Disclaimer: Do you think Iím actually making any money off of this? No. Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling.
It was a trial, being eleven years old. Most people thought that thirteen or sixteen or one of the later years was the most difficult, that younger children were still carefree and innocent, and had no troubles whatsoever because they were sure that whatever happened, their parents would be there to take care of it, or an idea similar to this. Either everyone was extremely misinformed or she was very different, and she was hoping that she wasnít different. After all, everyone said hearing voices wasnít a good sign even in the magical world, and someone else, completely invisible and mysterious, writing to you was probably just as bad, if not worse.
She had been warned by her parents to never trust anything that thinks for itself, not if she couldnít see where it keeps its brain. But those words of advice had faded into the back of her mind when she had discovered the secret of the little diary she had found, wedged between the cover and first page of her worn Transfiguration textbook.
She had been drawn to it at first because it looked so nice. It wasnít worn or damaged in any way, and the black leather was very soft. She had flipped the gold-trimmed pages to find the paper was of a pleasing texture, rather thick and almost rubbery, and she had been eager to see the effect of ink on paper like that. It was so perfect and expensive-looking compared to everything else she owned, better than anything her brothers had too. She had been foolishly excited, and had taken it up to her dormitory as soon as she got settled in what was to be her room for a year. After carefully drawing the crimson hangings around her bed closed she had sprawled out, stomach down, on her bed with her battered quill and a half-full jar of ink. She had considered writing her name on the first page, but decided against it because that was a whole page of this wonderful book wasted, and who knew if she would ever own something as nice again? So instead she began her first entry, her handwriting a little sloppy because her hand was shaking a bit with eagerness. She imagined briefly of filling the book with brilliant thoughts and deep secrets, and had lowered her quill full of happy plans.
Hi, she had written down, feeling kind of stupid for not having anything more interesting to say for her first word in this record of her life. I guess you want to know who I am! My nameís Ginny Weasley. Well, Ginevra, really, but no one calls me that. Itís too long for me.
It had almost scared her out of her skin when her words were sucked into the page like a drink through a straw. She had barely stifled a scream. The book was alive!
She was about to slap it closed and throw it out the nearest window when the ink bubbled back to the surface of the page. Her eyes glued to the page in a sort of horrific fascination as the ink formed into words. Not in her own clumsy handwriting, but in a flowing, almost pretty, script.
Hello Ginny, the ink spelled out. She felt her breath catch in her throat. HowÖ?
Itís wonderful to meet you, the hidden consciousness continued. I havenít had anyone write to me in the longest time.
She didnít know what to do. She was sorely tempted to chuck the book away and never think about it again, butÖmaybe it was the handwriting, or the friendly words. Maybe it was her own, childish stupidity, but she found herself dipping her quill in ink again and responding.
Who are you?
She waited as the ink was absorbed by the page, imagined she could hear the thing breathing as it took in her question. There was a slight pause before the ink rose back to the surface. This time the response was short.
My name is Tom, it said. Ginny dipped the quill in the ink again and scrawled, How can you talk to me? I should throw this freaky book away.
Donít do that, ďTomĒ had said, his script suddenly more slanted and urgent-looking. Please, itís been lonely without someone to talk to me. I canít hurt you Ė itís just a charm on the book that I cast so I could meet new people.
Her naivetť, possessed by all children her age, wouldnít allow her to come up with another explanation. Her naturally trusting nature kicked in, and she found herself writing back yet again.
You promise? It wouldnít hurt to have someone to talk to, I guess. I just started here at school and I donít really know anyone yet but my brothers, and theyíd be embarrassed if I talked to them in front of their friends.
I promise. Why wouldnít your brothers talk to you? You seem like a nice girl to me.
You donít even know me yet, but itís because Iím younger. They donít think I know anything.
She watched bitterly as the ink was sucked into the page. Tomís reply, when it came, was refreshingly sympathetic.
I can understand that. Older siblings can be rude, canít they? But you sound intelligent to me, and soon youíll have enough friends that you wonít care if they ignore you a bit.
Iím sure. But tell me about yourself Ė if weíre going to be friends, Iíd like to know more than your name.
Friends. With one word she was hooked, and she knew it. There would be no turning back now Ė she wanted a friend more than anything.
You really want to be friends with me? You donít have to just because I found the book. I could give it to someone more interesting.
No, no Ė I want to be friends with you, Ginny. Youíre interesting, trust me.
And foolishly, naively, thatís exactly what she did. And although she didnít know it, a bond was created between them when she wrote OKÖweíre friends, then. Except it wasnít a bond of friendship, as she had suspected, but the faintest, obscurest part of her mind slipped into the control of the diaryís true owner, although she had no way of knowing that at the time.
a/n: I know itís short, but the story isnít going to be very long, either Ė around six chapters Ė and it also means Iíll be updating fairly quickly. Obviously, Tomís writing is bold, while Ginnyís is plain italics. Leave a review and tell me what you think. Criticism and nitpicking are welcome here.