Apologies for the unimaginitive title. Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling.
The thing beneath the hood, whatever it was, drew a long, slow, rattling breath, as though trying to suck something more than air from its surroundings. An intense cold swept over them all.
It was like ice, fluid and thicker than blood, was coursing through her veins, turning her breath to smoke and rising gooseflesh on her arms. Wintery fingers scrabbled within her chest, ripping her insides apart. Her heart seemed to freeze over and crack open. Black ink began to seep out.
She felt a sudden deluge of anguish and heartbreak and loneliness, making her unable to think, unable to feel anything, no love, no hope, no joy, as a thousand lurid images flashed through her drowning memory.
The smooth, yellowing pages of a lost diary. Hagrid's roosters, dead at her hand. A wall glistening with messages of her own death, her fingers stained red. His soft, silvery voice on the pages and in her head.
I'm sure Harry does like you, Ginny.
She was vaguely aware of Harry going rigid and tumbling from his seat.
You'll do something for me, won't you, Ginny?
Is that Neville dropping to the floor to see if Harry is alright? Is it Ron telling Hermione to do something?
Don't be frightened of me, Ginny.
She had never seen a Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher look scared before.
You're choosing to do this of your own accord, because you love me, don't you, Ginny?
She curled her arms and legs into her body and the tears burned her cheeks. Hermione heard her sobbing quietly to herself, and she went to her and hugged her, shielding her. The Dementor was gone, the chocolate was being handed around, the train was moving and The Boy Who Lived is feeling better. But she still felt young and stupid and lovesick and violated.
It was no more than the aftershocks of the trauma and it was quieter than a snake's hiss, but most of the time Tom Riddle still crooned into Ginny Weasley's ear.