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Even in the magical world, hearing voices isn’t a good sign. 

Her brother, Ron, once said those words to Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived had been hearing the Basilisk in the walls of Hogwarts, thanks to his ability to speak Parseltongue. 

But Ginny Weasley had been speaking with a disembodied voice long before Harry Potter first heard the whispers of death. 

Writing to Tom for all those months felt as natural as breathing. He was the bowl and she the faucet, pouring her thoughts and emotions like water gushing out of pipes. Except his bowl never seemed to overflow. There was no limit, no boundary expressed; Tom welcomed her juvenile worries with open arms. He encouraged her, conditioned her, seduced her. 

It only made sense that Ginny very quickly lost herself in his dark embrace. 

I suppose it’s time to write in this old thing. Hello, diary. My name is Ginny Weasley and I turned eleven years old today. 

Hello, Ginny Weasley. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come upon my diary? 

Ginny blinks, surprised. For a split second, she considers slamming the book shut and running to her father. But then, the thought evaporates and she grins happily. A talking diary! She grew up with magic and is not unaccustomed to these sorts of things, but this diary feels... special. Like an old friend she is reacquainting herself with. Ginny dips her quill into her inkwell, eager to reply to her new friend. 

Last week, I went shopping in Diagon Alley with my parents. I guess they found you in Flourish & Blotts and decided I could use a diary. Is it all right that I write here, even though it’s yours? 

What’s mine is yours, Ginny. And what’s yours is mine. I welcome you to my humble abode. 

In the aftermath of the Chamber of Secrets, at the Hospital Wing, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley wept and embraced their daughter. Mr. Weasley did not say another word about her foolish trust in Tom Riddle’s diary, but the words still hung over their heads: “Never trust something that can think for itself if you can’t see where it keeps its brain!”  

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Ginny sobbed into her mother’s bosom. She wasn’t sure why she kept repeating those words, but it became a mantra. A desperate cry for salvation. 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Arthur said softly, stroking his daughter’s hair. “Dumbledore was right: there are plenty of other wizards and witches who have been bewitched by You-Know-Who.” 

Molly cleared her throat sharply, throwing her husband a stern look. She snuggled her baby girl closer. “We’re just so glad you’re alright,” she whispered, pressing kisses on Ginny’s forehead. 

Ginny cried and cried, unable to express in words her sorrow, how her chest ached with an emptiness now that Tom Riddle’s diary was destroyed. 

How, even now, despite everything, she desperately wanted to write to Tom. To spill out her grievances, to shatter like glass on stone. 

That bastard that took over her heart and soul was still the first person she wanted in her hour of need. 

No one ever understood me like you do, Tom. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I feel so lonely when I’m not writing to you. 

We are very much alike. We are surrounded yet alone. I would still be trapped without a voice if it wasn’t for you, Ginny. I need you to stay loyal to me.  

Ginny Weasley never knew a time when her brothers were not attending Hogwarts. She was a baby when Bill started his first year, and by the time she was six, her three eldest brothers were away at school most of the year. 

When Bill turned seventeen, the first “of age” spell he cast turned parchment into butterflies, and they danced around seven-year-old Ginny’s head, who squealed and tried to catch them. 

Smiling indulgently, Bill flicked his wand and allowed one parchment butterfly to land on her nose. It tickled and made her cross-eyed trying to gaze upon its lovely form. Ginny wrinkled her nose and shook her head, giggling, and the inky butterfly seemed to kiss the bridge of her nose before taking off. 

It left a mark of ink on the tip of her nose. 

Pitch-black liquid, dripping off the edge of her freckled nose, until her mother noticed and wiped it clean with her apron. 

The evening of the Sorting leaves Ginny with frayed nerves, like any First Year. But her worries vanish as she pulls out Tom’s diary once she climbs into her bed, an eerie calm settling over her as she describes Hogwarts and the Sorting to her invisible friend. 

I hope I can make friends here. 

You’ll always have me, Ginny. 

Ginny grins and rubs her nose bashfully. The ink smudge leaves a mark on her pillow the next morning.

Strange that she could remember that day with Bill so well, particularly when she received her wand at Ollivander’s. She had taken hold of the yew wood and vividly recalled the smell of ink and parchment, of Bill’s laughter in the background, of the blackness of the last bit of drying ink dripping gently off the butterfly’s wings. 

She waved her wand and sent vibrant yellow leaves falling out of thin air. 

She was the only one who noticed that they looked more like pieces of parchment. Parchment with smudges of black ink. 

She later wondered how no one could recognize an omen when they saw one. 

It was only when she made it home, laden with books and supplies, just like her brothers always did, that Ginny noticed the plain black diary resting in her cauldron. 

Tom, I don’t think I’ll fit in here. My brothers all did amazing things at Hogwarts, even Ron! And he’s best friends with Harry Potter! I feel awkward and gangly and small. It feels like no one even notices me. 

That’s impossible, Ginny. You brought my memory to life. That is a remarkable feat that a great many witches and wizards could never accomplish. How can anyone not notice you?  

The fact that her diary wrote back to her did not alarm Ginny as much as she thought it would. She knew it wasn’t like other ordinary “talking objects” (mirrors that compliment or criticize your appearance, notebooks that remind you to keep studying, etc). Tom was more sentient, more real, than those magical tools. Tom was her friend. 

Perhaps her lack of fear was the first sign that Tom Riddle had begun to thread tendrils of his essence into her mind. 

And by the time she realized, he had already made himself at home. 

An ink stain she could not scrub away. 

I think I’m in love, Tom. Harry Potter makes my heart skip a beat and I cannot speak in front of him. It’s exciting, but it’s also frustrating. I want his attention. No, better yet, I want his love! Help me, Tom!

Sweet Ginny, why do you need him when you have me? Now, tell me: who is this Harry Potter?

Tom’s dismissal of her crush on Harry Potter did not hurt so much as confuse Ginny. On one hand, he did not seem to like that she crushed on The-Boy-Who-Lived. On the other hand, he was intrigued, disturbingly so, with his story. 

Tom began encouraging her to “win over” Harry’s heart. He even patiently read her silly Valentine, which Ginny knew was rather silly, but she still felt proud of herself. It was the first time she ever put to words her feelings that weren't in Tom’s diary. 

But things began to change after Valentine’s Day… 

If only I could see you, Ginny. If words could be seen, I imagine you’re as beautiful as you sound. 

Ginny drops her quill. Her face flushes, and she squirms in her pajamas, suddenly feeling rather hot. 

Her lips are dry as she writes back a flustered reply. Tom soothes her, a balm on her nerves, and Ginny wonders how she ever envisioned herself in love with Harry Potter when her body feels as taut as a violin string. 

Later, when she splashes cold water on her face in the girls’ abandoned bathroom, she stares deeply into her reflection, her mind racing. Is she in love with Tom? Her own beloved talking diary? What does that say about her? Will Tom accept her feelings? If only he was real— 

She does not notice the flash of red in her reflected pupils before the world goes dark. 

The summer after That Terrible Year, Ginny spent her days locked up in her room. With no diary to keep, she was a wound up coil, aching for release, but too terrified to write anything. 

Her dreams recounted her conversations with Tom Riddle, back then so exciting and beautiful and romantic. 

Now they were tainted, oozing with slime and mucus, a nasty sinking pit in her stomach whenever she awoke with Tom’s smooth words in her mind. 

Ginny, you are so much smarter than other girls your age. I admire you. No…. I think it’s deeper than that — oh, but I cannot say. You’re still so young. 

Tom, you can’t tease a girl like that! Tell me! Tell ME!

Oh but, Ginny, don’t you see? Teasing you brings me joy. You do want to keep your friends happy, don’t you? 

Of course, I do! But…. Do you love me, Tom? 

Ginny pauses in her writing. Her heart is pounding. She is almost tempted to follow up with a “just kidding, haha!” but curiosity grips her mind. She needs to know. 

A drop of ink appears on the page. It’s as if Tom is poised with his quill, debating on how to answer. 

Another drop. Another. He is holding her in suspense, but Ginny does not mind. Her mouth is dry, her heart in her throat. She all but forgets Harry Potter’s name. There is only Tom Tom Tom Tom… 

Tom? 

Ginny…. you know the answer. 

It was funny that looking back, Tom never outright said he loved her. 

He complimented her. He praised her, cajoled, tempted, teased, and tormented. 

But the word “love” was never written on his end. Not even in mockery or quotation. Not even after Ginny confessed her feelings. 

I think I’m in love, Tom. For real, this  time. I’m In love with…. you. 

Of course you are, Ginny. You should be. Who else can I depend on? 

Eleven years old was no age to play at being in love. Fantasize, giggle, wonder, dream, yes, but never enact. 

Ginny Weasley faced the years following the Tom Riddle ordeal with a growing pain in her heart. 

It was not remorse. 

It was disgust. 

Ginny Weasley turned twelve years old when it hit her that exactly one year ago, she wrote her first entry into Tom Riddle’s diary. While her family prepared her birthday dinner, she snuck into the loo, and retched for twenty minutes, her throat closing up, tears streaming down her face. 

Nothing came up. Not even after she managed to consume her food and birthday cake. 

A cruel irony. Even in death, Tom could not give her release. 

Tom, Tom, you love me, right? You promise you’ll love me no matter what, right? 

Why do you ask such a silly question, Ginny?  

Because I think I’m the one attacking students! Oh, Tom, what have I done?! 

Oh. My precious Ginny. Sweet, silly Ginny. You did nothing wrong. 

But Tom, I — 

You only need to heed my words. Do not pay attention to those fools at the castle. Here, in my diary, I tell you what’s right. I tell you what’s wrong. You, my dear, did nothing wrong to those Mudblood scum. 

No. No. No. 

Ginny gasps and drops her quill, clutching her pounding head. 

She was a Weasley. Weasleys do not hate Muggles! Her father adores them! Her father taught her brothers and her to respect and appreciate the methods of Muggles living life without magic, and always said that Muggleborns were no different than Purebloods. 

But Tom says…. Tom says— He— 

Ginny barely makes it to the loo when she vomits. And then her world goes black. 

She awakes with blood-covered feathers all over her robes and screams and screams, until Moaning Myrtle joins her wailing, their cries reverberating off the walls in an echo chamber that no one would heed. 

It had been barely three months after the end of her terrible First Year when Ginny Weasley faced an almost worse dilemma on her way back to Hogwarts. 

The Dementors. 

Those vile creatures made her relive her possessed moments, this time with crystal clear details. What once had been strange, corrupted images in her mind’s eye was now playing out for her in real time. 

Walking to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom in a haze, speaking Parseltongue with Tom’s voice, opening up the Chamber of Secrets. 

The first bloody message she wrote on Hogwarts walls: “The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware.” 

Brutally murdering Hagrid’s roosters. 

Destroying Harry’s dorm to find the Diary. 

Directing the Basilisk to each victim, her finger pointing to Mrs. Norris, Colin Creevey, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hermione Granger and Penelope Clearwater…. 

And Tom whispering, always whispering, in her mind… 

When Professor Lupin drove away the Dementor from their train compartment, Ginny awoke from her vision with a start. Despite seeing Harry writhing on the floor, unconscious and in pain, she could only focus on herself, shaken to her core. Did she really do all that? She already knew, of course, but she never realized how…. horrible it all was… 

She began to cry and could not stop until they reached Hogsmeade Station. Hermione’s hug could not drive away the demons. 

When Tom emerges from the Diary, Ginny almost forgets her hate. Barely too weak to stand upright, she stares at the young man who is her ruin. 

He was just so… handsome. So bloody, bloody gorgeous!  

She swallows hard, her breath quickening as he saunters over, smirking at her weakened state. Ginny suddenly hates her appearance, gross and unkempt, her fingers covered in rooster blood from the last message left to Hogwarts. 

“Here you are, at last! My dear, little Ginny. Such a good girl. You obeyed me perfectly. I am so proud.” He smiles down at her, perfect white teeth glinting in the green light. 

Ginny closes her eyes with a whimper. Even his voice is beautiful! Silky, smooth, deep, and sure. She hates herself for blushing. 

“Tom… why? Why did you make me–?” 

Suddenly, he’s directly in front of her, his hand a vice-like grip around her throat, his beautiful dark eyes turning blood-red. He isn’t mad, but calculating in his violent amusement. Ginny’s vision blurs, her knees hitting the wet stone beneath her. 

“I did nothing, my dear. It was your fault for listening to me. You should have known better, but alas. What else can you expect from a silly, lovesick girl?” 

As Ginny falls into darkness, she distantly realizes it was the first time he ever said the word “love.” 

When Ginny Weasley awoke in the Chamber of Secrets, with a bleeding Harry Potter holding the destroyed remnants of Tom Riddle’s Diary, she made a vow to herself. A vow she could not at the time convey in words even if she tried, but a vow nonetheless. 

The following school year she began talking more. Just talking. She still could not bring herself to speak in front of Harry (the shame had not quite disappeared), but she laughed more with Fred and George, she rolled her eyes at Ron, she wrinkled her nose at Percy’s pompousness. 

And she found herself inching closer to Hermione’s companionship. She wondered if perhaps she had a sister, a bossy knowledgeable sister like Hermione, if she would have revealed the horror of Tom Riddle much sooner. 

Even as she grew closer to her family and friends, she still never discussed her year under Tom Riddle’s control. No one pried and she did not reveal. 

Until nearly three years later, when Harry Potter believed himself to be under Voldemort’s control. 

Ginny snapped that he was forgetting to consult with the one person in their acquaintance who actually had been under Voldemort’s possession. She spoke of darkness, missing chunks of memory, blank spots in unexpected moments.

And suddenly, a lightness filled her. 

While Harry Potter battles with Voldemort’s Basilisk, Ginny Weasley is drowning. 

Except she is not in a pool of water, but slimy, ebony ink. It clings to her skin, it dyes her hair, it fills her nose, her mouth, her throat…. 

But she does not die. Only lingers in this unending blackness. 

She weeps black tears and cries for Tom to release her, Tom please forgive her, Tom loves her and needs to save her…. 

But Tom Riddle only laughs mirthlessly. His handsome face and gorgeous, unfeeling eyes haunting her mind as she sinks deeper into the abyss… 

The night after she confessed about her possession to Harry, Ron, and Hermione, Ginny dreamed of Tom. Only it wasn’t nightmare fuel that terrorized her nights for so long. 

Tom Riddle was closer to her own age now. Instead of the handsome, out-of-reach older boy, he seemed more her peer than ever before. 

“Ginny, why couldn’t you stay with me? Why did you leave me?” he pleaded, his beautiful dark eyes aching with grief. 

And that’s how Ginny knew this was only a dream. 

“Things would never have worked out between us, darling,” she whispered to this fake Tom, to the Tom of her childish whimsies. “You are not this way. You never were.” 

Tom smirked slightly and he began to resemble the real Tom Riddle, only still a little too soft, a little too fragile. “I suppose you’re right. You really are very smart for your age.” 

“I’m not the little girl you once knew,” Ginny murmured. 

“Perhaps not. But you’ve grown wiser. Because of me.” 

Ginny clenched her fists so hard she could almost feel it in real life. Because of Tom? No, she had grown up in spite of Tom. She could have easily succumbed to the trauma and lost herself. She hid her pain and suffering and endured nightmares, Dementors, humiliation, and the terrible burden of committing heinous acts against her free will. 

No, she did not grow wiser or stronger or anything because of Tom. In fact, she barely believed she was any stronger or wiser now. 

But she did not have to endure Tom Riddle anymore. 

Ginny looked into Dream Tom’s deceiving loving eyes and took a deep breath: “I gave you my mind blindly, but no more. You have no power over me.” 

Tom snarled and his eyes flared red and he lunged at Ginny, but this was only a dream, and sure enough, his body vanished into green smoke, and Ginny was free-falling in darkness, except there was a light below her feet and— 

“Ginny? Ginny!” 

She awoke with a start. Hermione Granger hovered over her, her eyebrows contracted in concern. 

“Are you alright?” 

Ginny nodded slowly, then looked to her left towards the window. She smiled softly. 

“I am. It’s daylight.”