Chapter One:

The dreams had been an intermittent but disturbing companion for almost six years now. Even when the whole ordeal had been spinning viciously around her in her waking hours, they had twisted through her mind in the dark silence of her bed. Though she had been actually living it, she hadn't known the reality of her midnight ghosts at the time, had only had some vague inclination of what it all really meant. Not until her mind and magic had seeped back into her cold, stiff body as it lay on the floor of the Chamber of Secrets had she realized the identity of the specters.

For months after the close of her first year, she'd struggled with the nightly flood of memories previously suppressed by the magic of the diary. It had gotten easier over the years, if only because her sleeping thoughts had finally sorted through the majority of what had really happened. Still there were pieces she didn't quite understand, couldn’t quite put into context. It was frustrating and scary that she might never know the full truth of her own life.

It was equally disturbing, however, when different bits abruptly fell into place.

No matter how many times it happened, she still rocked back on her heels, still felt her gut plummet as realizations sank in at one point or another. She'd stopped dead just the night before as the voices of Gryffindor's Golden Trio had drifted out into the hallway. There had always been flashes that had fit nowhere, of course. Bits and pieces that she'd known somehow, didn't belong to her. But until she'd heard them whispering furiously about the research Hermione had apparently done to determine the identity and location of the missing Horcruxes, she hadn't understood to whom those flashes, those memories, had belonged. Until their discussion had reached her ears in the narrow hallway outside her brother's room, she hadn't fully grasped how much of Tom Riddle had remained in her head.

All that night, all the next day, she had tried to sort through the blurred edges of memory that she'd discovered in the recesses of her mind, memories that had once belonged in the mind of the young Dark Lord. Despite the inklings, the suspicions, she hadn't been able to truly acknowledge that particular explanation. It was a shock therefore, to know for sure that at least a lingering impression of the soul-part housed in the diary had leeched into her subconscious. It was even more disturbing to feel those vestiges drift forward in dreams and cling to waking thoughts. It was even worse, however, to look at herself and know that those drifting, clinging patches of cold darkness had been within her for over five years.

That thought triggered a feeling of self-hatred and regret almost as strong as what she had felt when she'd realized that she had been responsible for setting the Basilisk free. She'd struggled with that too, as the hours had ticked by, her mind switching back and forth between the frightening slideshow of fragmented revelations, and sickening fear. The mental acrobatics had kept her occupied and isolated for hours, and it was once more dark and quiet when she left her room and headed towards the kitchen to scrounge up some leftovers to quiet her rumbling stomach.

She hadn't even made it to the staircase before she was halted in her tracks. They were talking again, and though that thought made her want to quicken her steps for fear of a repeat of the night before, she couldn't quite make herself move past the pool of candlelight that spilled out from under Ron's door. It was shut, of course, and most likely locked, but as the room's three occupants were still technically underage, none of them had wanted to risk the ire of the Ministry, or Molly Weasley, by casting any spells to block their voices from penetrating the wood and reaching out into the silent hallway.

Because of that, Ginny barely had to strain to pick up the strands of their conversation as Harry recounted for his friends, the argument their former Headmaster had laid out for him the night the aged wizard had died. The bespectacled youth detailed the elder man's suspicions as to what the remaining Horcruxes might be. Hermione chimed in every few moments, adding the references she had found in regards to the history of Helga Hufflepuff's cup and her own interpretations and opinions as to its location.

Wrong. The word echoed between her ears as the whispered discussion continued. That's not where it is, she thought.

A vision of a long marble hallway framed on either side by tall glass cabinets flashed brightly through her mind. In the instant the foreign memory struck her, the small redhead had a vague recollection of smug satisfaction, and an image of a delicate, two-handled, gold cup. It sat innocently among a collection of cups and chalices, all of precious metal and all expertly carved and shaped and gleaming on one of the glass covered shelves. The picture in her head didn't show the badger etched into the cup, but she knew it was there. She remembered tracing the golden likeness with fingers that weren't hers before covering it with a spell and placing it on that shelf. She even remembered slipping unnoticed from the heavily warded hallway after depositing the treasure.

The youngest Weasley reached out blindly, steadying herself by placing a suddenly shaking hand on the wall. She remembered a strong sense of pride, a feeling of utter superiority while watching droves of witches and wizards stroll along, admiring the glass shelves and the ancient treasures they housed. The masses never knew exactly what they were looking at, but she remembered knowing, remembered taking a perverse sense of pleasure from the way group after group fawned over the cleverly disguised treasure sitting innocently before them.

Ginny shook her head, forcing the thoughts and images from her mind. They refused to fully retreat, however, lingering instead in the corner of her awareness as the Trio kept talking, making plans for their secret departure and the hunts that would follow.

Wrong. They're going to the wrong place, all the wrong places, she said to herself as they planned it all out, mere feet from her.

A growing sense of unease settled around the redhead. Her brother and his friends didn't know what they were doing, couldn't know how to find the objects they sought. She considered for a moment, telling them what she knew, offering to help them in their search. The idea was discarded almost as soon as it formed. If they even believed her in the first place, there was no way they would let her help. Harry had already shown that he felt her incapable of dealing with the fight ahead, and she knew her brother would be just as compelled to smother and over-protect her. Yet without her help, without heeding her advice, they would undoubtedly land themselves in big trouble.

The word trap slithered through her mind, and she leaned more heavily on the wall as her free hand rose to hold her head. Regaining memories she herself had never really possessed to start with was never pleasant, but when they returned so quickly, one after another, it was nearly painful. It was certainly overwhelming.

So many pictures and sensations; so much knowledge and information. None of it was hers, yet it was in her head, forcing its way into her brain whether there was room or not. At this exact moment, however, the pain and discomfort wasn't as much a concern as the content of her most recent recollections. For all that the flood was sending waves of pain and nausea crashing through her, Ginny knew the things she had just remembered could lead the Order to one of the remaining remnants of Voldemort's black soul. It could also prevent the Trio from following a carefully laid trail that would only lead to their deaths.

For all her books and cleverness, Hermione could not grasp the twists of the Dark Lord's venomous mind. But Ginny could, and she knew, even without the rest of the fragmented memory that had warned her, that Voldemort had planned for a contingency such as Hermione's research. The Order knew that the Dark wizard had thought quite a ways ahead when he'd spilt his soul into pieces, but no one else truly realized how far ahead he'd planned. No one else had thought about the fact that most any information they garnered from books and spells would have also been available to a young Tom Riddle, and would have been taken into account when he'd chosen his Horcruxes and their hiding places.

With the experiences of her first year still shadowing her thoughts, however, she had an advantage over everyone else. And she fully intended to utilize it. She could, and would, prevent the would-be seventh-years from falling into Voldemort's traps. Even if Ron, Harry, and Hermione wouldn't take her word over the other girl's research, there were other ways to keep them from following their foolish plans. Telling her mother that the three were going to sneak away after the wedding would keep them at the Burrow for a short while longer.

But even wards perfected over years of dealing with Fred and George would only hold those three for so long. She needed someone that could hold the infamous Trio indefinitely. There was only one person still alive that might be able to manage that.

Moody.

Swallowing past the nausea in her throat, the witch returned to her room just long enough to pull on shoes and a worn black robe that would fade easily into the shadows. Once having accomplished that, she slipped quietly from the warmth of her childhood home. A quick silencing charm aimed at her feet left her racing soundlessly across the fields surrounding the Burrow, until she deemed herself far enough from the house to risk the noise of the Knight Bus's arrival.

After that, it was merely a matter of holding out her wand hand, and giving Stan Shunpike's replacement a destination far enough from Grimmauld Place that her going there wouldn't leave any clues as to her destination. She was left with a longer trek than she would have otherwise wanted, especially after the jarring ride, but she managed her journey in a decent amount of time. The sun had yet to make it over the horizon when she found herself standing in the foyer of the old Black home.

She was grateful for the cover of shadow, and the light of predawn that allowed her to make her way through the house unnoticed by even Mrs. Black's portrait. The headquarters were by no means deserted, but the half-light of early morning helped hide her, and the tricks she had finally remembered learning from Tom her first year, led the young witch to her destination undisturbed. She stood silently in the hall for a moment, gathering her vaulted Gryffindor bravery before stepping forward and casting a little-known variation of Alohomora.

She felt a brief pang of guilt at breaking in, absently asking herself why she didn't just knock, but paid the question little heed, listening instead to the strange sixth-sense she'd seemed to have acquired during her first year at Hogwarts. For all that she trusted the acting head of the Order, she had a feeling that she needed to get into his room right then, without him knowing, if she wanted to stand a chance of having him listen to what she had to say.

She did exactly that, swishing and flicking in the wordless manner that she'd seen herself doing in dreams, slipping silently through the door once the wards had dropped. A lubricating charm kept the hinges from screeching as she shut the door behind her, and Restituo Incantatem replaced the wards, leaving everything just as it had been upon her arrival. So it was that she made it all the way to the adjoining room before Moody's eye swiveled in its socked and spotted her slinking unnoticed into his lair.

She made no sound when he spun to face her, however. She didn't so much as jump at the wand he was suddenly brandishing in her direction. All Ginny Weasley's attention was riveted on the room's third occupant as he sat in the large, overstuffed chair by the fireplace, his shriveled and blackened hand resting stilly in the lap of his florescent robes.

End Chapter One

Author's Notes: Restituo, according to online Lation dictionaries, means: restore, put back, replace. Restituo Incantatem is meant to replace previous spells or wards
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