This is for Kira, who, I have a feeling, will bug me to write long after I've died and rotted away. And with that thought, I give you, my first purely Ginny POV. Love to Kira. And: shut up.

Reviews make me a happy girl.


Ginny hates the feeling of ink on her hands, ever since she was 11. It never bothered her before then. She would think nothing of it when she scrubbed the black spots off her hands before supper, or when she would accidentally upset an ink bottle.

But since her first year she hates it. She hates how it creeps into the tiniest of lines and shallowest of wrinkles in her skin, and how it stays with her like a faintly purple shadow for days. She hates the way it creeps across the tabletop when it is spilled, thick and black and slow but purposeful. She remembers the feeling of warm ink spilling over her hands. The memories of blood always come first, though. The memory of how blood feels, and then the queasiness. Every time, it reminds her of ink pouring over her hands, the blackness dripping onto her skin and staining it, making it impure. She remembers how she would go to bed every night, right up until the end, with inky hands, hiding the small book deep in her trunk, underneath all the clothes and books and even the small, grainy photograph of young Harry and Ron she had taken from the photo album. It was her most precious secret, and she carried it with her like she carried the ink stains on her fingers. She was his pet, his precious, his love, his very best friend ever. She was needed. It gave her a thrill to see him saying that he had missed her, that his days were never the same when they couldn't talk.

She laughs bitterly when she remembers those conversations. Of course they weren't the same; he couldn't find anyone else to suck dry, she says.

Her ink was his blood. And he had caused her blood to flow like the ink that gushed out of his book that night. He had stood there, risen from the black pool at his feet, somehow shining, and she had cried as she bled to death inside. She had cried as he grabbed her, his own fingers and palms unmarred by the ink that was splashed all over her, and he had tasted like blood on her tongue and inky black inside of her. It was her own blood she was tasting and as she lay dying, she had heard him say, "I should have you cleaned up. I wouldn't normally use a girl with ink stains all over her. But it doesn't matter. You see what's on your hands, Ginny? That's not just ink. That's blood. That is your blood. You're dying."

Sometimes she thinks the ink was her blood. How else would he know her so well? She spoke to him through blood. She was his pet. And he made her bleed for him.

Ink is blood. If she writes it down, it can endanger her. She's permanently scarred now. There is no going back to how it was.

"Watch out there, Ginny!"

Ginny started as Ron's elbow knocked into his inkwell. The well smashed and black ink splashed all over Ginny's hands. Crookshanks yowled in irritation and leapt out of Ginny's lap, his fur spattered with black.

Ron grumbled in frustration as ink seeped into his Charms homework. "Oh, hell, why now? I was almost finished!"

"Oh, move over, Ron," Hermione said exasperatedly, pulling out her wand and pointing it at the table. "Eviscerae!"

The tabletop was instantly cleared of ink and Ron's homework was immaculate once more. "Thanks, Herm," Ron said sheepishly, examining his essay. "I wouldn't fancy redoing this horror."

"Whatever would you do without me, Ron?" Hermione teased, smiling at Ron, who blushed. "Shrivel up and die, I expect," he said quietly, smiling back at her.

"I knew it. Ginny, are you all right?" Hermione said, frowning at the other girl, who was staring at her hands.

("Do you see that on your hands, Ginny? That is your blood. You're dying, Ginny.")

"What?" Ginny looked up after a moment. "I'm fine." She glanced at her stained hands once more, her mind reeling. "I'm fine."