A Little Black Book

Ginny stood silently and watched the rest of her family; they had just arrived back from the fireplace at the Leaky Cauldron to the warm Weasley kitchen. Fred and George immediately thundered up the rickety stairs, a box of Filibuster fireworks held carefully in front of them, like some kind of ancient relic. Ginny's parents: Arthur and Molly took up a fiercely whispered debate by the kitchen sink, while Percy searched through Miss Fortunes Flowchart Guide For Magical Mishaps for a spell to heal the cut on his father's lip, which was the result of the left-hook of an irate Lucius Malfoy.

Walking to the foot of the stairs, Ginny peered at her other brother, Ron, who was absorbed in catching a rogue Chocolate Frog. Sitting at the table was Harry Potter, who had been staying with them since he had mysteriously appeared at the breakfast table one morning. Harry looked up, still laughing at Ron. He saw the small figure, standing hopelessly by the second-hand standard size two pewter cauldron, filled to the brim with dusty, tatty schoolbooks.

Harry gave Ginny a cordial smile and shuffled over, she blushed furiously, unused to the attention of a boy who didn't have red hair, let alone a boy like Harry Potter. Together they heaved the cauldron up the stairs, each holding the russet handle with both hands, occasionally knocking their knees against the cold pewter.

Ginny banged her bedroom door open with her hip and the two staggered inside the bright room. The cauldron was unceremoniously dumped beside her bed. Harry wiped his brow, pulling unruly hair back from his forehead; Ginny could not help noticing the purple at the scar that was flashed across it.

"Err, thanks," Ginny muttered, tilting her head sideways away from the gaze of those emerald green eyes. Looking around her cluttered room she felt embarrassed. She wished it were nicer or cleaner or... anything other than its current state. A soft handmade red dragon perched on her bed, which she had slept with ever since she could remember. A mirror on a beaten desk reflected Harry's bemused face.

Harry tugged at his hair as he looked about Ginny's room. The room was smaller than his at Privet Drive, but without the piles of broken toys and games. It had been painted light yellow a long time ago and was filled with an assortment of books, boxes and peculiar objects that Harry had never seen before in his life, all of which he would have given anything to take a look at. There was a window facing out on to the rolling countryside of lush green fields and far in the distance, Harry was able to see the dark speck of a village, church tower pointing out of its midst. He had never been in a girl's room before. A voice floated up the stairs:

"Harry? Where are you?" it called, "Its jumped into the vegetable soup!" The worried voice belonged to Ron.

Harry turned towards the door. A photograph of Ginny and a tall boy, Harry assumed to be yet another Weasley brother was taped on to it. The Ginny in the picture waved goodbye from behind the ruffled shirt of the older redhead, where, unknown to Harry, she had taken refuge since they had hauled the dented cauldron into the room. Harry indicted his departure by means of an awkward finger-point downstairs and left Ginny's room.

Now alone, Ginny hurled herself violently on to the bed, and curled up on top of her sheets, cradling her head in her arms. Her hair covered her face, falling in a mess of strands about her, lolling on her pillow, flicking upwards, hiding the intense scarlet of her freckled cheeks. Her head pounded to the beat of her racing pulse, protesting loudly to unfair and unrequited emotion. She lay there, scrutinising her own stupidity. Not being the person she wanted to be.

Ginny heard the creaks of Harry rumble down the stairs, trying (and failing) to avoid the trick steps she had warned him about on the way up. At the same time someone was climbing up the stairs, the two did not speak to one another as they passed so Ginny was given no clue of the second individual's identity. Finally the stranger reached the landing and with a brush of the door a red-haired figure tumbled in.

"I'm fine," Ginny muttered, not waiting for the inevitable question, her voice now coming from the depths of a pillow she had stuck her head into. She deliberately did not look up.

"Oh, well that's nice," the figure said, casting aside the statement, "now what I wanted to talk to you about was Hogwarts, you, at Hogwarts to be exact. Now it may seem far away at the moment, but if you work at it, give the right impression, when the opportunity to be a Prefect... no, Head Girl arises, you're sure to be in with a chance. What I'm saying is if you need any advice, or pointers, come to me..." Percy was stopped in his tracks by a flying pillow aimed at his head.

"Oh honestly Virginia! That is not the mature attitude you should be taking as a soon-to-be student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!" he declared pompously, swelling his chest, where the polished Prefect badge glinted. He then proceeded to march out of the room, just avoiding the barrage of another pillow, which hit the door.

Now pillow-less, Ginny leaned over her bed and picked up A Beginners Guide to Transfiguration, a book that had been purchased at Flourish and Blotts for five Sickles. A shabby black book slipped from the pages of the larger text and landed with a deep thud on the worn wooden floor resting in the space between the cauldron and the bed. She peered at it puzzled. The book lay closed and intact, cover down.

A little black book, she mused and stretched out and pick it up. A flash of gold alerted her to the label of a newsagents somewhere in Vauxhall, London on the back cover. That wasn't a place in the Wizarding world, Ginny knew that much. Holding the book she felt its smooth reptilian skin and traced the outline of the faded year on the cover with a finger.

As the evening turned to dusk, and the sun sank into those evergreen hills Harry had looked out at, Ginny lay on her back, propping the enigmatic book up on her stomach. Flicking through the starched pages, which were all blank, she wondered if the book belonged to the last owner her Transfiguration textbook. Now looking at the inside pages she immediately knew the book must have been a diary, from a long time ago.

"But no one's written in it," Ginny contemplated out loud, as she reached the last page. Her Transfiguration book lay cast aside, unnoticed.

Just as she was about to place the diary onto the second shelf of her bedside cabinet, just as it was to become an insignificant blip in her life, a source of minimal interest to her future self, her hazel eyes fluttered over the name inscribed in smudged handwriting on the first page. T. M Riddle.

****

Packing the things she needed for Hogwarts took Ginny the rest of the evening. Unlike the boys of the Weasley household (Percy being the notable exception), Ginny had carefully planned what she was taking, writing list after list. The others threw everything, regardless of what the item actually was into their trunks, be it a sandwich or Gadding With Ghouls by Gilderoy Lockhart, then proceeded to swamp the Weasley house for requests of more socks, one missing shoe or one time, another sandwich, throughout the school term. Ginny re-read her Hogwarts acceptance letter and lists again, until finally she was satisfied she had packed everything. She could hear the rattle and murmur of people downstairs and feeling isolated sat on her bed, hugging the red dragon tightly.

The diary lay at her bedside. Ginny looked at it, keeping a stoic face and decided quite simply not to bring it to Hogwarts. There was something about it that unnerved her, filling her unconscious with a sense of dread. Partly due to the way her eyes were drawn to the object every time she walked into her room, like a magnetic force. The diary radiated something, a dark charisma. Her father's warnings of dark magic objects echoed in the back of her head. She stood up and closed the lid of the huge trunk, with a satisfying 'clunk', quickly her eyes darted back to the cabinet.

****

The clang of a shrill bell echoed about the house, downstairs Mrs. Weasley energetically swung the brass contraption about, calling her offspring in for dinner. Unsatisfied with the sluggish result she yelled out:

"Dinner! Come on Ginny. Fred, George, where are you?"

This time the rumbling of feet replied, as the absent members of the family made their way down to the kitchen. Feeling his wife's work was done, Mr. Weasley removed the two fingers he had shoved in to his ears and gave her a peck on the cheek. Now downstairs, Fred and George bounded around placing cutlery on the large, mysteriously expanding oak table. Ginny, last down, wandered into yet another scene of pandemonium as hot dishes were passed around and sat silently in a chair, her place indicted by three forks and a spoon.

****

Everyone had gone to bed. Of course in the Weasley house this meant very little, without even trying to hone in on the noise Ginny could hear the thumps of people moving about and excited whispering. The diary lay on her bedside cabinet, but now other things filled Ginny's head; Hogwarts School of Witch Craft and Wizardry. Now she was going there, after years of watching all her brothers run through the barrier between platforms nine and ten, and then step onto that Hogwarts train, its stream billowing furiously, anxious to leave on time.

Finally it was her turn. For years, every term she had begged her mother to let her go, the request during recent years, had become nonsensical tradition, as she now knew even her omnipotent mother could not grant that wish.

But instead of an intense rush of excitement, she felt her small stomach twist nervously as butterflies danced panicking quietly as she lay tucked firmly in bed. The feelings that took major focus in her mind were of doubt, fear, worry and doubt to be precise.

Fred and George had mentioned something about a test called the 'Sorting Ceremony', Fred said it hurt a lot, but Ginny thought he must have been joking. How could they test her? She hardly knew any magic! And what if she wasn't put in Gryffindor? All the Weasleys went into Gryffindor, even her parents had. She sighed miserably, her stomach now doing uncomfortable loops as she imagined Ron trying to comfort her after she had been put in Hufflepuff. She thought Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad, but what if they put her in Slytherin? Involuntarily, Ginny shivered.

Turning to blow out the candle, which had been dripping onto the bedside cabinet shelf, she noticed the gaunt diary, placed precariously on top of copies of newspapers, magazines and books she hadn't got round to reading. The Weasley house was silent now, except for the rattle of her window as the wind bashed about its fragile frame. The candle shot out rays of opaque colour, which illuminated a circle containing her bed as well as the cabinet and it's contents.

As her feet stretched out for space under the tightly folded and tucked sheets she decided to leave the candle alight, allowing her mind to find false salvation of the glimmering light, away from the dark reality that was already descending on her. Her sandy eyelashes flickered and the last form she saw before an erroneous sleep was that of the inexplicable black diary.

As she turned through shallow sleep, Ginny dreamt of a room filled echoes and a dark shadow. She smelt a putrescent stench of fear, hate, and death. Finally she collapsed into a deep ache of lethargy never felt before in her life. It was a vast dreamless sleep that would not allow her to move, her arms lay helpless and fastened tight to her sides.

****

Ginny's eyes fluttered open, slowly the room came into focus. Her brain told her she was sleeping on her side; features facing the cabinet, candle now all but wax entombing the shelf. There near her bed was the trunk and the cauldron reminding her of the day ahead, and on the cabinet, the diary. Her diary.

Sitting up too quickly blood rushed to Ginny's head, her whole body ached, including muscles Ginny was not previously aware that she had.

"Stupid... Floo Powder," she muttered aloud to herself, the syllables breaking a silence hanging about the air.

Ginny limped over to her window, pulling open the musty curtains with difficulty. Looking out, she saw the sun which was gradually rising over the hills. The day was going to be clear, a sunny ride on the Hogwarts Express it was then. She looked down into the garden, the lawn unkempt, the pond an azure shimmer and the turquoise Ford Anglia parked by the garage its boot open... its boot being loaded... Mr. Weasley poking about in the glove compartment, Ginny was horrified. Harry hauled his trunk towards the car, but was unseen by Ginny, who had rushed downstairs, to find breakfast in full swing.

"Oh! There you are dear!" said a surprised Mrs. Weasley, trying to make out she hadn't forgotten about her only daughter in the hurly-burly. "Don't worry, we're not leaving yet, well not quite yet...in fact, love, you better get dressed...Muggle clothes, remember."

The continuous flow of speech carried on, but was now it was directed towards Fred and George. "You two, get your sister's trunk down here."

The twins crammed their mouths with their remaining toast and looking like hamsters made their way to Ginny's room, occasionally stopping to nibble on the stair railing on the way.

Ginny was not allowed to sit down for breakfast, but was instead issued with a piece of toast and ushered upstairs without having time to butter it. Running up the staircase, Ginny collided into a rather harassed half-dressed Ron , hopping about, trying to put a sock on, both hands full with bits of toast.

Mr. Weasley entered the kitchen, trampling mud on the floor, "Has anyone seen my toffees?" he asked, scratching his head.

****

Ginny sat in the front seat of the car next to her mother, dressed in faded trousers and an oversized grey T-shirt. All she could think about was the diary, currently sitting on her bedside cabinet. Now Mr. Weasley had pulled out of the driveway, and was driving along two-track lane, it was too late to go back now.

Anyway, Ginny thought, it was just a diary, she could have all the parchment she wanted at Hogwarts.

The car stopped as George ran back to get his forgotten fireworks. Five minutes later, still barely at the end of the road they stopped for Fred's broomstick. Ginny twitched, agitated. She was fine without the diary, she told herself firmly. She could even get them to send it to her by owl post. She thought about Errol, the family's elderly owl and was suddenly worried about what would happen if Errol didn't quite make the journey, indifferent to the poor owl's health, instead feeling apprehensive about what would become of the diary! The car moved again, they were almost on the motorway. Small explosions could be heard from the bench-like back seat.

"Stop!" she shouted. Mr. Weasley jumped and slammed his foot on the brake. He stared at his daughter, unaccustomed with such volume and decisiveness and blinked, eyes bulging.

"I forgot my diary," Ginny said, slipping out of her seat and offering no other explanation.

****

"Hmm, well this is very interesting. Who do we have here? Ah yes, another Weasley. This one is difficult, could go either way. Everything balances on a blade's edge. Now, where to place you.... Resilient, I see...with an independent streak. And talent, oh yes, a strong ally, but on whose side?"

Ginny sat on the small stool in front of the four columns of tables, an old hat on her head that seemed to be talking to her in a small whispering voice. Ginny had worried at first that everyone could hear what the hat was saying, like when it had sung, but it appeared its judgement was for her ears alone. She looking along the tables, people chatted excitedly, empty chairs were now being filled. Fred and George waved madly at Ginny, while Percy nodded appreciatively. There was no sign of Ron and Harry.

As Ginny had waved goodbye from the train, hoping that the two were somewhere on board, the last look on her parent's faces was of badly hidden concern. Mrs. Weasley had been dismayed to find that Ron and Harry were missing,

"They're not here Arthur! They're going to miss the train!" she had wailed.

All the family had run about platform 9 and ¾ shouting, until the whistles went and the train launched itself from the buffers and off along the streamline tracks.

Still sitting on the stool, Ginny looked up at the warm colours radiating of the Gryffindor banner hung from the ceiling, a lion emblazoned on the crest, with a long golden mane, flowing. It seemed to her that she had sat there for an age, when suddenly the hat shifted,

"Gryffindor!" it screeched, its mouth a dark chasm where the stitching was undone. Ginny, whose heart was filled with emotion removed the hat and ran over to the table, cheered by its inhabitants. She sat down heavily, next to Colin Creevey, another first year.

****

Ginny sat in the most discrete part of the library she could find. It was near closing time and the winter sun hung low sky outside. She held the diary in her hands, and let a finger trail the archaic skin, curving the tip round a river of fissures that broke the scales of whatever impious creature the diary had once been. The oil lamps in the room flickered softly, as if in quiet contemplation. Carefully she placed the raven diary on the table where she had drawn a chair up to.

Now, leaning into the great mass of mahogany, the diary invited her inwards, to write; to express and release the tightness that bound her head, heart and stomach. Leaning so close she saw the grains of the wood dance. By the glancing light she saw the indentation of a thousand student's words, secretly copied through dilute pieces of parchment, the table snatching snippets of potions ingredients, love letters and History of Magic homework.

Her red hair gleamed as the same light illuminated it; spare stands caressed the pages of the diary. She tucked a few troublesome cords behind a pale ear and dipped her quill into the alloy inkpot someone had left half full. The ink was scarlet, Ginny curled her lip at the Gryffindor colour. Thinking about what to write she let the quill's velvety feather, struck by rigor mortis, brush against her parted lips, closing the disjointed fibres along its stalk. She straightened a creased page out and started to slowly scrawl on a crisp sheet.

'My name is Ginny Weasley. I go to Hogwarts...'

But before she could get any further letters suddenly formed on the page where she was about to write. Words appeared that she had not written.

'Hello Ginny Weasley,' the flowering letters, which flashed across the page, replied.

She dropped the feather quill in surprise, its blood-red ink splattered across the table as well as across the face of the diary. Some joke, she thought, it must be Fred or George. But even as she made the assumption she knew that she was in denial - the black diary was no prank. If this was a joke what was the funny part? Blinking several times, she saw her message, its reply and the splattered ink sink into the pages. Further down the page more words appeared in the same lucid writing.

'Hello Ginny? Are you still there?'

A chill crept down her spine, she shifted uncomfortably and then grabbing the quill she replied nervously.

'Yes. Who are you? T.M. Riddle?'

She waited eagerly for a reply. The ink in her quill was running out, the last letters of her reply was barely visible, as if the quill was strained to write the name. She dunked it into the pot of ink, while admiring the mysterious writing in front of her. It seemed to come from a different era; even her parents didn't have the copperplate style, full of great loops and curves.

'Yes Ginny, my name's Tom Marvolo Riddle. But you can call me Tom since I called you Ginny. I recorded my memories in this diary, in some more lasting way than ink.'

Ginny was excited; this must have be the person who had owned her Transfiguration book. The hidden writer paused, waiting for this information to sink in, then continued.

'Did you say you went to Hogwarts?'

'Yes,' she scribbled back, heart beating rapidly.

'I went there too, once, a long time ago. What's it like now? I'd love to know.'

Ginny smiled, someone from Hogwarts couldn't be all that bad. The night was closing in around her and she found comfort in the darkness, it was a place to hide the diary in, and write to the secret friend, someone she wouldn't tell anyone about. The diary was her secret, something, no, someone not her brothers or even her parents would know about. Hers.

****