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Attaching yourself to the hero was easy enough. He was as naïve as he was brave back then, and you…
You were his best mate's sister, the slip of a girl he'd saved from a certain violent death all those years ago. You weren't a threat to anyone. You never had been. Besides, who wouldn't have trusted little Ginny Weasley anyway, all giggles and freckles and pigtails?
Much as it may pain you to admit it, he's still a hero now, even though his armour has acquired quite a few dents in recent years. Knowing you contributed to a vast majority of them doesn't exactly fill you with regret.
You were eleven when it all began with that book, that diary, that Horcrux, although that no-so-little detail remained a secret and didn't hold any real significance until much, much later.
The only thing that mattered to you in those days was that you finally had someone to interact with, someone who would listen, pay attention to you, and only you, like you were special, precious, and worthy of someone's time.
Tom Riddle.
You were never the little sister to him or the youngest child or the loud, chatty nuisance that was always there, getting in everybody's way. You don't think...
No, you're convinced — thank you very much, that you were never a means to an end, an easy way of getting to Harry Potter.
You were more than that to him. Much more. Or at the very least, you would have been, had you only been a few years older.
He appreciated you, and he…
He was your first real friend, and no matter what they all think, Harry Potter was not your first real love. Not by a long shot. He was no kind of love at all.
One by one, you place the cards on the table.
It's a tarot deck. It's torn and tattered, but you're sure it still works. You don't even know how you know, except that you do, and...
Harry Potter.
You dated him for a few weeks. No more, no less. And then he broke up with you, at the drop of a hat, because he thought you'd be in danger, because everyone around him kept dying.
Or that's what he claimed the reason was.
You know it was an easy way out; a barefaced lie, even. You would never have been in danger. Not from Tom, because Tom…
He's too much like you. No one ever understood him, and no one ever took him seriously either. Not until the day he proved his worth, made his point, and very few were left standing to tell the tale.
The last Horcrux wasn't the snake after all, and you were very relieved when you found that out. You wouldn't have been able to conjure anything from an animal, and you wouldn't have wanted some harmless, innocent creature to die either.
You didn't even want Harry to die, and you were glad that he didn't, even if he wanted to harm Tom. For one thing, your mother would have been very upset and no one needed that sort of drama.
You were there when they dug it up. Deep down in that ghostly, ghastly tomb with its skulls and skeletons, with its eerie voices and age-old cobwebs; a scenery that reminded you of some computer game you'd seen once, in a store in Muggle London.
Even now, you wonder why you weren't even scared that day, even though, deep down in your heart, you know the reason well.
You were probably the only one who'd never had any real cause to be frightened of him.
They plan to burn the cards in the morning, but you can't let them do that. You shan't.
Tom told you about it once. A tree, a mansion and a village, connected forever.
It was a clue. One you were too young to understand back then.
You get it now, though, and you're certain that he always knew that some day, you'd arrive at this point. After all, he was brilliant.
You tell yourself he soon will be again.
You decided this morning that Harry could have Voldemort, but you would have Tom.
Tom is yours. Forever.
You lay the cards on the table. You hear the windows rattle. It's like the earth shakes. And somewhere, someone is screaming. Is that you?
You hear another loud crash and then you sense a presence nearby.
"Ginevra?"
You'd know that voice anywhere. And besides, who else could it be? And he knows your name, so that must mean he remembers.
You were right. You marked his soul just like he did yours.
You turn around, and you smile, and you realise that this might just be your first genuine smile in seven long, lonely years.
This is the time for truth. The time to...
"We have to hurry," you tell him. "We can't let them find you here."
He just nods. He doesn't ask questions. You suppose he trusts you, and unlike Harry, he has every reason to.
Harry...
You smile wryly and you think that the princess running off with the villain is probably a fitting end to this tale, and it's no less than what Potter deserves. He never loved you, not in the way Tom has always done, and not before you were pretty and appealing and something others desired, too.
You take Tom's hand and the two of you Disapparate.
No, you're no Hermione and you never will be, but you still know a thing or two.
Percy taught you well.
They never liked him either, and even though you understood why, you refrained from taking sides, in case he'd be ever useful.
And he was. Oh, how he was…
He knows things they can't even begin to comprehend, and he's one of the very few who realise that not everything is black and white and that there's more to this than heroes and villains and war and peace.
Days turn into months and months turn into years, and on a sunny morning, in a secluded villa on the outskirts of Naples, you read the news.
Harry finally defeated You-Know-Who, and a funeral service has been held in your honour.
They assume you messed around with the Horcrux in a desperate, fatal attempt to prove yourself.
Some days, as you grow older and children with red hair and green eyes grow up with their mother's nerve and their father's brilliance, you wonder whether you should have told them from the very start.
Harry Potter wasn't the only Gryffindor who almost made Slytherin.
But then you decide that it's probably a good thing that they never knew.
It would have spoiled everything.