Remembrances of Times Past
by Crow

Disclaimer: This story is for personal use only. The characters and situations belong to J. K. Rowling. The valentine quoted in this story is from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets by J. K. Rowling. No money is being made.

“Do come in, Miss Weasley. Don’t stand there like a frightened rabbit,” instructed Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall as she ushered the young girl in and closed the door behind her. Ginny swallowed deeply and took another step into the room. She’d never been in Professor McGonagall’s private rooms.

“Take a seat by the fire. I’ll be with you in just a few moments.” Ginny nodded nervously and surreptitiously wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt, following the professor to the two overstuffed burgundy chairs by the fire. As her professor poured milk from a cast iron teapot into two blue mugs, Ginny sat on the edge of a chair and looked around the sitting room, watching the shadows cast from the fire play over the room.

Flickering shadows on the wet Chamber floor. Tom’s shadow falling over her prone body.

Ginny pushed the memory aside and studied the room instead. Richly colored tapestries depicting the rolling green fields of Scotland hung on the walls of the large, comfortably decorated room. Burgundy, gold, and green rugs warmed the cold stone floor. An antique maple desk sat in front of the large lattice windows that overlooked the school’s quad area. Two floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined one wall, and a large flat worktable, neatly covered with scrolls and parchments, quills and bottles of ink, and transfiguration research books, rested against the other wall. A door to the left of the fireplace looked into the professor’s bedroom. Ginny saw a large four-poster bed covered by a green and gold duvet; more stacks of books were piled neatly next to the teacher’s bed. She also spied what looked suspiciously like a gold stuffed lion holding court on the bed.

Turning her attention back to the crackling fire, Ginny gazed atop the mantle at a portrait of a stern looking young woman with long black hair standing on the parapet of Gryffindor Tower. Hanging from the woman’s waist Ginny saw a familiar sight—Godric Gryffindor’s sword, the one Harry used to defeat the basilisk only months before. The woman in the picture felt Ginny’s stare, turned her emerald green eyes in Ginny’s direction. She gave the young girl a slow, mischievous wink before turning to survey the lush countryside around the school once more.

Green eyes, like Harry’s, the first thing she saw when she came to. He was shivering, hurt and bloodied. He told her everything would be okay. He was wrong.

McGonagall caught the direction of Ginny’s eye and smiled. “That is Aeron Sullivan, one of the Heads of Gryffindor and an heir to Godric Gryffindor himself. Aeron went on to become one of Hogwarts’ youngest, and most successful, Headmistresses. There is a picture of her as an older woman in Headmaster Dumbledore’s office, but I always preferred this picture. When I became Deputy Headmistress, I asked for it to be moved from the Great Hall to my rooms. I don’t think she minds.”

“No, she looks quite content,” Ginny agreed, still transfixed by the portrait. She shook herself out of her stupor and looked at the professor, who was busy brewing what smelled like hot chocolate.

Traces of scent. Tom’s scent: musk, cloves, a touch of lime.

“I will loan you my copy of Aeron’s autobiography one day. I think you would enjoy reading it…” Minerva broke off, looking around in irritation. “Now, where did I put that bottle? Oh yes,” she said, looking at a partly open cabinet next to the worktable. She commanded, “Accio whisky.” A brown bottle flew from the cabinet into her outstretched hand. Minerva gave a contented sigh and poured two liberal shots into the cocoa and murmured a spell to stir the drinks.

Ginny’s eyes widened, and her hands shook when the professor handed a mug to her. “Take it, my dear,” McGonagall said with a smile. “There are some conversations that are better had while drinking…even if you are only 12 years old.”

Ginny took the cup but didn’t drink yet. She watched McGonagall sit down across from her, take a sip from her own mug, and close her eyes in satisfaction. “That’s better,” the Deputy Headmistress murmured. Ginny nervously took a sip from her own mug, surprised, then warmed by the sweet heat that slowly traveled down her throat to her belly from the alcohol.

“Now, Ginny. I want to know how you are doing this year.” Her professor’s brisk tone caused the girl to jump.

“How…how I’m doing?” Ginny repeated. She heard the question before, of course. She settled herself to give the expected answer.

“Yes, dear, other than experiencing hearing problems, I mean. I want to know how you are recovering from your experience last year.”

“I’m fine, Professor. Really. Aren’t my grades…my work…?” Ginny stammered, suddenly worried. “I’ve been working hard, taking on extra assignments in Professors Flitwick and Lupin’s classes. I really enjoy Defense against the Dark Arts…”

They don’t understand you like I do, his voice whispered. They will never understand or appreciate you.

“Your grades, my dear, are wonderful. You are receiving the highest marks in each class, and both Professors Flitwick and Lupin speak very highly of you.” Minerva interrupted. “Indeed, Professor Lupin and I were remarking how your fire and determination remind us of another Gryffindor a long time ago…” Minerva’s voice trailed off and she gazed sadly into the fire.

Ginny took another drink from her mug. “Then Professor, I’m not sure why I’m here.”

“You are here because I’m worried about you, Miss Weasley, not your grades, or the extra work you produce. I’m worried about you.” Minerva gave Ginny a particularly stern look and cautioned, “And, contrary to what your brothers, or Mr. Potter, or Miss Granger might believe, there is very little that goes on in Gryffindor Tower of which I am ignorant.”

You can’t let them find out about us, he cautioned. I’d be lost without you.

“Going on…nothing’s going on,” Ginny tried to assure her Head of House.

“Really? Then why are you still suffering from violent nightmares, Miss Weasley? Nightmares that have finally driven you to Madam Pomfrey looking for a remedy?” McGonagall’s tone softened, but her sharp eyes remained fixed on the girl’s face. “But then, even nightmares have their uses. How much sleep are you getting a night, Miss Weasley? I’d imagine not sleeping helps you get all your extra work done.”

Ginny glanced down, letting her red hair fall to cover her face. She took another sip of drink, giving herself time to think. “I sleep, Professor. They’re just memories, that’s all. They can’t hurt me.”

“Just memories, ptosh!” the older woman sniffed in disdain and anger. “Who was foolish enough to tell you that?”

“H…H…Harry. He told me it was all over. It was all just a memory now.”

Minerva McGonagall pointed a finger at the young girl. “Mr. Potter is bright and brave, and I have high hopes for him. But,” she stressed, “he is a teenage boy who does not understand as much as he thinks he does at times.” Ginny looked up at McGonagall in shock. No one had talked about Harry that way, other than Professor Snape.

Minerva sighed and rubbed her eyes tiredly. “But then, I don’t have to tell you the power of memories to wound a person, do I?”

Don’t turn away from me, he’d cried to her. How could you deny me after all I’ve done for you?

Ginny slowly shook her head, mute with surprise. She took another deep sip of her drink then looked at the older woman. “It’s not the memories that keep me awake at night,” she started, “it’s his voice. Every time I close my eyes I hear his voice.”

The professor nodded grimly. “And you probably always will, Ginny.” Ginny grimaced; she had figured as much.

“I miss him,” she finally confessed. “His voice, how he smelled. I can almost see him out of the corner of my eye, but when I turn around he isn’t there.”

McGonagall smiled wryly. “Of course you miss him. I knew Tom Riddle when we were students here. I know how well he can play upon our desires and weaknesses when it suits his purposes.”

“But I shouldn’t miss him. People could have died and it would have been all my fault.”

“Do not forget Lucius Malfoy’s role in all this. It was Malfoy who started this horror, knowing full well what would happen when he gave you the diary. How could it have been your fault?”

“I’m not a fool, Professor McGonagall, no matter what my parents, or Harry, or Headmaster Dumbledore might think,” Ginny countered, surprised at her own bitterness. “When the diary started writing back, I knew it might be cursed. I could have turned it in to you. I knew that’s what I should have done, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to. And then, it was too late. I couldn’t have given it up no matter what.”

McGonagall was quiet for a moment. “And why didn’t you want to turn the diary in?”

Ginny’s bravery fled. She looked back at her empty mug, fearing what was to come.

It’s too late to turn back now, he’d told her. They’ll reject you when they find out what you’ve done. I’m your only friend now.

“Let me try to guess,” the older woman continued, slowly. “You did not want to part with the diary because it made you special. You are, after all, the youngest child of a large, boisterous family of boys, the only girl. You don’t raise dragons, or hunt cursed objects. You aren’t a clever prankster, or a Head Boy, or even the best friend of the Boy Who Lived…a boy you like, but who does not return your affections. How am I doing so far?”

The professor’s words stung Ginny; tears welled up in her eyes, but she refused to shed them. “You’re right. I’m just poor Ginny Weasley. No one notices me. Why would they? Lucius Malfoy didn’t want to hurt me. Even the diary wasn’t meant for me—it was meant for Harry.”

McGonagall was silent for a moment. “I know you aren’t truly jealous of Harry. But I can imagine that the attention foisted on young Mr. Potter is hard to stand by and watch, especially when you might feel insignificant to the grand scheme of things.”

A tear slid slowly down Ginny’s cheek. Minerva sighed. “Here, give me your cup.” Neither one of them spoke while the professor made new cups of cocoa and whisky.

“Ginny, I might be in a better position than anyone else to understand why the diary had such a hold over you,” McGonagall started again, gently. “When I was a student here, I grew…very close to Tom. He filled a hole inside of me that no one since has been able to fill.”

Ginny looked up at her teacher. This wasn’t what she expected to hear. “What was he really like?” she asked. “My Tom was only a ghost, but you knew the real Tom.”

“I thought I knew him, surely, in the beginning. We were the same age, but our different houses kept us separated and I didn’t pay him much mind at first. We could not have been more unlike if we tried,” she said with a smile.

“I was very much like Miss Granger,” her teacher continued, “earnest, hardworking, more comfortable hiding behind a pile of books in the library than spending time in the Common Room with the other girls. What made me happy separated me from my peers. I told myself that I didn’t mind, but still…”

Minerva sighed then continued. “During our senior year, we were named Head Boy and Head Girl, so we were forced to work closely together. I didn’t know why he started to show an interest in me then, but I came to believe that those things that made me different from the other girls drew him to me.”

“That’s what I hoped for with him,” Ginny broke in, “I sit in the Common Room every night and watch the other girls. They don’t stutter or blush, or run away when someone looks at them. From the moment I met Tom, I felt comfortable. And I felt special because he wasn’t interested in those other girls; he was interested in me.”

McGonagall agreed. “Exactly. I was flattered that this handsome, charming boy—who could be friends with anyone in the school and have any girl on his arm—chose me instead. We studied, we took long walks together, we talked for hours about our hopes and dreams for the future. He listened to me,” McGonagall said with a sad smile.

“He saw you,” Ginny added.

“Yes, he saw me.”

“He saw me too. He said he needed me, my strength, my power. He told me I was going to be a powerful witch, someone who would leave her mark on the world.” Ginny snorted. “I guess he didn’t lie. I would have been remembered for being the girl that brought back Lord Voldemort.”

“Ginny…” McGonagall started. Ginny raised her hand to stop her.

“Go on with your story, Professor. What happened? Why did he change?”

McGongall looked hard at the girl but continued. “Looking back, I can see that he never changed. Tom could be cold and distant, cruel even at times. He started reading more and more about Dark Magic. He wanted to transfigure a person into something that would not die. I convinced myself that he was only interested in the theory.”

“But he wasn’t.”

“No, he wasn’t, and I helped him. It was an academic exercise to me…and it made him happy. That was enough for me then. Even when something inside of me told me this was wrong I kept helping him. Other friends worried about me, Alastor Moody, Nicolas Ollivander. They wondered why I was spending so much time with Tom, but I wouldn’t listen to them. I was angry that they dared to question me, question my intelligence. I thought they were treating me like a child, and I treated them horribly in return.

“It made me turn to Tom even more, and I was determined to make him happy. All the while, Tom used me to get information on classmates he didn’t know well, my Gryffindor housemates in particular. Nothing too important, I thought at the time, how good a student someone was, what was their family was like. I thought it was all innocent. In reality, he was gathering information he could use later against them. It was very Slytherin of him.”

“What happened?” Ginny whispered.

“You know the story, Ginny. Tom opened the Chamber, his basilisk killed Myrtle. And later he transfigured himself to became Lord Voldemort.”

“Myrtle’s death wasn’t your fault.”

“No, it wasn’t. But I never told Professor Dumbledore what I knew, not until years later, when I first became a teacher here and Lord Voldemort was a threat to the world. It was Albus who noticed I wasn’t sleeping much at night and that I was relying on Dreamless Sleep potions when I did sleep. He brought me to his rooms to talk to me about the past…and serve me hot chocolate laced with whisky.” McGonagall smiled wryly at her young charge.

“It was only then that I told Albus how Tom has approached me to join his group of followers. I could be his queen, he promised me, and I’d stand by his side forever, never growing old, never dying. He needed me, but I ran from him. I ran as everything I believed in crumbled in ruins around me—my belief in Tom, my belief in my intelligence, my belief in my foolish heart. It’s the only time in my life I’ve run from anything.

“What’s more,” she continued, learning forward in her chair, “I told Tom about Hagrid’s penchant for collecting odd animals. I knew Hagrid was caring for Aragog, and Tom framed Hagrid because of the information I gave him. Hagrid was expelled, and I told no one about Tom. Then, it was too late…just like for poor Myrtle.

“Who knows how many of my classmates suffered because of some careless piece of information I gave away?” she finished sadly.

The two of them sat quietly for a few moments. Finally, Ginny sat down her empty mug. “All last summer,” she started, “I wanted my parents to blame me, even a little, for what happened. Instead, they petted my head and tucked the covers around me at night. I might as well have been seven years old again. They never asked me why I kept the diary. They never really listened to me when I tried to talk to them.”

“What did you want to say to them?”

“That I’m scared.”

“Scared that Tom Riddle will come back?”

“No, scared that he was right. He told Harry I was a stupid, silly little girl. And that’s exactly how I’ve felt ever since this happened. It’s how I felt before I found the diary.”

The older woman was silent for a moment, then collected their cups, making news mugs for each of them.

“Ginny, I apologize. We should have had this conversation a long time ago. I’m sorry that I didn’t…” her voice trailed off.

“See me?” Ginny filled in with a sad smile.

“Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t see what this was doing to you, what all of us well-intentioned adults were doing to you since then. I assumed you would be alright.” Ginny stared at her professor a moment and gave a shuddering breath.

“I’ve been so angry at my parents. I wanted them to understand why I needed someone like Tom, why I needed to become something different, as long as it made me more than just another Weasley.”

“Your parents love you, Ginny. They want the best for you.”

“I know they do. They love us all, equally, as a group. I want…I need more than that.”

“Then make them see who you are.”

Ginny shook her head. “I don’t know how to do that.”

“You will figure it out, in time. But it’s up to you to decide who Ginny Weasley will be and what mark she will leave on this world—no one else can do it for you. I think you’ve already started down that path, with your work in charms and especially in Defense Against the Dark Arts. You’ve experienced evil first-hand, Ginny. I think you will be very good at finding it…and defeating it one day.”

“Me? Look at me, Professor. Look at what I almost let loose into the world.”

“You did far less, in a way, then I did, my dear,” countered the Deputy Headmistress, staring at Ginny with piercing eyes. “What should I have done? Hide? Run away? I ran once, Miss Weasley. I will not run again. The question is—when are you going to stop running?”

Ginny looked at her Head of House, letting the words sit between them. It was McGonagall who broke the silence again.

“You are twelve years old, Ginny, and you have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t live in the past, pining for what cannot, what should not, be. It takes much courage to grow into who you are destined to be, but I have faith in you. You won’t need a magical diary…or a singing valentine,” McGonagall’s mouth twitched, “for people to notice you.”

“Oh, but you’re wrong, Professor. The singing dwarf…hic…excuse me, did make Harry notice me,” Ginny giggled. Then she started to recite, “His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad…”

McGonagall snorted.

“His hair is as dark as a blackboard.”

McGonagall cleared her throat.

“I wish he was mine, he’s really divine.”

McGonagall coughed.

“The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.”

McGonagall burst out in hearty laughter. Ginny joined her.

“I take it back, Ginny, you are incredibly brave to send that Valentine your first year at Hogwarts. Indeed,” she continued, wiping tears from her eyes, “Harry isn’t the only one I have high hopes for.” The girl didn’t try to hide the blush that stained her face. Teacher and student sat in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the crack and pop of the fire.

Eventually McGonagall stretched and collected the two mugs. “It’s getting late, Ginny. I daresay that many of your teachers have given you assignments to complete by tomorrow. I know that I certainly did.”

“Yes ma’am,” Ginny said, jumping out of her seat, swaying slightly as the alcohol rushed to her head. McGonagall gave her an appraising look. Without a word she turned and walked over to the cabinet, rummaging around till she found a clear vial with a thick, emerald colored liquid inside. She handed it to Ginny. “If you remember nothing else from this night,” she lectured the younger girl, “remember this: Irish whisky will give you a wicked hangover the next morning. Sev…Professor Snape brews this for the teachers on these occasions. Drink the entire vial plus a large glass of water tonight and you will be fine.” Ginny’s hand closed over the vial and the professor’s hands.

“Thank you, Professor McGonagall, for everything.” Ginny started walking toward the door, then stopped and turned back to her teacher. “Professor, may I borrow Aeron’s autobiography?” she asked, gesturing toward the painting above the mantle. McGonagall nodded and turned toward her bedroom. After a few moments she came back with a well-worn, small green leather book and the gold stuffed lion. She handed both to Ginny.

“Return them to me when the nightmares have passed. It won’t be tomorrow, or this month, or even the next, but the nightmares will pass.”

Ginny nodded and opened the door, holding the objects close to her chest. She paused at the door and asked over her shoulder, “Do you still hear his voice?”

“Every day, my dear girl, every day.” Minerva answered truthfully and watched the door close softly behind the girl. Minerva sighed and walked over to the cabinet, looking for more elixir. She was out. She thought about checking with Severus but decided against it.

Sometimes pain is a good thing.

His voice came from the mists of time. Please Minerva, I need you.

“No, Tom,” she whispered, then turned toward her bedroom to go sleep.