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Ginny sat across from Harry in the quiet of the Gryffindor common room, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had gone cold. He laughed at something she couldn’t even hear, and she forced a smile in return.
You could do better, a voice whispered in her mind. You could be perfect. He doesn’t deserve you.
Ginny froze, eyes darting toward Harry. No one had spoken. Only the voice, soft and sure, threading itself through her thoughts.
Do you hear him? Do you feel it? You belong to me. Not him.
Her stomach twisted. She took a deep breath, reminding herself it was impossible, that she was with Harry, that she loved him, that the diary and Tom Riddle had been destroyed.
But the whispers grew sharper when she closed her eyes. He will never understand you. He will never see you as I do.
Her fingers tightened around the mug. She told herself she was imagining it. She told herself she was strong. She was strong. She had survived the diary. Survived Voldemort. Survived Harry’s battles.
And yet, even now, she felt the pull of that voice, a weight she could not name pressing against her mind.
Harry reached across the table, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and smiled. “Ginny? You’re quiet tonight. Everything okay?”
Ginny nodded quickly, forcing a laugh. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
You are mine, the voice whispered. Do you understand? Mine.
The days after that night passed with a strange, heavy rhythm. Ginny went through the motions. Classes, tea, walks with Harry. The whispers never left her.
He does not see you. He cannot know you like I do. Show him what he cannot understand.
She caught herself staring at Harry more than usual, measuring him. Not with affection, not yet, but with the careful calculation the voice demanded. Every smile he offered, every casual gesture, twisted in her mind.
One evening, as Harry read quietly in the common room, she found her wand in her pocket. Her fingers curled around it unconsciously. The voice murmured, It will be so simple. So easy to guide him. To make him understand.
Her heart jumped. No. She was Harry's. She loved him. She could not let it go this far.
You already belong to me.
The words pierced her, colder than any blade. She clenched her teeth, trying to block them out. Her hand shook, the wand tight in her grip. Harry’s eyes lifted to hers, concerned.
"Ginny?" he asked softly. "You okay?"
She smiled, a little too quickly. "I am fine. Just thinking."
The voice hissed, delighted, curling around her thoughts. Thinking is weakness. Action is proof. Show him you are mine.
Ginny swallowed, feeling that dark pull knot in her stomach. She did not move, did not act. Not yet. But she knew, deep down, the moment would come when she might. The whispers were patient. They always waited.
Months after the war, Ginny and Harry shared a small flat in London. They had settled into a rhythm of ordinary life. Work at the Ministry, dinners together, quiet evenings. And yet something in her had begun to fray.
Harry read on the couch, his robes loosened, hair messy from the day. Ginny sat across from him, tracing idle patterns on the table with her fingers. Her heart ached with love, but the whispers were there, patient and persistent.
He does not deserve you. He cannot understand. Show him. Prove yourself.
She could see Harry, smile at him, touch him, and part of her wanted nothing more than to curl up against his chest and feel safe.
But the whispers refused to be ignored. They promised her purpose, guidance, and a dark sort of power. You could. You must. This is love. This is obedience.
She shook her head, trying to banish them. She could not act. She loved Harry. She could not betray him.
You already belong to me.
The thought of obeying it, of following its instructions, made her pulse quicken. She pressed her lips together, hating herself for the thrill she felt at even imagining it.
Her fingers itched to move, to obey, to act. She hated the pull. She hated herself. She hated Harry for being blissfully unaware.
And yet, beneath all the shame and fear, she knew the truth she could not escape.
She would obey.
The voice whispered once more as the evening shadows stretched across the flat. Soon. Soon, you will show me. Soon you will belong.
Ginny clenched her teeth and curled into the couch cushion, trying to resist. She would try. But she knew the time would come.
The flat was quiet. Harry slept soundly, unaware that Ginny’s gaze had been fixed on him for hours. The whispers had grown into a roar in her mind. He does not deserve you. He cannot understand. He must be corrected. He must die.
Ginny’s hands shook as she clutched her wand. She tried to tell herself it was impossible, that she loved him, that she could resist. But the voice was relentless. It promised purpose, control, and a devotion she could not refuse.
Obey. Prove yourself. Show him.
Her breath hitched. She crept closer to him in the dark, wand raised, fingers trembling. In her mind, Harry’s face was no longer the man she loved. It was the obstacle. The voice whispered every movement, every flick, every lethal motion.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to the empty room. Then the spell left her wand.
Harry screamed. Ginny froze for a heartbeat, panic slicing through her. He stumbled backward, wand drawn in confusion, eyes wide with fear.
But she could not stop. The voice was stronger than anything she had ever known. She cast again, and again, each spell hitting with precision. Pain etched across Harry’s face, blood and magic scorching him, his own wand clattering to the floor.
“I have to,” she gasped, her tears burning her cheeks. “I have to… obey him…”
Harry collapsed to the ground, wounded and gasping, trying to speak but unable to get the words out. He reached toward her, eyes full of disbelief and horror.
Ginny’s knees buckled. She fell on top of him, hands shaking, wand still twitching. The voice whispered triumphant and cruel. You belong to me. You have done well.
Then came the Aurors who had been alerted, neighbors had heard the screaming, and Ginny’s mind did not register anyone else. She felt nothing but the cold, sharp certainty that Harry had to die.
They dragged her away, struggling as she shouted and tried to cast again, her mind fracturing with every step. The flat became a blur, Harry’s cries echoing in her skull.
She did not remember how she had got here. Azkaban, with its cold stone and endless shadows could not touch the chaos in her mind.
Dementors passed, amplifying every memory, every thrill of obedience and every pang of horror.
She curled in her cell, trembling, bleeding from scrapes and bruises from the Aurors’ struggle. The whispers were still there, waiting, patient, claiming her as completely as the prison walls did.
Soon. Soon you will show me. Soon you will belong.
Ginny shivered, eyes wide, a manic edge to her expression. She had done it. She had obeyed. And in her mind, she had been right. Harry Potter had to die.
She rocked slightly, murmuring under her breath, as if the shadows could answer. "You were right. He had to die. I did as you asked."
The voice that had guided her for months now threaded through her mind without effort, patient and sure. Yes. You belong to me. You did well. Soon, you will show me again.
Ginny’s hands trembled, fingers curling against the cold floor. She had lost everything else, her freedom, her love, her life as she knew it but the voice remained, constant and insistent. She no longer remembered resisting it, nor did she care.
The day her father came to visit, Ginny barely recognized him. The walk through the gray halls of Azkaban had done little to prepare him for the sight of his daughter, curled on the floor, eyes wide and darting as though the shadows themselves were speaking to her.
“Ginny,” Mr. Weasley said softly, stepping forward, hands trembling. “It’s me."
Ginny’s head snapped up, her gaze sharp and unsteady. For a moment, recognition flared, and she blinked.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, voice thin and almost frantic. “You don’t understand. You don’t see. He’s everywhere.”
Her father froze, unsure whether she meant the prison, the Dementors, or the whispers in her mind. “Ginny, it’s just us. I’m here. I just want to see you. You’re safe with me.”
Ginny laughed softly, a broken, hollow sound. “Safe?” she repeated. “There is no safe. He told me. He showed me. Harry… he had to die. And I did as I was told.”
Mr. Weasley’s eyes widened, pain and confusion twisting his face. “Ginny, listen to me. That’s not you. You’re my daughter. You’re not… not this. You can fight this.”
Her hands shook as she clutched at the floor, curling into herself. The whispers had returned with renewed insistence, feeding her fear and her certainty. You belong to me. You obey. You are mine.
“I… I don’t understand,” Mr. Weasley whispered, taking a cautious step closer. “Ginny, we can help you. We can get you—”
She flinched as though his words were physical blows. “No! Don’t! You don’t know! You never knew! He told me. He made me do it. He made me… obey!”
Tears ran down her face, mingling with the grime of the cell. Her mind teetered on the edge, reality and the voice blending until they were indistinguishable. She could not remember where she ended and the whispers began. She could not remember if she had acted of her own free will, or if she was only the instrument of another.
Mr. Weasley’s shoulders slumped, grief washing over him. He could do nothing. Not here. Not now. She was already lost, consumed by the madness that had claimed her mind long before her body had been confined to these walls.
Ginny curled into herself, rocking, whispering fragments of the instructions that had guided her every thought. She was gone. Only the voice remained.
Soon. Soon you will show me. Soon you will belong.
Weeks turned to months. Months blurred into years. The walls of Azkaban pressed closer with every passing day, and Ginny Weasley’s mind became a shadow of itself. Dementors hovered endlessly, drawing every flicker of warmth, every fragment of hope.
A figure appeared in the doorway, familiar and yet impossible. He moved closer, and she froze, instinct tightening every muscle in her body.
“You… you shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, voice trembling. “You’re… a ghost. I killed you. I killed you, didn’t I?”
The figure knelt, voice soft and careful. “Ginny it’s me. Harry. I’m alive.”
Her hands flew to her face. “No! No, that can’t be, I did it! I obeyed him. I made sure you were gone!” Her breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. “You’re not supposed to be here. You can’t be here.”
Harry reached out a hand, hesitantly through the metal bars, as though even he feared what she might do. “Ginny, listen. It’s okay."
"You’re supposed to be dead! You’re not real! You’re a ghost, a curse, a reminder!”
Tears blurred her vision. The whispers had grown louder, gleeful, feeding off her panic. You belong to me. You have obeyed. You have done well.
Harry’s words, gentle and pleading, tried to break through. “Ginny, I know you’re scared. I know you think it’s too late. But it’s not.”
She shook her head violently. “No! You’re not real. You can’t be. You’re a shadow. A lie. You’re here to torment me."
Her body trembled as the shadows seemed to press closer, the cold biting deeper. She wanted to scream, to attack, to run, to hide, anything to escape the impossible figure standing before her.
Harry clenched his fists, fighting tears, heartbroken but unwilling to leave. He whispered her name again, soft, patient, full of longing and love.
She did not answer. She only shivered, eyes fixed on the stone wall, murmuring obediently.
She no longer remembered the world outside, the sun on her face, or the laughter of friends and family. She remembered only him, the voice that had guided her, shaped her, claimed her.
You belong to me. You obey. You are mine.
The words were no longer whispers. They were a living presence, threading through every thought, every heartbeat. Ginny obeyed without hesitation. She no longer questioned what was right, what was love, or what was herself. There was only the voice and the certainty that she had done what she must.
Occasionally, visitors came. Ministry officials. Aurors. Even her brothers, once, though the memory of that day now seemed distant and unreal. She could not remember their faces clearly, could not recall the warmth in their voices. To her, they were intrusions, reminders of a world that no longer existed.
She would speak to no one, eat when commanded, sleep when forced, but the voice never left. It guided her thoughts, her memories, her actions. She whispered back to it sometimes, small murmurs of compliance and devotion.
The prison was no longer cold. Not really. It was a cage, a sanctuary, a throne. She belonged to it. She belonged to him. She belonged completely.