Since Schadenfreude really did help me do well on the vocab quiz last time (I got an A! Which is really, really saying something! Hehehehe), I decided to write a sequel to it. Hope you guys enjoy it! And, once again, please pardon any misused words.

By the way, just to prevent confusion, this takes place in Ginny's time period, after Ginny goes back in time to change Riddle. Kind of the result of the conflicting ideas of if Ginny would remember anything at all when she returns to her time.

This sequel is none as good as the first, so I will understand if you hate it.

She would fall asleep every night and it seemed, every Thursday, she would have a dream about a strange, handsome boy with dark hair and luring eyes. They varied from night to night, never repeating the exact dream – but she was beginning to notice specific patterns.

There were those dreams. The bête noire of her sleep.

Sometimes, she held a blank, black diary within her hands, a quill broken on the floor from her nervous tight grip. The obstreperous young man smirked in triumph. Her face grew pallor with an immense emotion of betrayal, horror, and deceit – but above all, guilt. Horrid, horrid guilt, and she hated it. It clenched her heart so that even as she fell to the floor unconscious in her dream, she could not stop spiting herself.

Even as she woke, she felt that same horrid guilt stabbing at her, suffocating her as her eyes brimmed with tears.

Then there was angst sometimes. Angst that rose and suffocated her throat, sometimes in utter silence, sometimes in deafening noise, beaten under draconian law. Sometimes, they were in a room that Ginny recognized as Sirius's home, crowding over a table, wands tracing maps and low mutters whispering to each other. Sometimes, they were walking outside, their hoods pulled up to cover their face, alone in a deserted street or walking through ruins.

Sometimes, they were caught in war, spells being fired. Her brother Bill's handsome face was distorted into a swollen redness; one of her twin brothers fell to the floor, dead. There wasn't enough time to tell which one it was. She herself was being attacked. Ensconced in sanguine obsequies.

Sometimes, anger and indescribable fury had overcome her. She sought vendetta, her wand clenched in her hand as she fired horrible, horrible curses that made her shake when she woke. Was that person her? Was she really that horrid?

Sometimes, images of a great juggernaut as they forayed into the quiet village, leaving a snake feeding into the mouth of a skull burning in the sky, an image that will forever send shivers down her back. They called themselves the Death Eaters.

Sometimes, she was alone with a hideously distorted man, a smirk tugging at either side of his lips as he raised his wand threateningly. He was to kill her. He wanted to rid the word of what he viewed as hoi polloi, the Muggleborns and the blood traitors. The air was fraught with angst, fraught with angst. Only death and power could slake his hunger, but even then, he still wanted more.

She always knew instinctively that this mutated man was the same as that handsome, mysterious boy. How, or why, she was not sure, but she knew. She always knew.

However, the saturnine dreams did not always come. There were pleasant dreams as well, those these patterns did not number as great as the nightmares. But it was these few dreams that made her sleep past Thursdays and live through the week, for though they numbered few, she found them powerful.

A wave of comfort: a quill in one hand, a blank diary in the other. How strange it was that the same two objects that were found in her most horrifying nightmare was also in her most pleasant dream. The mysterious boy would always be there as a friend to talk to, a friend who'll listen to anything she said. Her woes were maudlin, but he never minded. He actually cared when no one else did. A smile flickered on her face and she would fear nothing when she woke from her slumber, confident and pleasant the entire day.

Sometimes, she would have a wonderfully mercurial conversation with him, and he was her best friend, her funniest friend. His eyes would sparkle with mirth as he pulled a prank on her, and she would do the same in return. They would picnic al fresco, restraining themselves from an immature food fight or pushing the other into the lake. She would always wake in good humor, unfazed by Fred and George's morning prank.

How odd that in some dreams, she was under the boy's aegis, but yet others, she feared him so.

Lately, she had gotten new dreams. Dreams of her in Hogwarts, in school uniform. He was there, with many people she didn't recognize. He bullied her, provoked her, made fun of her in a cruel manner, quite like Malfoy's taunts to Ron. In other dreams, he… She didn't quite understand. He was looking at her when he thought she didn't notice with no trace of cruelty at all, but more of… hope? Wistfulness?

And there was this one dream. The one and only dream that never changed no matter how many times she dreamt it. The one dream that stayed the same.

It was nighttime by the lake. Hardly any words were spoken, and none were exchanged. He sat beside her, never speaking a word. He turned to look at her once, and his eyes were clear.

He loved her.

But she never understood. How could this be the same man, as to be her friend, her enemy, her murderer, her lover? How many shades of personality did he have? Sanguine and stiff. Quixotic and harsh. Shoot badinages at her, shoot curses at her. Pleasant friend, horrid curmudgeon.

She didn't know what to think of this boy, this man, who seemed to be everything at once. Fear him? Hate him? Admire him? Love him?

It was a riddle, she had realized one day. A riddle that continued every Thursday. But never, never could she figure it out.

Perhaps the reason she was stymied from the answer was because there wasn't one.


Ginny Weasley played with her quill as she scribbled down her name, letting the ink dry before shutting her dream diary shut. Unlike most students, she kept her dream diary diligently, despite her dislike for both Divination and Professor Trelawney. She found these recurring Thursday dreams odd and, to an extent, fascinating. As she blew gently on the ink one final time, she shut the book and hurried down the hallway, glancing at the grandfather clock as she went.

Five minutes to get to Herbology. She was running late.

As she turned a corner, she slammed into a body. Her books spilled on the floor as she hastily apologized, grabbing her things before leaving. She did not pause to see who she had walked into.

As she disappeared down the corridor, not glancing back, the boy she had left behind smiled slightly as he bent down to pick up a small book that she had forgotten to grab in her haste. Flipping open the pages, a smile flickered across his face.

She remembered him.

She remembered him, even if she didn't understand it at all.