bitterfic (bitterfic) wrote in hpship_add,

Lady Tom

Author: Bitterfig
Title: Lady Tom
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Ginny Weasley/Tom Riddle, Ginny Weasley/Harry Potter, 
Ginny Weasley/Pansy Parkinson
Summery: Ginny reflects on the lingering influence Tom Riddle has had on her.  Set 
around the end of HBP.
Beta Reader: Nzomniac
Word Count: 1492
Rating: R
Warnings: Ginny ranges in age from eleven to fifteen in this story.  This story contains 
slight, non-graphic suggestion of sexual discussion or a sexualized relationship between
eleven-year-old Ginny and Tom Riddle.  It also includes Ginny’s heterosexual and
lesbian sexual fantasies.  There are also implications of dub-con to kissing and touching. 
Author’s Note: This is Dark!Ginny so it may seem wildly out of character, but it is 
worth noting that we know very little of Ginny beyond what Harry sees, and frankly
Harry didn’t pay her a bit of mind until the other boys started to.  The title is a pun
on Ginny’s association with Tom Riddle and “Tom” the old-fashioned British term
for a lesbian.  
This is also being used for prompt #046- Write for the 100_women challenge (to 
see  the progress chart click here.)  

Herr God, Herr Lucifer


Out of the ash

I rise with my red hair

And I eat men like air.
Sylvia Plath
Lady Lazarus
Lady Tom
               It isn’t as if Tom Riddle ruined me.
               I admit I was never quite the same after he finished with me.  I was never quite
the girl I had been, Ginny the littlest Weasley.  Arthur and Molly’s daughter...  Sister of
Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, George, and Ron…   Still, I doubt I would have been content
as her even if Tom hadn’t taken me in hand.  Once I went to school, left the cozy hole of
the Burrow, and put my foot out into the world, I was bound to stop being that child. 
               Tom only helped me along.  Whatever he worked with, my eleven-year-old 
self brought it to him.  Brought it to him when, writing in his diary, I admitted to him and
to myself that I was not what I ought to be.   
               “I don’t want to be like Mum,” I wrote.  “Always cooking and cleaning with 
a million children to watch out for.  I would prefer to have my way, to make people do
things for me.  I would like to be admired for once, to be the center of attention without
noisy boys hogging all the glory.  Am I wicked that I want these things?”
               And he had laughed from the pages of the book.  “What an amusing young 
lady you are, Ginevra,” he had said.  As the words appeared, I heard his voice and I
smiled.  Of course I was wicked.  What fool would want to be otherwise?
               He made me bold.  I wrote him anecdotes of my adventures. 
               “In the girls loo, I encountered Pansy Parkinson who is a second-year and 
very fine and fancy,” I wrote.  “Seeing me, she rolled her eyes.  ‘Gracious,’ Miss
Parkinson declared.  Another Weasley?  How many of you are there?’  No one else
was about so I took her pretty wrist and twisted her arm behind her back.  Fred and
George and Ron and I have done it to each other a million times, but apparently no one
had ever done it to Pansy Parkinson.  She gasped and whimpered and called me a
‘horrible little savage’.  I pinched her and told her she’d best keep her nasty mouth shut. 
Before I let her go, I kissed her hard to make sure she was good and scared.”
               Tom was delighted.  “Such a smart girl,” he said.  “Your instincts are perfect.  
The weak ones want you to love them.  They’re easy enough to snare and keep if you
throw them a bit of flattery now and again or promise them a little love.  The strong ones,
the ones who have power, need to be dominated.  If you can crush them to your will, you
own them.  I do believe you’ll own proud, posh Princess Parkinson before you’re finished.”
               “Was I a weak one?” I asked him.  “Was I one of the ones that was easy to 
snare for the promise of a little love?”
               “You were,” he admitted, “but I’ll teach you to shine.  I’ll give you diamond lenses.  
I’ll teach you to see the world with eyes that burn away romance and sentimentality.  I’ll make
you a most formidable woman, Ginevra.”
               Oh, he did … he did all he said in the time we were together.  Each day he showed 
me more, and each day he became clearer to me, more vivid.  Finally, he stepped out of the
diary and stood before me.  Lady Tom.  He would step into me and become me.  Ginny Weasley
would fade away.  Did he ever really leave?
               Even after he was vanquished, he lingered in me.  
                For a long time after he ceased to be, I was very quiet.  For at least two years, I was mostly 
good.  I was what I ought to be, Ginny Weasley, and not the Lady Tom, Riddle’s child bride.  Though
there was that night at the Yule Ball when I was thirteen.  Pansy Parkinson was at her most inviting: pink
robes clinging to her curved body, dark bobbed hair sleek about her round face, and her nasty, rosy
mouth snarking in my direction.
               She looked at me, a little drudge awkwardly clinging to Neville Longbottom’s arm.  “You’re 
not so frightening when you’re not possessed, are you Jenny?” she sneered. 
               I blazed with angry pride--enough to turn my dress red, to scorch it down low on my breasts 
(you could see the singed edges against the milky, freckled flesh).  My hair was up, but I let it loose. 
Freed, it coiled around my shoulders glowing like copper.
               Late in the evening, Blaise Zabini dared cut in on Pansy’s partner, Draco Malfoy.  Well, 
they were in the same house and of equal status, so Draco had to play gracious and yield.  He let
Pansy go, and before Blaise could claim her, I stepped into his place and Pansy was dancing with me. 
I held her close so our breasts, pink and scarlet, were pressed together, and I stepped on her feet.
               “My name is Ginny,” I told her.  “Not Jenny.  From you, I’d prefer Ginevra from now on.  
I wasn’t possessed that day.  You were possessed by me.”
               Oh, the look on her face.
               That summer, Tom came back to life in blood and murder and strife.  My Tom but decades
 on, a man called Voldemort.  He would not have known me, though I knew him.
               For a long time after Tom ceased to be, I was very quiet, but I never did stop talking to him.  
There has always been a secret book in my mind where I write, just for him.  A part of me had always
seen through his eyes. 
                He’d said he’d give me diamond lenses, hard and sharp and precious.  He said he’d give 
me eyes red as my hair that could burn through all the lies that people told.  Knowing that he lived again,
I often found myself looking at them through Tom’s eyes. 
               Tom taught me to see without sentiment, to view each situation for the advantages it could 
bring.  Where other people might see love, Tom saw an arrangement of mutual exploitation based on
need, curiosity, projection of fantasies, loneliness, finances and social status.  If you were clever enough
to see this, you could always skew things to your advantage and I did. 
               My fourth year the boys around me began, for the first time, to notice girls.  Tom had always 
stressed the power of indifference.  While many of my classmates went boy crazy, I remained cool. 
I went about my business, and the boys came to me in droves, my lack of interest stronger than any love
potion.  Most of them meant nothing to me.  I could pick and choose.  I dated and dropped them as I
pleased.  There is power in refusing to love Tom taught me. 
               Do I sound heartless?  Am I hateful?  
               For all my wickedness, for all Tom’s influence, I have usually chosen to do what is right.  
               I trained with Dumbledore’s Army.  I fought Voldemort’s Death Eaters at the Ministry of Magic, 
and again when they came to Hogwarts.  I have been what I ought to be as daughter, sister, teammate,
Gryffindor and friend. 
               When Harry kissed me, I accepted him even though I saw through him.  He only wanted me 
after the other boys did.   He wanted me because as darkness closed around him it gave him comfort to
play house as his lost parents--to play at James and Lily, he with his glasses, me with my red hair.  I can
be kind.
               If I had been given a choice when I was eleven years old, I would have chosen to be nice and 
good.  In educating me, Tom did not make me evil, but I no longer quite believed in goodness.  I no longer
quite believed in love.  For that, I will be happy enough to see him die.
               And he will die.  He died once on Halloween of 1981.  He died eleven years later in the Chamber 
of Secrets.  He will die again.  These things always happen in threes.  That is the way of magic.
               Voldemort, who was Tom Riddle, will die, and when he does, there will still be evil in the world.  
And there will still be wickedness in the littlest Weasley.  Still part of me that will desire to burn like fire. 
To punish Harry for ignoring me when I was just a little girl, but a little girl who did believe in love.  To
show him once and for all I’m not his mother, not my mother, and definitely not his little sister.  Fall on
him unchastely, leave him with his eyes rolled back in his head, then don his clothes with my red, red hair
falling in waves across my brow, go looking for Pansy Parkinson.  Catch her by the throat and give her a kiss. 
Smile and show my teeth and whisper, “Death Eater girl, the one you call the Dark Lord?  To me, he’s just
my Tom.”

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