No matter what, the dream was always the same.

It was always in the Chamber of Secrets, the dim light casting an eerie glow on the sprawling chamber. But Ginny Weasley could never focus on that.

Not when she was laying on the ground with blood-stained hands, her life slowly draining away.

Ginny's eyelids struggled to stay open as she stared at the entryway to the Chamber, waiting for a hero that would never come. There was no one coming to save her. There was only the pain of dying and the strange boy who had emerged from the diary.

His name was Tom Riddle and he was killing Ginny. Killing Ginny so he could live.

Ginny squeezed her eyes shut. She had been so stupid, she saw that now. So stupid to think that even a diary could care for her. So stupid to think that maybe she wasn't alone. So stupid to think that something cared about her.

It was harmless at first; it was just a diary, after all. Ginny had written in it casually, believing that it was a gift from her parents to celebrate her going to Hogwarts. But when the diary started writing back, she quickly learned that wasn't the case.

The diary had introduced itself as Tom Riddle, a student who had gone to Hogwarts years before Ginny had been born. He was sympathetic and kind, always listening to Ginny's problems. Tom had never laughed at her, or called her fears silly. He had reassured her that he cared about her, and that others cared, too.

But Tom Riddle was watching her slowly die. He didn't care. He never had.

Ginny was too weak to move, too weak to even cry. Her life was draining away, and she couldn't even cry about it. It was almost fitting; she had spent so much of this year crying, but couldn't in the last moments of her life.

She was dying. It wasn't such a scary thought. Not really. It filled her with wonder. What came after death? Would Ginny be able to meet Gideon and Fabian, the uncles she couldn't remember? Or would death be an infinite span of darkness?

Ginny kept her eyes closed, and felt her breathing become slower. Felt her heart slow it's beating. Everything felt distant and sluggish and murky, like swimming through pond water.

It was so hard to stay awake now. Everything was fading away, like the tendrils of a half-forgotten dream.

"Ginny," a voice called out, sounding as if the speaker were talking underwater. "Ginny—don't be dead—please don't be dead."

Ginny could feel hands grab her shoulders and attempt to shake her awake. But the feeling was distant, as if she were watching it happen to someone else. As if she wasn't here at all.

If she could move, she would smile. She would tell Harry Potter, who was doubtlessly the one shaking her, that she was alright. Ginny would die, but she would be alright.

And then, everything was gone. Her hearing, her breathing, the shaking. It was gone. And so was Ginny.

Ginny Weasley woke up from her dream with aching breaths. Oxygen burned her lungs as she breathed in as much as her lungs could hold.

In.

Out.

In.

To prove that she was alive. To prove that she was fine. To prove that she could breathe.

"Ginny?" called out a hesitant whispered voice.

Ginny's heart stopped; it sounded like Tom Riddle.

"Ginny, are you alright?" the voice asked.

Her breathing slowed as everything fell back into place. She wasn't a First Year anymore. She wasn't dying. Ginny was in her bedroom at her house, Hermione Granger in the bed next to her. Today they were going to rescue Harry Potter.

"Fine," Ginny whispered back, her voice hoarse. She touched a hand to her face, and found that it was wet. "Just a dream, you can go back to sleep."

The creaking of the mattress squeaked in the dark night. "I get dreams, too," Hermione said. "About what can go wrong with all of this. And. . .about that night."

That night. When everything had gone to hell. When everything had changed. Dumbledore had died, Bill was attacked, and the future of Hogwarts had become uncertain.

Ginny had been there beside Hermione. The entire time, a icy fear had existed in the back of her mind. There were too many people that she cared about and there were too many Death Eaters all too happy to kill them. It had been terrifying, but they had survived.

But nothing was more scary than reliving the Chamber of Secrets, which Ginny did at least once a week. The night terror crept onto her suddenly, vivid and realistic enough to make it feel real. It was terrifying to feel her life drain away, and to know that she wasn't going to fight it. That she was just going to die without a battle.

Never again. That was Ginny's promise. She would go down fighting, not peacefully.

"The plan won't go wrong," Ginny said to Hermione. "It can't."

"How can you say that? Of course it can. You-Know-Who has infiltrated the Ministry; they're bound to hear from someone about what we're planning."

You-Know-Who. Ginny hated him. She hated him no matter if he called himself Voldemort or Tom Riddle; he was still the same. He had tried to kill her, a fact that many seemed to forget. And why wouldn't they, when Ginny herself tried to forget? Why wouldn't they when Ginny put on a brave facade?

She understood Harry, in that sense. They weren't afraid of Tom Riddle; they hated him. They wanted him dead, not to end his reign of terror, but to end his life. The strongest form of hatred came without fear, and Ginny felt her fearless hatred and knew that she was not afraid of Tom Riddle.

After the Sun rose and the mission to bring Harry to a safe house began, Ginny would stay at home and wait to see if Tom Riddle had killed any of her loved ones. And if he had, she would kill him.

Because she wasn't helpless anymore. She wasn't weak. She wasn't afraid. Ginny Weasley was full of hope and happiness, yes, but only because she had her hatred and anger to protect her.

Her bedroom slowly glowed brighter as the Sun began to rise, allowing Ginny to see that Hermione had laid back down on her bed. But Ginny couldn't find it in herself to go back to bed. Her mind was too awake.

She slipped out from her bed and silently crept out the door, avoiding the spaces in the floorboards that Ginny knew creaked. She walked down the stairs, and was unsurprised to find no one awake in the kitchen. Sometimes, sleep was the only escape from the real world.

Ginny prepared a cup of tea silently, the process a memorized dance performance that she could do in her sleep. It had proven to be the only thing that could calm her nerves, and she frequently drank it whenever she woke up from a bad dream.

With a steaming mug of tea in her hands, Ginny sat down at the table and watched the steam rise up from her cup in spirals. They were hypnotizing. And as they rose, Ginny repeated a whispered chant.

"I will not be afraid. I will not be afraid. I will not be afraid."

And Ginny believed it.