My Last Breath

He was a great person. A friend. Loyal, kind, fierce, everything Hufflepuff house stood for. Speeches, one by one, each person saying their goodbyes. A few tears, loads of silence. Sniffling and lack of tissues. It sickens her so.

Walking down the Hogwarts corridors, waiting for it to just end, so she could wrap herself up in heavy wool blankets and sleep. Her eyes glaze slightly, memories piling in, one after another. It wasn't fair.

She walks down each hall, avoiding all human interaction. Just waiting, waiting, and waiting. For someone to tell her it was a joke, for someone to tell her he was perfectly fine- anything, anything but this.

Her feet slide slightly on the puddles surrounding Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. She scowls; this place of perfection, the place of his funeral, spent nearby the irresponsible company of Moaning Myrtle. He only deserved the best.

"Why aren't you at the funeral?" Myrtle's voice rings out, loud and annoying from the silence she was used to hearing. Her scowl deepens, her peeve only increasing more, starting off from where she left off in second year.

"Sod off, Myrtle," says she, each word soaking in venom, and Myrtle let out a puff of offense. "I'm not that mean, you know. Just ask Harry," she says, giggling in happiness, in which Ginny wrinkles her nose at. "You're a perverted mess."

Moaning Myrtle pouts. "Hmmf!" she says, apparently unable to think of a proper come-back to this, as she dive-bombs into the toilet. This seems to annoy Ginny even more than before. She glares heavily at Myrtle, who frowns slightly. "Fine. I'll take your place at the funeral." She squeals childishly at this, zooming out the door, Ginny's glare following her as she goes.

Ginny walks around, her sandals soaking in the puddles nearby, as she holds in a grimace. It seems disgusting, tainted, to be there, to ruin the floors in the way that it did...

A black, square object lies nearby the sinks. Curiosity has aroused; there is no turning back from here. Ginny curiously grabs hold of the book, which is drenched in the bathroom's water. She frowns slightly, promising to take better care of it than Myrtle did.

After all, diaries are the heart, soul, and mind of almost every teenage girl. She had used one once, back in her first year, where she had rambled on her schoolgirl crush on Harry, the famous Boy Who Lived.

Ginny seems a bit nerved by this thought, the thought of him, in the middle of Cedric's funeral. Things were just too confusing, now, with people nowadays that Ginny just felt like jumping onto her bed and having a good sob.

Her alternative is the diary. Journal, diary, whichever. It is sleekly black, with rather old parchment that seems to be, at the least, fifty years old. In gold print at the bottom, however, it bears the name of 'Tom Marvolo Riddle'. It was interesting, and mystery covers every inch, centimeter of it- but Ginny is intrigued.

There is no going back.