My Last Breath

Ginny Weasley's curiosity is sparked. She walks towards the funeral, slightly dazed as millions of scenarios- some absurd, some believable- pop through her head as to who exactly Tom Riddle was, or if he knew Myrtle, or if he was a Muggle, or what. Her eyes are slightly glazed during the remainder of the funeral, muttering half-hearted replies to the sorry's, and the sympathies that she feels she doesn't need.

Some part of her does. That part of her that yearns for attention, that everyone has somewhere in their system- the one that most people can control, but sometimes it pops out in some, like a worst enemy who you try to find every fault in.

But Ginny hides it so well that she doesn't even know it's there, herself.

Her words are used sparingly, though effectively; within the last twenty people apologizing she is left alone, free to rot in a corner somewhere where she is not loved. She takes no notice of the boy in another corner, with mussed, black hair and bright green eyes watching her with a slight apologetic and concerned gaze.

He cares about her, to put it bluntly. She takes Cedric's death too hard, the gossipers say, among those Lavender Brown and Parvarti Patil. She thinks about it too much, she should really let go. As if they forgot his death was less than a week ago.

They expect a lot of her, too. Harry expects her to live, and not let grief be her anchor; Lavender and Parvarti just want her to move on for their own talkative pleasures; Myrtle wants to peeve her, to get under her skin (as she didn't have any); and she, herself, wants to be her own person, and not someone else, and although no one knew this, it hits her hard, hard and heavy.

She sneaks around these people- they are all in their own affairs, anyway, as if the tragic accident never happened, as if it never affected her, or Cedric's life- as if they had forgotten Cedric. It rather sickens her, almost as much as seeing Myrtle chatting pleasantly with the people, her loud, shrieking voice echoing in her mind as if a mocking- 'I took your place'.

With this strategy she takes the back road towards the restrooms, slinking into the background as a cat would. Her cool brown eyes examine the scene with halfhearted eyes; she barely feels anymore. Except for her curiosity.

Her curiosity is peaking. She has always been a bit of a risk taker, a bit of an outsider in that sort. She is the one who would do a dare, or answer a truth honestly. She is the one that is innocent, but not, and risky, but careful. She is a contradiction in motion.

She heads off towards the bathroom, the diary clutched tightly in her hand, a quill in the other whilst she maneuvers around the crowds of people nearby, some laughing. A light fury of fire rises in her throat, but she ignores it; her steps are hurried to get out of this disarrayed funeral.

Her hurried steps morph into a sort of half-run, looking behind her to ensure that she is alone. Smirking slightly at her accomplishment, she hides in a nearby corner, sinking to her knees as she drops the diary and quill. She needs to vent, maybe just a bit- this day is almost an overload.

She should expect this though. She is in a war, not a field of flowers, and she should have known someone dear was going to die; even as young as Cedric was. Her throat choking up slightly, she takes a deep breath as she directs her attention to the diary.

'Dear Diary,' she writes, 'Life has been pretty horrible now. I'm at a funeral, see, diary, and it's full of people laughing and enjoying themselves as if they didn't even know him. Oh, it makes me mad. If I were in the mood I think I'd hit the obnoxious ones with a nasty Jelly-Legs Jinx.

'I don't think he should get off this easily. I mean, I know people die a lot and I know he's just one of the many, but really, he was young! Not even 20! And he died! How did that happen, diary? Honestly..!

'Oh, I'm tired. Hot chocolate sounds very appealing right now, but butterbeer and firewhiskey is the whole of the drinks they have here (both of which would either make me sick to my stomach or drunk; or, I suppose, both). So I guess I'll have to stay in this lovely corner.

'- Ginevra'.

She feels satisfied after writing this, and, a slight weight off of her shoulders, she attempts to reread it. But after a mere second of looking for her previous text, she finds that it is not on the paper anymore; the ink seems to have sunken in.

'Hello, Ginevra.'

She blinks slightly at the text that has just come up on the diary, and watches as it starts to fade seconds after it is written, just like she wrote. She picks up the quill and replies.

'Um, hello? Who are you?'

She waits once more. And sure enough, she is not disappointed, after just seconds of pause, another sentence appears; in lovely, perfect calligraphic scrawl, something that she has only seen in the small booths around Diagon Alley for the traveling artists.

'My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. This... is my diary.'

Her eyebrows furrowing, she picks up the quill again.

'Why are you in the diary? Oh, are you stuck? Were you enchanted into it? I didn't know that there was a spell for that. Are you there on your own accord or did someone hex you? I can check the library, you know.'

'No... no, I'll be fine.... how did you manage to find my diary?'

'Oh, I found it in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom- she's the ghost here, she's really annoying and whiny and a total brat, and I found you in a puddle on her floor (her floors are very messy).' Do you know what Hogwarts is?'

'I'-

'It's the school, here, it's for witches and wizards. Have you always lived in a diary or have you been alone on your own before? And are you okay? It must have been hard living in a puddle.'

'I'll... be fine. Will you be?'

'Oh, um, I hope so. I think I will be after I get over it. This- funeral, or whatever, really doesn't help, but I think I'll put it behind me soon. I mean, I know, he's dead, but it's still kind of like he's here, you know?'

'I... I can bring him back.'

'Pardon?'

'I can bring him back. I'd... I'd need your help, though.

'And we cannot... do it here. At Hogwarts, I mean. Is there anywhere else your family is staying?'

'We're going to the Burrow for a short summer vacation- apparently Hogwarts sees it fit to add in more holidays so parents don't have to leave their children for too long. The Burrow is my house, by the way, if you're confused.'

'Where... where do you live?'

'Ottery St. Catchpole. It's a very tiny village, but, you know... there are some muggles around, but other that that, it's pretty deserted-'

'Are you Muggleborn?'

'Oh, no. I'm a Weasley.'

'Interesting.'

'Do you know my family?'

'I've heard of them. I know a Tessa?'

'Oh, that's our great-aunt. She went to Hogwarts a long time ago; she's rather old, and she smells bad. She's Auntie Muriel's mother. My dad's side, so they're all Weasleys. When did you know her?'

'I went to school with her... in the forties. What time is it now?'

'It's 1996, June Seventeenth. Almost the end of school.... I'm soon to be a fourth year, thank goodness, I've been waiting for ages, you know. It's very... I would say traumatic, but it's actually not... they put a lot of work on us this year. And it's not even O.W.L. year.

'How old are you?'

'Sixteen.'

'Oh, that's cool. I love being in my 'teens, now. It's so much more free-spirited than my eleven and twelve year old selves. I blush at the thought, really.'

'Why would you do that, Ginevra?'

'Well, I had a big crush, on Harry Potter- he's really famous, and I guess I was starstruck- but I made a fool out of myself around him. Fred and George couldn't get enough, really.

'Oh, Mum's calling... I have to go, now, Tom. I swear, I'll talk to you soon. You made me feel a lot better. Thanks.'

'Anytime. Thank you... for finding me. Please tell me more about Hogwarts and this famous Harry Potter soon. You interest me.'

'Guaranteed. Thank you for listening.'

Ginny Weasley closes the diary with that, feeling rather much better about Cedric's death than she would have experienced. She scurries towards her mother's voice, her curiosity ebbing away like a flame cut off from oxygen. Like a cigarette stubbed against a person's foot. Like a closed, tiny, tight space.

And more than her curiosity will be at stake.