[ Tom Riddle POV ]
After making sure that Ginny had truly fallen asleep, I slipped out of the diary and into the quiet darkness of her room. Moonlight streamed through the window of the Burrow, casting pale silver across the wooden floor. For a moment I simply stood there, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing.
Possession had clearly taken its toll on the girl. Guiding her body through Diagon Alley for an entire day had strained her more than she realized.
Quietly, I reached for the robes I had purchased earlier that day. The dark fabric settled comfortably over my shoulders as I adjusted the hood and glanced at Ginny once more. My time was limited. As long as I existed as a fragment separated from my diary, distance itself worked against me. I could not remain away from it for long.
Before leaving, I stepped closer to the bed. The bond between us hummed faintly in the air, a fragile thread connecting my existence to hers. Ginny trusted me completely, her mind open and unguarded even in sleep. Drawing from that connection would be effortless.
I placed a hand lightly against her forehead and reached through the link between us. I did not take much. Only a thin thread of vitality and a faint spark of her magic, just enough to sustain the journey ahead. Ginny stirred slightly in her sleep, her brow creasing for a moment before her breathing steadied again. The drain was minimal. She would wake tomorrow feeling tired, perhaps a little weak, but a day or two of rest would restore what I had taken.
For me, however, the stolen energy felt like cool water poured over dying embers. Strength flowed back into my form, enough to stabilize my magic for two jumps. The remaining distance I would have to endure on my own.
Satisfied, I stepped away from the bed and twisted space around me.
The night air of the countryside rushed past as I appeared beyond the fields surrounding the Burrow. For a moment the world tilted slightly beneath my feet. Apparition without a true body was deeply unpleasant. My form felt thin, stretched across distance like parchment pulled too tightly.
Still, the borrowed strength held.
I gazed up briefly at the moon hanging over the countryside. It was time to reclaim what belonged to me.
The first apparition carried me across the sleeping West Country, depositing me on the outskirts of Bristol where the distant glow of Muggle lights shimmered against the horizon. The jump was smooth, though I could already feel the strain beginning to settle in my form. Distance mattered when one was not whole.
The second jump pushed the limits of the strength I had drawn from Ginny. I arrived among the rolling hills near Gloucester, the air around me flickering faintly as reality struggled to stabilize my presence. For a few seconds the space I occupied wavered like heat rising from stone, an unnatural disturbance that might attract the attention of any magical creature sensitive to such things. Owls circled silently overhead as I waited for the flicker to fade. The borrowed strength had served its purpose. The remaining journey would have to come from my own reserves.
The third apparition carried me deep into the Midlands. When I emerged among the quiet fields of Warwickshire near Stratford-upon-Avon, the sensation was far more violent. My form compressed sharply as the distance from the diary increased, and the world lurched beneath my feet before stabilizing. For the first time I felt the pull of the diary tugging faintly at my existence, reminding me that I was straying dangerously far from my anchor.
Ignoring the discomfort, I forced myself onward.
The fourth jump brought me into the rugged hills of Derbyshire, where cold northern air swept across the rocky slopes of the Peak District. The moment I stabilized, I felt it. A distant echo of my own soul stirred faintly against my awareness. The ring. Even at this distance the connection pulsed like a weak heartbeat, drawing me northward.
The fifth apparition was considerably more difficult. When I appeared among the hills overlooking Sheffield, the strain of forcing a soul-fragment through space nearly brought me to my knees. Each jump now felt like dragging a lead weight through a keyhole, my magic stretching thin with every mile. Yet the signal of the ring was stronger now, its presence unmistakable.
Only one jump remained.
The final apparition carried me into the shadowed woods of Little Hangleton. Ancient trees surrounded me as I materialized at the base of a quiet valley. The air here felt different, older and heavier with the residue of forgotten magic.
At the far end of the valley stood the ruined shack of the Gaunts.
Even from this distance I could sense the wards I had placed around it decades ago. They hummed faintly in recognition of my presence, responding to the signature of their creator. Yet time had not been kind to them. Untended for years, the wards had grown unstable, twisting slowly into something wilder than their original design.
Breaking them now would be unwise.
The journey had drained more of my strength than expected, and forcing my way through the protections in this state might alert the wrong sort of attention. There was no need to rush. The ring was here, waiting for me exactly where I had hidden it.
It was enough.
In a few hours , my strength would return.
And when it did, the ring would finally be mine again.
- The End -