Tom proved to be an excellent listener, and not a bad giver of advice. Unlike Fred and George, who yanked on her hair and told her to get into Gryffindor 'or else', or Percy who stiffly told her not to make friends with the wrong sort, Tom was happy to debate the merits of each House for hours. He liked to slip just into the edge of her head so she could feel his emotions and responses as he wrote. It made things easier. It let them have tone. It made her nervous at first, but he never pushed, never pried, never did anything other than let her feel the words as he wrote them. How would you know I wasn't lying if you didn't let me it? he'd asked. He explained how the whole thing worked, debunking the twins' claim she'd have to fight a dragon and the losers went to Slytherin.

You can ask for whatever you like, he wrote. But you should ask for Slytherin.

Ginny felt a thrill at that, but also a twinge of fear. Won't they be the worst? she asked. I'm poor. None of them are poor.

You're a pureblood. The letters were blockier than usual, and the ink spattered as it appeared on the page. She could feel he was hiding something, but it seemed rude to ask. It seemed too personal. That's all they'll care about. If you weren't, you'd have to fight for it, but you'll be fine there.

She didn't feel like being a pureblood meant that much. Who cared if you had no Muggles in your family tree when you also had no galleons in your vault? Tom was slippery in debate, though, and he'd agree with her that blood didn't matter but somehow it kept coming back to just that, or something like it. It's always about who's the outsider, he said. Don't let it be you.

Who decides who's the outsider? she asked at last in frustration. She was sure it was her. She was sure everything she wore, every bag she carried marked her as poor, and that would make her the one who didn't fit.

If we're smart about it, you do, he said.

Outsider or insider, she was eager to get away from the Burrow and into her own space. Every time her brothers teased her or her mother asked her for help with some chore or other, she hunched her shoulders her desire to be in any House but Gryffindor grew. She had to be away from all of these people. By the time September rolled around, she had turned into an arms-crossed, jaw-thrust-out ball of resentment. She was tried of being lied to about the dragon she'd have to fight to get Sorted and she was tired of being lectured on how she had to stay away from the Malfoys.

The only person who seemed to be willing to tell her the truth without scolding was Tom.

Slytherin, he wrote one last time before she packed the diary away in her worn bag and hitched it onto her shoulder. She'd gone to the train station every year she could remember but this was the first time she got to get on the train. This was the first time she had to find a compartment. The worn trunks itched at her, and she wanted to be away from them and as soon as she could she jerked herself away from family and belongings and began to look for a place to sit.

Most girls looked too posh and she tightened her jaw and tossed her hair and walked past their compartments until she found one with a tiny blonde girl sitting, feet folded under her, some kind of yarn pattern tied in a web between her fingers. "There's room," she said. "Unless you wanted someone more normal. Most people do."

Ginny wasn't sure there'd be many other choices so she sat down. "I'm Ginny," she said.

"Luna," The girl said. She held her hands toward Ginny. "I was reading about how to do runes with cat's cradle, but I think I've done it wrong. Nothing's happened."

"What was supposed to happen?" Ginny asked, and they spent the whole of the train ride going back and forth between the book Luna had and the yarn. Ginny considered asking Tom, but admitting she had a sentient book seemed like a bad idea so they just giggled and tried to figure it out themselves. Nothing continued to happen, at least with the runes, but by the time they were rowed across the moat they were arm in arm.

Luna was Sorted into Ravenclaw, which surprised Ginny not at all. The Sorting Hat, of course, wanted to put her into Gryffindor.

"Slytherin," she told it.

There was a hesitation. She was sure the wait felt longer inside her head than it seemed in the Hall. She doubted anyone was even paying attention. Another Weasley, sure to go to Gryffindor. They all did. She, however, wasn't quite a Weasley anymore. Not entirely. She'd let Tom Riddle far enough inside her head that she knew that the feel of his soul lingered, pressed up against hers.

Still, she suspected if the Hat could see in her head, as it surely could, it could tell something wasn't quite right.

"Are you positive?" it asked her at last. "All your family went into Gryffindor."

"Slytherin," she told it again.

She could almost feel the Hat shrug and then it called out, "Slytherin," and the Hall, which had been politely quiet before, dropped into total silence.

She heard Fred say, "That can't be right," as a shocked Professor McGonagall lifted the Hat off her head. She got off the stool and walked with neat, controlled steps to the Slytherin table. She and Tom had had an argument about standing out. He was against it. Be quiet, he'd told her. Almost meek. No one suspects the soft-spoken ones.

I'm not meek, she'd written. You're going to have to work with me the way I am.

Still, she took his advice and didn't saunter across the Hall or toss a smug look at her gaping brothers. She settled down on the bench with the other first year Slytherins and folded her hands in her lap and looked politely back at the stool where McGonagall was helping the next student up.

"Psst."

She had to be hissed at three times before she deigned to look over at Draco Malfoy, who jerked his head toward the seat next to him.

"Red," he whispered when she didn't move. "Get over here."

Tom had seemed to think this might happen. They'll want to use you, he'd told her. Let them think they are.

With that in mind she apologized to the girl next to her and moved to sit next to Draco Malfoy. "This is Crabbe, and that's Goyle," he said, pointing to two heavy-set boys with thick brows and dull expressions on their faces.

"Adopting firsties now, Draco?" a brown haired girl with a mean curl to her lip asked. "Ginger ones at that?"

"Shut your mouth, Parkinson," he said with a scowl. "I have my reasons."

The girl rolled her eyes but did as she was told and Ginny made a quick note about the power structure. Most of the second-year Slytherins looked to Draco for cues on how to react to her presence, and the first years were copying the older students. She smiled at a handsome dark skinned boy who wasn't following Draco Malfoy's lead. "I didn't catch your name," she said.

"That's because I didn't tell it to you, blood traitor," he said with a sneer that seemed almost automatic. She'd never seen cheekbones quite that high, and his face was so perfect even his curled lip looked gorgeous.

The girl Draco had called 'Parkinson' sniggered.

Ginny smiled at the boy whose smirk had gotten even bigger under Parkinson's approval. His face was pretty, sure enough, but that didn't mean she wouldn't smash it in with a swollen lip or bloody nose. Fred and George didn't play fair, and she'd learned to fight back young. She said, her voice as pleasant as she could make it, "Watch what you call me or I'll make sure you never need to mind your language again."

There was a gasp as several of the second years inhaled in unison at her threat. Draco laughed and grinned at her, clearly pleased she'd stood up for herself. She had a feeling in this House the weak were killed and eaten, even if only metaphorically.

"She's here, isn't she?" a lanky, pale-skinned boy with remarkable blue eyes said. "I doubt the Hat would have dumped her in our laps if she was anything like the rest of her family." He held his hand out to her, reaching past Draco Malfoy to do it. "Theo Nott. My father was a Death Eater."

She took it. "Ginny Weasley. My father's a Muggle-loving blood traitor but I'll try not to judge you based on yours if you'll do the same for me and mine." Theo laughed and kissed her fingertips as if they were adults. She laughed back as she snatched her hand away. She liked these games. These games she could play. This was much more fun than being told to watch her attitude like she was at home.

"I approve, Draco," this Theo said. "Where did you say you found her again?"

"I didn't," Draco said. He was inordinately pleased with himself. "But it was in the bookstore getting stuff for this dump. Weasleys are Sacred Twenty-Eight, whatever they say. Our Red's an actual aristocrat. Pure as they come."

"Poor as dirt, though, based on those robes," the dark-skinned boy said. "I didn't know you could patch patches."

"Shove it, Blaise," Theo said. "Better a poor pureblood than a rich Muggle like your current step-father."

"He's not a Muggle," Blaise said angrily and Ginny laughed and leaned forward on her elbows to smirk at the boy.

"Who's the blood traitor now?" she asked. "At least my parents only like Muggles; they don't go around marrying them."

They were interrupted by the Headmaster nattering on about the school year and, though Draco muttered "pompous old fool" under his breath - a sentiment Ginny found herself agreeing with - they all pretended to listen.

She unpacked her things later that night in a room of girls already overawed by her older friends, if friends were what you could call them. Ginny hadn't thought through having to share a bedroom and she already could tell it would cause problems. Still, it was better than home. No one flirted with her at home. No one called her an aristocrat at home. Nightgown on, she sat on her bed, drew the curtains to give herself what passed for privacy, and pulled out her diary.

I think I'm going to like it here.

You made it into Slytherin? Tom asked.

I did, she wrote back. I did what you said and told the Hat what I wanted. And I've made friends with Draco Malfoy and Theo Nott.

Good, Tom said. Good.