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Hold.
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"A shady friend - for Torrid days -
Is easier to find -
Than one of higher temperature
For Frigid - hour of Mind -"
--Emily Dickinson
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Chapter One: Abstract
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August 9th, 1992
Ginny plopped onto her bed, glancing over her shoulder to make certain that she truly was alone, and that the door was perfectly shut, closing her and her muddled thoughts away from the busy comings and goings of the family.
She was grateful to have her own room, however small it was. Being the only daughter of the family had its small advantages… despite the fact that the room had been added to the top story as a present for her eighth birthday, and seemed to fit haphazardly under the attic, and tipped over the second story at a strange angle.
Clearing that from her mind, Ginny proceeded to address more important matters. She spread her books out across her bed, clearing away the ones accounted for until she found what she'd been seeking.
Intrigued, Ginny brought out a new quill, dipped it in ink, and let it hover over the page…
What was she doing? This clearly belonged to someone else – why should she write in it?
Better yet – how'd she get it? Did she even pay for it? Did someone give it to her? Maybe the person didn't want it anymore… perhaps that's why they hadn't written anything… Maybe they were looking for it? Perhaps someone could track her down, and they'd accuse her of stealing it, and then maybe –
"Ginny!"
With a jolt, the Weasley in question jumped out of her thoughts and back the present. She recovered, finding that she'd tipped over her new inkbottle, which had spilled over onto the page.
Her initial reaction was frustration, but upon watching a moment longer, she saw the ink immerse itself into the page, spreading out like spidery veins… drinking… living… A small trail trickled on, leaving no trace behind it until it finally spilled onto her bed, staining the fabric.
The spidery lines flickered back, slithering their way into the visible surface of the page, clearly scripting beautiful flourishes that looped gracefully into one word – indefinite, infinitely open yet ambiguous - bursting with anonymous invitation… and eerie charm…
Hello.
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'I'm scared, Tom.'
Ginny waited for the comforting words to embrace her gently after drinking in her untidy scrawl of dread and anxiety.
It was true. With the Sorting only hours away, the sky was growing dark. Hermione was her only companion in the train compartment, though Ginny tried deliberately to sit as far away as possible.
These words were hers and hers alone.
Scared of what?
'The Sorting. School. Everything.'
The reply was prompt.
There's nothing to be scared of. You don't expect trouble, do you?
No, Ginny thought. Her quill touched the page, scratching lightly.
'Not with what I heard about last year. There shouldn't be any danger - not anymore. But it's the Sorting th –'
The dark veins of ink interposed Ginny's quickly disappearing words.
What happened last year?
'Nothing.'
Tom's question repeated, smothering Ginny's evasive reply with a bolder script.
What happened?
Ginny struggled for a moment. Not only did she have but a small part of the story, she also doubted it would make sense at all to Tom.
'Voldemort'
There was a long pause. Ginny thought fleetingly of dismissing the matter when Tom's handwriting shone fresh on the parchment again.
Interesting name. Who is he?
I might have. But I won't know unless you tell me.
So, Ginny told him. She told him everything she knew. Every bit of the dark wizard's past she knew about – which actually didn't amount to much. She kept writing and writing, often spouting thoughts that continued in rambling circles until she began repeating herself – then she hit a snag.
Harry Potter. Haven't you mentioned him before?
'Once,' Ginny lied. She figured maybe he wouldn't remember names that well. Yet, it seemed her thoughts must have been entirely clear through her script, for there was no other way he could have known her so well to be lying.
You trust me, don't you Ginny?
Ginny replied honestly, however meaningful the words portrayed themselves to be – evasive, wary, but true.
'I don't know you.'
You know me well enough to know I'm not about to tell anyone.
'Tell anyone what?'
That you like this boy.
'But I –' the ink trailed off, and dripped over the page. She did. But it hadn't been that obvious, had it? Evidently, for it seemed Tom felt he didn't even need to reply.
'Who are you, Tom?'
Ginny heard a noise from across the compartment, and she glanced up to see Hermione bringing out a book to read. She smiled at Ginny, but Ginny only looked down at the page – still blank.
It seemed the absence of words told more than any reply he may have had. Though, Ginny was too eager on his words to notice any hesitance – or at least to be aware that he was being just as careful as she was.
Your friend, Ginny. Nothing more.
Relief and warmth washed over the young girl strongly enough that she never found a moment to notice he hadn't answered any questions at all.
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Note: First chapter's always boring, I know. But I actually obsessed a lot over making this story perfect, so... makes an ahem type sound, indicating the review button
Two chapters left.