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She had always thought war ugly and dull. Old history books spoke of deaths. Of victories and losses that came and went. Most did not remember those who had been lost. At least those who had come after the war hadn't. They were raised on stories of Harry Potter and the way he had conquered the Dark Lord. Some remembered what it was like to grow up during war time. Silent and cold underneath the covers as a nameless fear crept through.

She did not remember any fear for it had been past her time. Only that she heard of a small baby named Harry Potter. His green eyes. Like so many others she spoke the name with reverence. It came off her tongue lightly. A prince amongst all the common wizards. Yet she had never seen his face until he was eleven. Nary a glance had he given her even though her face had been beaming and a smile had sprung forth on her lips. He had looked at the others as if they had mattered but she was too young and useless. That year before school she wondered if she had been born male, one with a friendly manner, would he have then looked at her. If she had only been like Ron, friendly and blustering all at once. Loyal. Or clever like the twins with their neverending love for pranks.

That second year she had seen him again and her breath had been taken away. Not because he was handsome, though she certainly thought he was, but because he was a hero. A hero that seemed so normal, without a puffed head and a taste for worship.

Then she had turned that hero worship to Tom. Handsome, clever Tom who listened to her speak of her love for Harry Potter. Who spoke words of comfort when tears came. When she had first seen his face through the diary she could not comprehend why such a boy was so interested in her. Plain, boring Ginny.

He did not always call her Ginny. When he called her Ginevra she thought her heart would burst. It made her sound older, like a mysterious girl. Someone who brought boys to their knees. How many interesting girls were called Ginny?

Tom had spoken that name down there. In the Chamber where the serpent was his pet, his weapon. Pretty Hermione and that girlfriend of Percy's had been petrified from one look. He had called her Ginevra and it had sounded so rich and dark on his tongue. It had made her ache with something she could not identify. Tom had put her into that sleep and her last thought was of the feel of his cold lips.

She had not turned her back on everything that she had been taught her parents. Only had turned her back on their ideals and their hatred for her Tom. You-Know-Who they had called him throughout her life. Before he had given her that final kiss of sleep - not eternal, he had told her - they had talked. She had laughed at his wit.

You are loyal to me, aren't you Ginny?

Always.

Nobody had ever suspected. Genuine fright had made her a worthy actress. Of course she had protested at some of his ideas. She did not hate Muggleborns; she did not want to kill Harry. Ginny only wanted to be at Tom's side. Not as his shadow but as someone with meaning.

Who would not love such a charming boy?

When he had kissed her in that cold, dank chamber she had not been able to think. The feel of his cool hands rubbing her arms had given her goosebumps. The feel of his hair in her small hands. Slowly becoming more and more real in her embrace. She, Ginevra Weasley, had brought him back to life. What did anything else matter as long as she had him with her always?

When she had awoken from that sleep all she could see was Harry, his relief, his thin face, his dark hair. No Tom, no Tom, no Tom, her mind had gibbered. Harry thought she wept in relief but she wept in grief and a rage that cut through her. It made her breath catch in her throat and she only saw Harry and his green eyes. Eyes that looked at her in relief. Eyes that were already dismissing her. They were already turning away.

She was back to being plain, invisible Ginny Weasley. They would not suspect her. Her tears were genuine.

That day with the report of Hermione Granger's death in her hands she was calm and serene. She burned it, watching the paper char to nothing. It crumbled in her hands. Poor, beautiful Hermione. Harry had killed her, he had surely killed her. Not with his wand but with that moment in the chamber where his eyes had glanced away. Already dismissing her once the heroics were over. He had killed her Tom and she had delivered the information to kill his Hermione.

With her reports she would kill others. Snape had been unmasked. Neville was in St. Mungo's with his parents, his pockets full of old wrappers. Now Hermione was dead. A spy was more effective than a fighter. It kept her hands clean. She would not sully them until there was only one piece left. The King. Her Queen would devour it.

Devour it until there was nothing left. Nothing left for her, nothing left of him.

Always, she had said. Always it would be.