Evil Hate Cow # 1 (perch_and_creep) wrote in hplyric,
Evil Hate Cow # 1

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A Cold Summer in Time (ginny, draco, tom riddle Au pg13)

Title: A Cold Summer in Time
Author: perch_and_creep
Rating: Pg13
Archive: If you wish you may have it only tell me first.
Notes: Alternate reality fic placed ten years after the events in CoS. Thank you to marycaroline for her wonderful lyric choice of time by pink floyd. Sorry this is late.

Why do you put me aside? Why do you not believe in me Ginny?

Ginny threw the parchment into the fire and stood trembling, her eyes still seeing the familiar rolls and waves of Tom Riddle’s handwriting. His capitals seemed only crueler, punishing her with the start of each new sentence.

How he was still with her years later she couldn’t say, but her hand was shaking as she pushed back an unruly strand of her red hair.

Weasley red, she muses, like flame he told me once.

She shakes her head, trying to clear the image from her mind.

She only eleven to his sixteen, the cruel weight of his solidifying body, his mouth against her ear whispering, “You’ll be beautiful someday.”


But not then, never then, in his cold eyes he told her that, with his sharp breath on her cheek, and though he did nothing more than lay on her a moment longer, Ginny still felt violated by his callous disregard.

If I had been older, if I had been the beauty he saw the beginnings of would he have found the strength to see how far he could go? Ginny wonders, morbid curiosity skittering along her nerve endings as her mind picks the scabbed over emotions from that time, the little girl of then still sobbing inside at his cold eyes.

It is summer but it is cold. The darkness of her memory presses against her and Ginny looks out into the sunshine that seems so distant.

Like everything has turned off and I am looking at a picture which refuses to move, she thinks, her eyes flickering occasionally to the scroll still being chewed by the fire.

If he is with me, then did he ever leave? And if he never left where has he been in ten years? What has he been planning while I grew?

Her musings are interrupted when she sees Malfoy yellow hair pass by her window before a knock sounds. Her hands are fumbling messes as she opens the door for Draco Malfoy and he smirks, like he always smirks, like he smirked ten years ago, and five, and even yesterday when she passed him in the street.

Would Draco do something as cruel as torment me with Riddle? She wonders and she eyes this man, that is still so much a boy, that only the sharper lines of his face and the deeper voiced drawl of his practiced wealth have changed.

She wonders why she is letting him in, why she is letting him demean her with his glancing eyes, his fixed smirk, and his hands smooth and soft on the cane he took from his father’s dead hand.

Yes he would write for Riddle, he would torment me like he has for years, in his small ways, but then so would I, she thinks and the thought gives her no comfort as she watches him, I told Tom he understood me and he did in ways no one else ever has, but in his own way Draco acts as if he knows me.

He lounges in her favorite chair and he toys with his cane, as if to draw the eye to it, as if to say, look at what I have done, I have taken over my father’s rule and Ginny feels only pity for this empty shell person that is trying so hard.

“Why are you here Draco?” she asks, though she doesn’t even want to give him that many words.

You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today,” he drawls.

Ginny blinks in shock, but Draco is gone and the air is cold with darkness. In her hand is a scroll and on the scroll are Riddle’s words:

Hanging on in a quiet desperation is the English way.

Clocks are chiming and there is a smell of blood in the air, and screams are sounding in the streets and she feels terribly cold and alone. Riddle’s words and the knife sitting in a circle make Ginny’s blood run cold.

She drops the parchment into the fire and whisperes softly, “yes but what did you do to Draco?”

The flames eat Riddle’s words but she wonders how this is, and who is responsible. She feels something and looks up to see Draco at the window and she moves, as if in the elaborate steps of a dance, to open the door for him, to bring him away from the cold.

“Which of us is Riddle using?” she asks him and he smirks and holds his cane, the cane he took from his dead father’s hand.

“Both of us,” he says, and he seems sad, or she is merely foolish and she understands that Draco is simply doing what Draco has always done, living in his father’s shadow, as she has lived in Riddle’s for ten years.

“Will we ever be warm again?” she asks, thinking of the blood of chickens, the blood that should be on her but isn’t, yet she still wipes her hands down the sides of her robes.

“No I don’t think so.”

And she nods because that is what he doesn’t expect and she feels violated at the thought of Riddle using her again in this way and secretly she feels cherished and beautiful and loved. She feels dirty before Draco’s frank assessment and she returns the look.

We are similar, she thinks, we are both chained to the expectations of family, we are both trapped in a bubble of time that has never allowed us to move forward and become the people we could have been.

And then he leans forward towards her and whispers, “You’re Shorter of breath and one day closer to death Ginny Weasley,” and she feels nothing for a long while.

Time, by Pink Floyd

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an off-hand way
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way
Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today
And then the one day you find ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun
And you run and you run to catch up with the sun, but it's sinking
And racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in the relative way, but you're older
And shorter of breath and one day closer to death
Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desparation in the English way
The time is gone the song is over, thought I'd something more to say
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