember Tom as her tormentor and judge and God in the waking world, and this waking
fantasy will be harder to blur the memory of than dreams.

So amalgam the tormentor remains, though it’s Tom puppeting her. She lets Ginny know just
how disgusting she is, just how monstrous, how unworthy. She presents a way Ginny can fix
herself, redeem herself.

She’s disappointed when waking Ginny refuses to ask for the punishment she knows she
deserves—Tom has her begging so prettily in her dreams now, a far cry from the awkward
and repetitive efforts she’d had to be forced into in the beginning—but Tom is gratified in
listening to Ginny’s thoughts to know that the child really has internalized the message that
she’s filthy, dirty, wrong, and that she needs to be punished for it, needs to be hurt for the
world to be right.

Also, there’s something very fun in dissolving the faceless thought-construct and leaving
poor Ginny desperate for relief, horny and craving pain. She thinks perhaps this is the time
where she’ll finally get waking Ginny to break down and masturbate, but what happens
instead is honestly even better: when left to her own devices, more than sexual relief, what
Ginny deems the greater need is pain and punishment.

She pinches herself, unknowingly echoing both Tom and herself in her dreams—it’s been one
of Tom’s favorite things to do, for the past few weeks, making Ginny hurt herself in her
dreams. The girl is unfortunately rather uncreative in imagining punishments, and Tom has to
push the idea of spankings at her, of a lash, or a whip-spell.

The idea of spanking brings up an interesting association in Ginny’s mind—a time her
brothers were spanked by their mother—andthat would have remained a fleeting memory,
quickly forgotten and entirely discarded, if Tom hadn’t seized on it.

It is Ginny’s thought, naturally brought up, so there’s no internal dissonance when Tom
just…nudges it to the forefront of the girl’s mind, interested to see what Ginny will make of it
with all the arousal and guilt and shame and masochistic desire currently running through her
body.

Ginny doesn’t disappoint, her thoughts taking the obvious path, putting herself in her
brothers’ place, but now tinged with a depraved and desperate sexual overtone. The child is
so horrified and revolted at her own imaginings—her own mother?—that Tom immediately
knows she wants to do this again.

Incest is a taboo Tom hasn’t explored much yet. The kids at Wool’s were orphans; only a very
few had siblings they knew about. At Hogwarts, Tom had taken great pains to associate with
the powerful, pureblood crowd, where incest—at least, certain flavors of it—was almost
expected. Kissing cousins may as well have been the slogan for purebloods across the
country.

Tom’s mother, she had learned the previous summer (fifty years ago), was almost certainly a
child of incest, and of a degree too close even for most purebloods. Merope’s mother had also
been her grandmother: the woman had fucked her own son to ensure their bloodline remained
pure.

It was revolting when Tom thought about how it applied to her, but she had to admit she was
curious about the timeline of it all. Witches didn’t have that much longer of a fertile period
than muggles, and Marvolo had been a good thirty years older than his daughter. Tom’s great-
grandmother (slash grandmother), whatever her name was, must have been incredibly young
—probably in her early teens—when she birthed Marvolo (himself likely also a child of close
incest), and then relatively old when her two other children (slash-grandchildren) were born.

Anyway, that didn’t matter. Tom had eradicated the last of the Gaunt line, cut herself away
from those filthy inbred imbeciles rotting away in their hovel and raving about the purity of
their blood. She had eradicated her father’s line as well, the Riddles, those haughty proud
muggles in their manor house who thought they were better than her.

Tom is better than all of them. Tom is better than everyone. Tom is certainly better than the
imbecilic, stupidly trusting, pureblood idiot that is Ginevra Weasley, mewling about her
pointless prepubescent crushes and frivolous friendships, all while she lets the woman who
would be the greatest Dark Lord Britain had ever known take over her body and her psyche
and her soul.

Tom will ruin Ginny Weasley. Will show her just how depraved and disgusting she truly is,
how pathetic and worthless, despite her name and her family and the fact that she currently
holds Tom’s soul in her hands.

Speaking of: Ginny is writing in the diary now, frantically confessing all her filthy fantasies
about Tom in an attempt to drown out her incestuous imaginings.

Well, that won’t happen. Now that Tom knows how much they distress her, she’ll be bringing
up those thoughts as often as she can. Maybe not of the mother again; Tom is already sharing
the role of ‘older female authority figure’ with too many other people in Ginny’s fantasies.

There had even, she sees now in Ginny’s thoughts, been one very confusing and distressing
imaginary scene entirely of Ginny’s own creation with Ginny’s great-aunt Muriel, who is a
wrinkled old harpy decades older than Pomfrey. (Despite Ginny equating the two in her head,
Poppy Pomfrey is only in her early seventies, barely eight years older than Tom—Pomfrey
had been the seventh-year Slytherin prefect during Tom’s first year at Hogwarts.)
Ginny must have imagined this Muriel scene before the rooster ritual, because Tom doesn’t
remember seeing it before. It’s hilarious, the wrinkled old hag berating a naked and
shamefaced Ginny for her degeneracy.

No, Tom won’t use the mother again. But little Ginny has six older brothers, four of whom
are in this very castle…

She won’t use the actual brothers, of course (too much of a risk of being caught if she brings
in another person, and she doesn’t have the mental or magical strength to control two people
at once right now), but the idea of them…that has some promise.

And is also a very good way to ensure little Ginny never talks to any of her brothers about
this.

But for now, Tom has to be “Diary Tom,” who is also categorized as “Real Tom” in Ginny’s
head. Which is adorable, because Diary Tom is definitely the farthest away from her true self
of all of the personas she has so far revealed to Ginny.

It is very useful, having the different personas. Diary Tom is supportive and understanding,
sympathetic and always willing to lend an ear or give advice. She is the one Ginny trusts, that
Ginny will willingly bare her soul to.

By this point, if Diary Tom tells her something, Ginny will believe it. Especially after having
the basic facts about sex that Tom originally told her confirmed by Penelope Clearwater’s
muggle books. Maybe Tom should thank the other prefect before she kills her.

But it means that when Diary Tom listens to Ginny’s fantasies, and agrees that they are not
normal and that Ginny does need to be punished for them, Ginny believes her.

It’s okay, Tom writes. It’s like confession—that’s a muggle religious concept. You confess
your sins to a priest, and he tells you it was wrong and gives you something to do to make it
right again.

But the idea of punishment makes me even more...Ginny writes.

More what? Tom asks, because she wants to force Ginny to actually write it down.

There’s a long pause before Ginny writes, More aroused. Then, I’m sorry. I’m horrible. I’m a
freak.

It’s alright. I haven’t ever heard of anyone actually enjoying punishment like that, but if
thinking about being hurt makes you hornier, then…maybe the punishment doesn’t have
to be physical? It isn’t always with confession. Instead they’ll assign you something like
saying a refrain or repeating a prayer. Kind of like lines in detention, if you’ve ever done
that.

I haven’t had detention yet, but Fred and George complain about all the lines they have to do
sometimes.
 Right. Does that sound like an appropriate solution, then? After you have these thoughts,
you can tell me about them and I’ll assign you fitting lines to write. I did that all the time
when I was a prefect.

I don’t know.

Do you want to go to another prefect for your punishment? Like Clearwater? You’ve also
wronged her with your depraved fantasies, so you probably should confess—

No!

Very well. Madam Pomfrey, then? Or Professor McGonnagal?

No, I’ll do it with you.

Are you sure? Now that I think about it, me doing it might be letting you off too easy, since
there won’t be any disciplinary record of your misbehavior.

Please, Tom.

I don’t know.

Please. I can’t tell—Please let me do it with you.

Alright, but I will be somewhat harsh on you—otherwise, it’s not a punishment.

Understand?

Yes! Thank you, Tom!! Thank you!!!

And you can’t complain, or I won’t do it anymore.

I promise.

Alright. I’m trusting your word, Ginny. Now, you’ve just confessed a lot of wrongdoing to
me, so these lines are going to have to be relatively long to cover what exactly it is that you
need to be punished for, understand?

Yes, I understand.

Tom is…immensely pleased with this punishment she’s devised. It’s the perfect excuse to let
some of the humiliation and degradation that she’s been dealing out in Ginny’s dreams to slip
into the real world. Further distort the girl’s sense of the truth, blurring the lines between
dream and fantasy and reality.

And, as the girl writes, as she speaks, the words will become more and more true. Magic is
fun like that. Tom wishes she had a blood quill she could make the girl use—that would be
both incredibly painful with repeated use and much more binding—but regular ink, sworn to
Tom, will suffice.
Tom will have to be very deliberate in how she phrases the punishment lines, but that’s half
the fun.

Unlike in traditional lines, she won’t tell Ginny to write anything in the formula ‘I will not do
such-and-such.’ Because Ginny stopping is the opposite of what Tom wants.

But I am ashamed of my sexual desires? I am sorry for being a perverted freak? I enjoy
thinking about my friends and family fucking me, and deserve to be punished for it?

Yes, those would all be quite acceptable phrases.

I deserve to be punished will shift quite nicely over the coming weeks into I deserve to be
hurt. I deserve to be abused. I deserve to be raped. Then in a few months they can graduate
to I don’t deserve control over my body. I don’t deserve control over my own thoughts. I am a
monster and can’t be trusted with anything.

Which will then ultimately shift to I am unworthy of having control over myself, so I will give
control to Tom. My body should belong to Tom. My thoughts and feelings and desires belong
to Tom. I willingly give my life and soul and magic to Tom.

For now, however, Tom will keep to assigning more plausible phrases. Something that really
emphasizes how Ginny is in the wrong, and introduces in some more degrading language to
the waking world, but still has a plausible veneer that it could be for Ginny’s own good.

Hmm…how far can Tom push it?

It’s late at night. Ginny is exhausted, still recovering from the rooster ritual. Her mind is tired
and hazy, flush with confusion and lingering arousal and massive amounts of shame. She
trusts Tom, absolutely, and she wants to be punished.

Tom can probably push it very far indeed.

For your first lines, I want you to write, one hundred times:

I violate the trust of my friends, teachers, and family by fantasizing about them fucking
me. I am ashamed of my monstrous sexual desires and sorry for being a perverted slut.

I can’t write that!

Why not? Aren’t you sorry for it?

Yes, but I can’t write—all that language.

What language?

The—the fucking, and being a perverted slut. And my family! That’s not—

It’s true, isn’t it? That’s what you told me you were doing. Honestly, this sounds an awful
lot like complaining.
Tom, you have to see why I can’t write that.

It’s punishment. It’s supposed to make you uncomfortable. It’s not like I want to read that
either. But I want you to be better, Ginny. So you need to acknowledge what you’ve done
wrong. You know it’s bad, what you’ve done, and you know you should be ashamed. The
whole point of lines as a punishment is to really force you to sit in your discomfort with
your own actions, so that you won’t do it again. Once you’ve finished your lines, then I
know you’re sorry and I can forgive you. But if you’re just going to complain and try to
skive off and not even apologize, when you’ve really hurt my trust by fantasizing about me
like that, I’m not sure we can be friends.

Okay. I’m sorry. Really, Tom, I really am sorry.

I’ll believe it when you actually show me how sorry you are. That means taking
responsibility and acknowledging what you are.

Okay. Okay. I’ll write it.

Well?

I can’t actually remember the exact wording.

Oh, I can tell you really care about making it up to me.

I do!

Fine. I’ll write it out again, and you need to actually pay attention this time.

I will.

Alright. A hundred times:

I’m a perverted slut who gets off on fantasizing about my friends, teachers, and family
fucking me. I continually violate their trust with my monstrous sexual desires. I am
ashamed of myself and sorry for my thoughts and feelings.

That’s different from what you wrote before.

It’s exactly the same. You’re just trying to worm your way out of punishment because
you’re not actually sorry. You’ve been fantasizing about me, sexually, imagining me doing
horrible things I wouldn’t actually want to do, disgusting, monstrous things, and you’re
not even sorry for it, are you? Am I just some sexual object for you? Some thing you use to
get yourself off and don’t actually care about? Is it because I’m trapped in the diary—you
think my feelings don’t matter? Is that all our friendship is worth? And you’ve been doing
it to your own family too! They love you, and you’re just using them as wank fodder! Can’t
you see how horrific that is? What a violation? Are you even capable of caring about
anyone else, or are you just a selfish slag who only cares about her own sexual
gratification? Is that what you get off on, violating our trust? Violating us?
I’m sorry! Tom, I’m so, so sorry.

You don’t seem very sorry.

I am. I’m sorry. I’m a perverted selfish slut who gets off on violating the trust of my friends
and family and fantasizing about them fucking me. I’m ashamed of my monstrous sexual
desires and sorry for my thoughts and feelings.

Close enough, though you didn’t manage to actually remember it right. Again.

I’m a perverted selfish slut…

[…]

…and I’m sorry for thinking and feeling. Tom, it’s been hours. My hand really hurts. That has
to have been a hundred.

Not yet, stop trying to weasel out of your punishment. You still have thirty-eight to go. And
you keep messing up the words. Maybe try saying it out loud as you write? That should
help you actually do it correctly.

I can’t say this stuff out loud.

Why not? Are you ashamed to speak the truth? It’s okay if you are—you should be, that’s
part of the punishment.

But what if someone hears?

Your bed is warded. Remember, I helped you do that? To hide your perversions from the
rest of the world, even though maybe I shouldn’t have, but I did it because I’m your friend.

I know, I know, I’m sorry. Okay.

Tom listens through Ginny’s ears as, at three in the morning, sitting huddled alone in her bed
in her dorm room where four other girls lay peacefully sleeping just outside the curtains,
hunched over a diary, the eleven-year-old whispers, voice breaking, “I’m a—a vile, selfish
slut that—that gets off on violating my friends and my family and—and f-fantasizing about
them…fucking me.” She’s started to cry, great big blurry tears blocking out her vision. She
keeps writing, even as she can barely see the page and her hand cramps something awful
around the quill.

“I am—I’m a-ashamed of m-my m-m-monstrous sex-sexual desires, and I’m s-so so-so-sorry
for th-thinking and-and f-feeling.” She sobs, curling into herself, tears falling thick on the
diary where Tom drinks them up like rainwater, savoring the salt on her tongue.

Ginny wipes her sleeve across her nose, puts quill to paper once again. “I’m a vile, selfish
slut…”

Tom finally lets Ginny stop when she has repeated the lines one hundred and thirty-one times
—arithmantically speaking, 131 has a nice and powerful symmetry to it, and also happens to
be Tom’s birthday if the month is put first, they way the Americans do it—though she tells
Ginny it has only been a hundred.

It takes the girl almost five hours to complete the whole thing. Tom did give her quite a long
phrase, one that took her about two minutes to copy down each time, even as Ginny
shortened it over the course of her repetitions.

Tom really doesn’t mind the way Ginny condensed the phrasing. ‘I get off on violating my
friends and family’ is even better than ‘I violate their trust.’ And ‘I’m sorry for thinking and
feeling?’

She’s already almost at ‘I’m sorry for existing.’ Which is so, so close to ‘I shouldn’t exist.’
And from there, offering her existence to Tom is just the next logical step.

By the time Tom lets her finish, Ginny has sunk into an exhausted, rote mantra. Her voice is
hoarse, her eyes are wide and unseeing, and her hand is practically stuck in a painful
clenched claw around her quill. It spasms as she massages it open.

Good girl. Ginny, you did so well. I’m so proud of you. It’s not easy, confronting the darker
parts of yourself. But you did it.

You don’t hate me?

Of course not! Why would you think that?

Because I violated you. I betrayed your trust.

You did, yes, but you apologized and you made up for it. I forgive you, Ginny. I will always
forgive you. Even for things that should be unforgivable, that no one else would. Because I
care about you, Ginny. Even knowing how much of a monster you can be, I forgive you
and I will still be your friend.

Thank you, Tom. I’m sorry I’ve been such a horrible friend to you.

You are forgiven. But Ginny? Don’t try to hide this kind of thing from me again. If it
happens again, let me know. I’ll forgive you if you do, but if you start keeping secrets
about me from me again…

I won’t! I promise.

Even if it makes you uncomfortable to tell me?

Yes.

Alright, I’ll hold you to that.

Thank you, Tom.

Always.
So begins their new nightly tradition of writing lines (and Ginny speaking them out loud).
Generally, Tom keeps it under an hour, assigning shorter phrases with fewer repetitions. She
does need to make sure that Ginny still has time to do her homework.

She also makes one exception to her ‘I will not’ rule. A few nights after they begin, she
makes Ginny write, ‘I am sorry for taking advantage of Penelope Clearwater, and I will not
bother her with more of my creepy lusts.’

That should keep the bothersome Ravenclaw prefect out of their business until Tom can deal
with her more permanently.

And every time, when the lines are done, Diary Tom praises Ginny for her courage and
perseverance in making it through the punishment and acknowledging her wrongdoing. She
offers Ginny her immediate forgiveness, absolves her of her sins. (She ensures that if Ginny
ever wonders why Tom should be the one who should forgive her, such thoughts remain
fleeting and largely ignored.) Tom comforts and consoles her. Assures her that even despite
the ugly truths Ginny continues to confess, Tom is still here for her. Tom understands. Tom
still cares for her.

No one else would still care for her if they knew the truth, but Tom does. Tom always will.
She is the only one who could forgive and love the pitiful, wretched creature that is Ginny
Weasley.

And so, slowly but surely, Tom will become the only thing that matters in Ginny’s life. Tom
will be her confidante, her best friend, her mentor, her sister, her guide. Her dream lover. Her
deepest desire. Her tormentor, her punisher, her mistress. Her God.

And Ginny will give Tom everything.

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