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Voodoo Child | ||||
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Category: Alternate Universe Characters:Harry/Ginny Genres: Action/Adventure, Drama Warnings: Sexual Situations, Violence Rating: PG-13 Reviews: 7 Summary: *** The author has been reminded via the e-mail address on file that this story is listed as incomplete and has not been updated since 2006 *** Ginny Weasley has been away from home for far too long. After four years, a family emergency forces Ginny to leave her newfound life and return to The Burrow. The question is, however, is this new life ready to leave Ginny? Hitcount: Story Total: 3183 Author's Notes: This my first true attempt at writing a story with multiple chapters. The idea came to me in a dream...well, more like, it came to me during first period math class. Oh well, hopefully you'll all enjoy the story! The title of this fiction, by the way, comes from the Jimi Hendrix song "Voodoo Child (Slight Return)." (Oh, ratings and warnings for this fic are subject to change with upcoming chapters. But don't worry, the proper warnings will always be there.) |
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Prologue “If I don’t meet you no more in this world then I’ll meet ya on the next one And don’t be late Don’t be late ’Cause I’m a voodoo child Voodoo child Lord knows I’m a voodoo child” -Jimi Hendrix, Voodoo Child The stair creaked under her heavy step, and she shut her eyes in silent prayer. Nothing stirred. She internally breathed a sigh of relief, careful not to create anymore noise. Slowly, she continued up the worn staircase, clinging to the wall as it curved up towards the second floor. The old plantation house crawled with something sinister that wound its way across the oak floor boards and poured out the windows. Her heart hummed in an all too familiar way as the sharp claws of dark magic began sink into her. Holding her wand tightly to her chest, she inhaled deeply before darting around the corner, poised for attack. However, the long hallway stood empty before her, save a weathered table and a few tarnished picture frames. Oddly, the sight of the deserted corridor did nothing to ease her nerves. Suddenly, as if on a cue, a door at the end of the rather long expanse of the second story swung open ever so slowly, moaning in protest. The door had probably been opened only recently, she reasoned, and probably under some force. The house hadn't had any residents since the late eighteen hundreds. The journey down the hall was a long one, and she immensely wished she had someone else with her. And all too soon - or perhaps it was several hours later - she stood facing the tall oak door. Its paint was peeling and the handle was rusted over. However, upon closer inspection, one could see that the hole in which one would insert a sizable key - perhaps a skeleton key of some sort - had been worn around the edges so that metal gleamed through the copper flakes of rust. The room had been used recently - and quite often, at that. A terrifying moment of tension hung in the air as she contemplated the consequences of pushing the door open. Merlin only knew what, or who, she might find on the other side. Placing her palm flat against the door and once more drawing her wand, she leaned in quickly and aimed her wand, immediately firing a disarming spell. To her surprise, and utter relief, no one was waiting for her on the other side. The spell bounced off the far wall, and she easily ducked to avoid it. The room itself was nothing special. A small, four poster bed had been pushed into the corner where it had been, for the most part, neglected except for a missing leg, which had probably supplied ample fuel to a fire. The bed, however, was not the most interesting object in the nearly empty room. No, the most interesting object in the room was, by far, the large pentagram drawn roughly in chalk located in precisely the center of the room. She stepped nearer to the odd design. There appeared to be minute writing running along the inner edge of the circle containing the dark symbol. Crouching down to have a better look, she reached her hand out tentatively, her fingers inched closer and closer to the dusty script when- BANG! A sudden, and rather odd, gust of wind caused a shutter to slam heavily against one of the room's windows. The noise, however, startled the young girl causing her to fall forward. "Damn," she whispered, slowly rising, brushing off her now chalk covered jeans and massaging her scraped forearm. And suddenly, as if what had happened finally dawned on her, she carefully looked down at her feet. The wind halted immediately, in a truly eerie sensation, and the creaking house went dead silent. A bead of sweat slid down the back of her neck at precisely the spot where her hair split into two braids, her body protesting - once again - the sudden humidity of the bayou. Beneath her feet, beneath her worn pair of Converse, Ginny Weasley stood directly in the center of the pentagram. Chapter 1 Hermione stared into the bottom of her tea cup. She had never believed in divination, but as she contemplated the soggy lees of her drink, she could have sworn she saw the beginnings of a tower forming. If she recalled correctly, Unfogging the Future seemed to believe that the tower stood for danger, downfall. For death. She sighed deeply, "She needs to know." He grunted, and continued to repair the muggle pocket watch his father had left lying on the table. "No, she bloody well doesn't." She glared at him with what little energy she had left, "Don't do this, Ron. You'll regret it later." His fingers stopped turning the small screwdriver. "I know," his voice was tired, resigned. "Are you going to owl her, or should I?" She ran her finger along the chipped edge of her cup, already knowing she would be the one to write the letter. He flicked the watch, willing the idle hands to move. "Does it matter? She'll probably ignore it, anyway." "Ron, please," she was weary, and quite through with his stubbornness. He looked up quickly and set down the gadget, "What excuse are you going to make for her now? Everyone suffered during the war, we all lost people we cared for. What makes her any different?" "Ron, we've talked about-" "No, no, stop," he raised his hands in frustration, "Stop making excuses for a person who doesn't deserve them." He looked back down at the watch dejectedly. Too tired to discuss this matter, too tired to continue with the watch. "Least she could do is write." "Writing works both ways, you know. It's not like you made much of an effort yourself," she needed him to understand. She needed to keep this family together. "Yeah, well, I'm not the one who ran off to Merlin-knows-where." "No," she agreed reluctantly, "but you wanted to, if I recall." "It would have been so much easier," he hung his head, running his hand over the deepening creases in his forehead. Hermione paused for a moment, "Would it?" He seemed to be swimming in thousands of emotions as his mouth gaped open. His lips moved but nothing came out. Squeezing his eyes tightly, he nodded tersely, "I miss her, Hermione." She reached for his hand, and clenched it tightly in her own, smaller palm. "God, I need her right now," his voice was hoarse, "she was always the sensible one." She smiled at him sadly, "All you need to do is write to her. She probably even has a telephone, too. Just ask her to come home." Ron looked at her doubtfully, "Do you think she'll come?" "Yes, Ronald, I do." He nodded, and pushed out his chair with a soft scrape. Standing up, quietly, he leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on her brow, "I'm going go check on Mum then head off to bed." Hermione didn't respond, but watched worriedly as he trudged up the precarious steps of the Burrow. This whole family had certainly had enough hardships in the past few years, it seemed unfair that they had been handed more. Crossing the room to the dinged, old secretary desk that had been shoved into the corner, Hermione opened the center drawer in hopes of finding a clean sheaf of parchment. After rummaging through old bills, torn grocery lists, and ancient receipts, she discovered a few sheets of neglected paper. Pulling them gently out of the sea of unofficial, unimportant documents, she was surprised when something small slipped from between the papers and floated to her feet. Bending to pick it up, Hermione realized that the mysterious object was none other than a worn photograph. She found herself staring down at the entire Weasley clan, all grinning happily in the glowing Egyptian sun. How happy they had been then. Ginny looked so excited and so innocent. Mrs. Weasley was vibrant, just glowing with pride as she took in the sight of her large family. And Percy was there, standing with his family, where he belonged. And Bill - oh Bill. Brushing tears from her eyes hastily, she propped the picture up against another frame, blocking Uncle Gideon from view. She then lit a candle with a match that she had found on the desk (presumably left by the muggle-loving Mr. Weasley), and began a very difficult letter to Ginny. --------------------- Ginny walked languidly through the humid Louisiana evening, trying her hardest to appear normal to the casual observer. Although she had gotten quite used to living amongst muggles, and although unusual characters certainly weren't unknown in New Orleans, she felt particularly out of place today. Perhaps it was due to the fact that whatever it was that flowed through that plantation house seemed to be circulating in her own blood hours later. Shaking her head, she brought her attention back to her walk, which had become so routine by now that she realized she had made it halfway through the city without once paying mind to where she was going. As per normal, the streets were bustling with cars hurrying home after a presumably long day at work, the sidewalks were jammed with business men and women, and no one seemed to be paying her much attention despite what her paranoid conscious would lead her to believe. After a few more blocks had passed, reaching the corner of Dauphine and Toulouse, Ginny looked both ways before slipping into an unmarked door sandwiched between a restaurant promising "Authentic Creole Cuisine" and a dress shop that looked...slightly less promising. Inside the door, she climbed a narrow set of stairs, careful not to knock down the various tribal and Mardi Gras masks hanging from the orange walls. After turning several times, the staircase finally came to an end at a battered wooden door. Gently tapping her wand against the large, brass doorknob, Ginny waited until the door opened with a soft click. She stepped over the threshold, hastily pulling down the sleeve of her zip-up sweatshirt to hide the rough cut on her forearm. It was even warmer inside the room than it had been outside, if that were possible. The sheer drapes that hung from the windows billowed in the gentle breeze that had worked its way up from the gulf and woven through the French Quarter. It was a beautiful evening, and Ginny wanted nothing more than to return home as soon as she could; the Quarter would be brimming with people on a night like this. "Weasley!" Ginny turned at the sound of her name being barked from the opposite corner of the room. Amongst the numerous antique desks that had been shoved about the room in order to accommodate as many people as possible, stood Natine Marcon. "Sorry I'm late, Natine," Ginny sunk into an overstuffed, mauve armchair, and rubbed the back of her neck, "Long day." "You'd better be sorry," although her voice was firm, Ginny could hear the concern buried deep underneath, "I just hope you have some good news for me, for your own sake." Ginny smiled a bit at this. She knew, as well as Natine, that she was one of the best aurors this organization had. They couldn't afford to lose her, especially not now. Not after what she had found today. "Well, I have news. Whether it's good or bad is up to you to decide." Natine nodded intently, moving across the room and closer to Ginny. She looked tired, and it occurred to Ginny that she must have been stuffed inside this office the whole day doing paperwork. Maybe that old house hadn't been too terrible after all. "You should cast a cooling charm in here or something, it's awful." Natine shook her head sadly, "Can't. Requires too much magic over an extended period of time. Last thing we need is someone detecting that." She sat back in the chair opposite Ginny, and looked out the window, "Besides, I'm used to the heat, unlike you British." Ginny rolled her eyes at this, but knew Natine was right. Although she had become much more adjusted to the Southern heat, her skin was still that of the English: fair and freckled. This summer she had finally succeeded in acquiring the nicest tan (if one could call it that) she had ever had; however, there seemed to be no cure for her freckles which multiplied at alarming rates under the scorching sun. Natine on the other hand, had grown up in New Orleans, and was quite accustomed to the extreme bouts of temperature and humidity. And of course, her beautiful, dark skin had not one freckle on it. Ginny envied the woman's Creole heritage. "The house is haunted," Ginny stated suddenly, eager to get back to the topic at hand. She hadn't forgotten her earlier wishes for an early return to her apartment. Natine's brow creased in confusion, "What? I didn't think we were dealing with ghosts, but if we are-" "No," Ginny cut her off, "It's not ghosts. Although at this point, I rather wish it was." She plucked a piece of lint off her brown camisole and watched as the breeze carried it out the window. "What we have is rather more complicated, I'm afraid." "Oh, not goblins again." "Death Eaters or maybe a cult: someone practicing very dark magic." Natine cursed under her breath. "Yeah," Ginny sighed deeply, "And whoever it is, they've been at the plantation for awhile. The magic there is old ...and strong." Natine made a note of this with the quill and parchment that had suddenly appeared in her hands. "Do we have anything else to go on? It'd be nice to have somewhere to start." Another quick scribble. "I mean, I know you're great with tracing magic, but if they've been at it awhile we don't have much longer." "I know, that's what's got me worried," she knew that whatever was being planned could certainly prove to be devastating. "But I did find something in that house, and believe me, it's not going to make you happy." Her boss arched her eyebrow in question. "In a room on the second floor, there was a pentagram drawn in chalk," she stopped talking, realizing that the scratching of quill against parchment had halted abruptly. Natine looked pale: precisely the reaction she had been afraid to receive. Ginny continued despite the look of horror on her friend's face, and despite her own fear, "I looked around the room for anything else - candles, powders, amulets, you name it. Nothing. Which means that the people who made that pentagram have everything with them, or they’re placed under a particularly effective concealment charm." Now Natine was shaking her head in disbelief, "You don't think they're trying-" "Yeah, I do." Ginny watched as the she pursed her lips in deep thought, and finally a rush of air escaped her mouth, "Just go home, Ginny. We'll worry about this tomorrow. No use worrying about this now." Ginny rose quickly, wanting to leave desperately, but determined to help if needed, "You sure? Because-" Natine shooed her towards the door, "Go now, Weasley, before I change my mind. We can have McNair look at this with us in the morning." "Thank you," Ginny breathed. She quickly left the office and was out on the street before she could dwell on Natine's last worried glance. |
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