Below Her Bed

Below her bed is a book filled with blank pages.

It's got the words Ginny's Diary scratched into the leather cover, and it's lying beside a brand-new pot of ink, but neither of these items has ever been opened and both are collecting dust.

They are not forgotten, though. She can sense the book under the bed, even if she won't pull it out, and it almost brings her comfort. It's not the same diary from her first year at Hogwarts, but it's black and it's small and it's empty, and because she's never tried writing in it, she cannot say for certain whether or not anyone will write back.

A piece of her knows she shouldn't want anyone to write back, and that she shouldn't even have bought a diary in the first place. It's a brutal reminder, and it keeps the wounds of the past from fully healing, and she'd be better off throwing it away. But it's also thrilling, to have the possibility of danger right there within arm's reach, and to know that it has no power until she gives it power.

(No matter what she tells her family, she does not regret Tom Riddle.)

"Ginny," her brother says the summer after her first year as she lies in the grass with her eyes closed against the sun. "What are you doing?"

"Dreaming," she says, which is a lie, because she isn't dreaming, she's remembering, she's fantasizing, and she's a little bit scared at how far her imagination can take her.

"Up for some Quidditch?" he asks. "Fred, George, and Bill already made a team, and Charlie and I could use another player against them."

"Did you ask Percy?"

Ron snorts. "Percy? Are you serious?"

Are you serious?

(In spite of the sun, everything goes cold.)

She opens her eyes. "I'll play," she says, standing up and brushing herself off. "I'll be Chaser."

"Great," Ron says with a grin, and if he notices that her face has lost all its color, he doesn't say anything.

Dear Mr. Riddle,

Tom, Ginevra. You can call me Tom.

Dear Tom, I feel like a fool today.

What's wrong? Anything I can do?

I don't think so. I tripped in the Great Hall this morning. In front of everyone. Harry Potter saw me and everything. I want to kill myself.

Are you serious?

Yes. I'm so humiliated.

You actually want to die?

Oh. No, I suppose not. Not really.

Good. Don't say things like that to me.

Why not?

They make me worry. I don't know what I would do if you died. You are very important to me.

Are you serious?

Extremely.

I've never been important to anyone before.

You are the biggest part of my world, Ginevra.

Below her bed is a book filled with blank pages.

She brings it back to Hogwarts with her after the summer and stows it under the mattress and tries to fight the longing in the pit of her stomach. Every tick of the clock is a reminder of how different things are now; this time last year she hadn't even written to him yet, hadn't even found the diary folded up inside her other textbooks. . . .

"Pass the jam, will you, Ginny?" says her friend, and she does, but he's clumsy and she's not paying attention (she's distracted by the sun, it's pouring in through the windows and it's too hot, too bright, too much), so the jam slips between both of their sets of fingers and spills all over the table.

"Sorry, Collin," she says as her friend lets out a cry and begins to mop up the mess. "I didn't mean to - here, let me help." She pulls out her wand, but Collin is already waving her away.

"It's fine, Ginny, don't worry," he says with that gentle smile everyone's been using around her lately. "I've got it. I'll take care of all of it."

Ginny bites down hard on her tongue and excuses herself from the Great Hall.

I've done it again, Tom.

Done what?

Embarrassed myself. Everyone's making fun of me.

It can't be as bad as you think. What happened?

I wrote him a Valentine. I didn't think he'd guess it was from me. I didn't realize I was so obvious.

And people are making fun of you now?

Yes. Slytherins, mostly. Draco Malfoy is the worst. I hate him. I hate them all.

I wish I were there with you, Ginny. It hurts me to hear that you're upset.

I wish you were here, too.

I'd make them stop. I'd show them what a kind, lovely person you are, and I'd make them stop. You're Ginevra Weasley, and you are perfect exactly the way you are, and the next person who dares to laugh at you will. . . .

. . . will? Will what?

You know, Ginny, there could be a way for me to come to you after all.

Really? How?

There is a place you can meet me. It's right here inside the castle. You've been there before, but you might not remember. If I give you directions, will you come?

Of course I will.

Good. Let me take care of it, Ginevra. I'll take care of all of it for you.

Below her bed is a book filled with blank pages, and she hasn't opened it but she's starting to think she wants to.

"Ginny?" her professor asks when she knocks on the door. "Are you alright?"

Ginny swallows. "No," she whispers. "There's something wrong with me, Professor, and I don't know who else to talk to."

McGonagall sets down her quill and Vanishes the pile of essays on her desk. "Come in," she says. "What's the problem?"

"It's the sun." Ginny glances out the window where the sun in question is sinking gently toward the horizon like a deflated balloon. "For months now - ever since the end of last year - it's been too bright, too hot. I constantly want to . . . escape, I suppose, is the right word. Escape to somewhere darker, cooler." She shudders. "I have this strange feeling - like something's pulling me back down there."

She won't say the Chamber's name. McGonagall understands anyway.

"Are you concerned that You-Know-Who left a spell on you?" the professor asks, drawing her wand. "Do you feel a magical connection to that place?"

"It's not like that." Ginny shakes her head. "Nothing magic. It's just a longing."

McGonagall doesn't say anything for a long moment. Then: "Did you love him?"

(And the shudder that runs through her makes her blood run cold, which is almost a relief.)

I want to see you tonight.

I want to see you tonight, too.

Will you write the directions again? I never quite remember. I always feel a bit fuzzy when I get back from seeing you.

Of course. But first I want to have a chat.

We can't chat when I come to see you?

I don't want this conversation to be fuzzy to you. I want you to remember it.

Okay. What do you want to talk about?

Harry Potter

What about him?

You haven't written about him in weeks. How do you feel about him, Ginevra?

Honestly? I think I've given up.

Oh?

He isn't going to notice me. I'm better off with someone who appreciates me. Someone like you.

Someone like me?

You care about me. Don't you?

More than you could possibly imagine. Do you care about me?

Yes.

Come, now, Ginny. Speak your mind. I know there's more than just a "yes" in you.

I care about you. More than I intended to, actually.

Do you love me?

I think so.

Say "yes" again, Ginevra. I like to hear you say "yes."

Yes.

Yes, what?

Yes, I love you. Yes.

Do you want to be with me? Not just for tonight, but for longer?

Like a boyfriend?

Like a boyfriend.

Of course I want to. Tom, I would follow you to the end of the world. You know that.

When you come to me tonight, will you stay? All night?

Yes. Yes, yes, yes.

I do like it when you say that word. Say it again. And tell me you love me.

Yes. I love you.

Below her bed is a book filled with blank pages.

It doesn't matter that it's been years since she wrote to him, doesn't matter that lifetimes have passed, or that she's married now, or that the man Tom Riddle grew into is dead and gone.

Because the memories are still fresh, and certain words still make her think of him, and the sun still makes her ache for the darkness of secret chambers and fresh ink.

"Ginny," her husband says one night when she's out in their backyard staring at her reflection in the lake. "What is this?"

She turns. In his hand is a diary with her name etched into the cover.

"It's nothing," she says.

"It's empty." Harry looks worried. "I found it under our bed, and it's empty, and I thought - "

"It's not what you think it is. I've never written in it." She takes the book from his hands and presses a kiss into his cheek. "Go up to bed. I'll be in soon."

When he's gone, she looks at the diary for a long time, calculating, deciding.

Her fingers wind around a reed - stroke it gently - pull it out of the ground.

She Transfigures it into a quill and presses it against the first page.

Dear Diary, she writes. My name is Ginevra Weasley.

She waits.

The ink shines in the moonlight.

It does not disappear.

Dear Diary, My name is Ginevra Weasley.

Hello, Ginevra Weasley. My name is Tom Riddle.

She closes her book filled with blank pages (except for one lonely sentence waiting for a reply that will never come) and tries to decide whether she's relieved or heartbroken.

"Ginny?" Harry calls from the window. "Are you coming inside?"

"Yes," she calls over her shoulder, even though "yes" is not Harry's word, "yes" was Tom's, "yes" was theirs, and she knows it wasn't real love, but the piece of her that still believes in happy endings can't let go.

Maybe that's why it hurts so much when she leans over the lake and drops the book into the water.

Maybe that's why she doesn't stay outside long enough to watch it fade into the depths below.

Quidditch League, Round 4

Position: Keeper

Word Count: 1,733

Prompt: Begin and end with the same word (a preposition)