Trifle
Still breathing deeply, Ginny stormed into her dorm, throwing the diary down onto her bed with more force than was really necessary. She crossed her arms over her chest, glaring down at it while her breath slowed gradually.
It didn't move, of course – he was the only living part of it – and he was inside. It was about time she dealt with him, gave him a piece of her mind. Ginny stayed were she was, preparing herself for this; talking, arguing, with him was never easy. She knew he'd win in the end, but she wasn't going to let him there without a fight. She wasn't some weak little first year – vulnerable, emotional, and she didn't want her feelings played with.
The diary looked oddly innocent, almost pitiable – if not for the golden writing embroidered at the bottom of it. In the purple dusk, the color glittered and sparkled mischievously, making the sodden, ripped and dusty book appear powerful. It was the strangest of things.
This whole situation was entirely strange. Ginny scratched her nose distastefully and sunk onto her bed. Her fingers automatically worked to open the diary, and to grab the quill she'd stashed under her pillow in haste nights ago.
Her hand was shaking too badly for Ginny to write a complete sentence, so she thrust the tip of the quill into the diary, deep, trying to convey all of her feelings into the ink that spread over the page to form a large, heart-shaped dot. Ironic.
Welcome back, Ginny.
At this point, Ginny was beyond having to read what Tom said. His words echoed in her head before they even finished appearing on the page. His voice was calm and smooth, almost teasing. Her mind scrambled even more as she tried to resist the seductive calmness that was washing over her, just from hearing his voice.
She fought against it, focusing on her anger.
Harry. What did you tell him? she wrote.
The truth, but that is not your business. You know what must be done.
"I don't care what must be done!" Ginny whispered harshly as she wrote. "I am not your bidder."
The words disappeared. Tom wrote nothing here, and she could almost see his sardonic expression.
Fine, she continued writing. But why Harry? Of all people, you choose the one you know would mean most to me if he… if he knew, found out… Do you have any idea the way he'd look at me if he knew?
At least he'd look at you.
She wasn't even sure if it was Riddle talking now, or herself. The words were blurring on the page; she couldn't tell. Her anger and energy were leaving her now, all around her darkness was closing in. The sun seemed to fast forward – it was below the horizon in seconds.
Tears replaced the droplets of ink that Ginny had intended to make into sentences – sentences that would have put Tom in his place, set her free, given her a piece of her mind (God knew she was capable of that.) What had gotten her into this should have gotten her out. But now, Tom was still writing, his voice still filling her head. A ringing grew louder and louder in her ears, giving her a headache. She couldn't remember what she had to say… needed to say…
Ginny's head was filled with memories of writing on the wall in her own blood, crawling through long, freezing tunnels; making a mess of the Gryffindor boys' dormitories in search of the diary… of Tom… her Tom.
Now everything around her was a shade of black or red, and the room was spinning, and she couldn't remember why she had been angry at Tom, but she knew that that same anger could be better directed in another direction – filthy Mudbloods…
And that was when Ginny realized,
Tom Riddle was not "her Tom"; she was "his Ginny."
A/N: Phew. Okay, I was watching Chamber of Secrets and suddenly became inspired (that could also be the reason this doesn't flow very well, if that's the case). Either you liked it or hated it, as these are getting old, because obviously I'm in a Tom Riddle mood, I mean, Beauty and the Beast (which I really do plan to update, I swear) and now this.
Free chocolate for reviewers!