Disclaimer: I don't own Ginny, Tom, Harry, the diary, the Burrow, the bathroom, the overflowing toilet, or anything else in here that you might recognize from the Harry Potter books. They all belong to JK Rowling, a most wonderful author who would be one of my favorite people on this Earth if she would just get the 5th book out! I do however, own this plot (I think!) and though I would be greatly honored if anyone thought this was good enough to copy, I will ask that you please e-mail me if you wish to use it. (Don't worry, I know none of you would want to take this anyway.)
Author's Note: I hope everyone likes this story. I'm taking a break from Kat, starting on this story and another one called While We Were Walking which I have already posted. If I get some positive reviews, I'll continue this (I'll probably continue it anyway, but the review's help.) I live in Texas, US of A so my 'British speak' isn't at it's best, even though I read more British literature than anyone I know. If you catch any of my Texan slang (I'm trying to keep that at a minimum!) just point it out kindly in a review and I'll change it. Thanks! Now on with the show…
Red Cover, Red Hair, Red Tears…
Red Year
By Weasley Gurl
Chapter 1: Were It Only Too Easy
Ginny Weasley was in a room. It was neither small, nor large, but all the same it was a room, and at once one would know that this room was special. The room had a presence, a meaning, and it evoked a feeling of old times, generations past, but a time when darkness and light were still both in existence and both dominating in their own sense. And were one to look past the chipped sinks, lined up on a grime-covered wall, and the stalls with doors hanging half off their hinges, this bathroom could be described as nothing less than majestic. It gave that feeling, it had that sense, it was that presence.
For Ginny, it was still only a bathroom, a dirty, ruined, old bathroom, whose only good quality was that it provided a place of solitude. And that was exactly what she needed. For were this any other bathroom, the flood that was now erupting from the far toilet may have been noticed, as would the object lodged in that toilet. And for Ginny, no worse thought could come than anyone finding that object. Because she knew that were it to be found by another, it would eventually come back to her. And she didn't want it.
***********************************************************************
It was sunny at the Burrow, and the yard was alive with the sounds of laughing children enjoying their last days of summer. A game was in play involving three red heads and a scrawny boy with glasses. They were high in the air, clinging to broomsticks, and throwing a ball the color of the formers' hair. A fourth red head, the only girl present, was lounging in the tall grass, laying on her stomach and propped up on one elbow, using her free hand to write in a tiny book. She finished with one final line, then set her tattered quill down and positioned her arm to mimic the other. She stared at the book, as if studying what she had just written, and at once her face lit up and her rosy cheeks rose up as her lips curved into a smile, forming dimples. She hastily reached for the old quill and immediately went back to her previous task. And so this went for countless hours, each time her smile growing as she looked upon what was seemingly her own words.
This was one Virginia Anne Weasley, fondly known as Ginny, or not-so-fondly, in the case of some of her brothers. The book was her diary, which she had found in an old school book her mother had bought in a second hand shop. The diary was her dearest friend at this moment, she loved it more than she had ever loved an object in her life, and definitely more than she presently loved her brother, Ron, who had only just yesterday laughed at her with his best friend, Harry Potter.
Ginny laughed, a small giggle which mingled with the voices of the small birds which lived in the oak nearby. She looked again at the page her diary was opened to, which was, oddly enough not the thirty-first of August, but rather the second of March. This is what was on the page:
Well, if his hair is so messy, then why doesn't he just cut it?
This was odd for many reasons, but apparently, was quite normal for Ginny who at once wrote on the page:
He can't just cut it, Tom. It won't fix it; besides, I think it looks kind of sweet. Honestly, you sound like my mother. "I could cut it for you, Harry dear." Now, as I was saying…
How hours of writing could produce only a single question, which looked to be written to the writer, and who exactly Tom was, one could not know without further insight to this diary. You see, this was no more an ordinary book than Ginny Weasley was an ordinary girl. Neither was this an ordinary house nor were the boys playing any ordinary sport. For, to any of the so-called and self-proclaimed "ordinary" persons in this world, all truths to the workings of the previously described object would be mistaken as fairy-tail gibberish spoken by children to draw the attentions of their elders.
This diary was magical, which in turn brought truth to the fairy-story theory, but all the same… It was inhabited by a presence known simply as 'Tom' who came and went as he pleased most times but who, for the past twelve hours, had stayed faithfully in that page labeled March 2nd, conversing with none other than little Ginny. It had only been in the last three hours that they had been out on the grounds of the Burrow, and before that, Tom had found himself lodged between a glass of juice and a patched up Potions manual as Ginny finished the last of her dinner. Ginny seemed happy to spill her entire life story into Tom's book in a most gratifying flood of emotion wrapped around the curling script of her writing. At times, Tom would become bored with the silly girl's ramblings, but during those times he would still allow her to write on, knowing that eventually she would have something of worth to say.
As for Ginny, her new diary was a gift from the heavens. It provided a confidant for her, something which she had truly needed and desperately wanted since the ripe old age of five, when her brother, Ron, had discovered the usefulness of guy friends, and thus left her alone with her thoughts. She could say anything and Tom would be most interested in it, whatever it was. He would answer with witty remarks and a sly cunningness, which struck the eleven-year-old's fancy and left her with a feeling of pure joy at having found such a companion. Tom was cool, and sensitive, and downright hilarious. Ginny simply loved him.
March 2nd
So what's the deal with this Harry character, anyway? I mean, besides the strange hair and talents on the Quidditch pitch?
Oh, Tom, don't you know?!
He's the Boy Who Lived! But you wouldn't know about that; not if the date on your diary means anything. You see, there was this evil wizard, and he came to kill Harry's family when he was little. He killed Harry's mom and dad but, oh Tom it's so exciting I can't even say! Harry KILLED HIM and he was only just a year old!
What was this evil wizard's name?
We don't say it, Tom. Nobody does, ever! It's just too scary I suppose. It's like a sort of curse word of the worst kind. But-
Well, if you promise to erase this page as soon as you read this and never say it again, I suppose….
Promise. Cross my heart.
His name was VOLDEMORT.
Author's Note: I hope everyone likes this story. I'm taking a break from Kat, starting on this story and another one called While We Were Walking which I have already posted. If I get some positive reviews, I'll continue this (I'll probably continue it anyway, but the review's help.) I live in Texas, US of A so my 'British speak' isn't at it's best, even though I read more British literature than anyone I know. If you catch any of my Texan slang (I'm trying to keep that at a minimum!) just point it out kindly in a review and I'll change it. Thanks! Now on with the show…
Red Cover, Red Hair, Red Tears…
Red Year
By Weasley Gurl
Chapter 1: Were It Only Too Easy
Ginny Weasley was in a room. It was neither small, nor large, but all the same it was a room, and at once one would know that this room was special. The room had a presence, a meaning, and it evoked a feeling of old times, generations past, but a time when darkness and light were still both in existence and both dominating in their own sense. And were one to look past the chipped sinks, lined up on a grime-covered wall, and the stalls with doors hanging half off their hinges, this bathroom could be described as nothing less than majestic. It gave that feeling, it had that sense, it was that presence.
For Ginny, it was still only a bathroom, a dirty, ruined, old bathroom, whose only good quality was that it provided a place of solitude. And that was exactly what she needed. For were this any other bathroom, the flood that was now erupting from the far toilet may have been noticed, as would the object lodged in that toilet. And for Ginny, no worse thought could come than anyone finding that object. Because she knew that were it to be found by another, it would eventually come back to her. And she didn't want it.
***********************************************************************
It was sunny at the Burrow, and the yard was alive with the sounds of laughing children enjoying their last days of summer. A game was in play involving three red heads and a scrawny boy with glasses. They were high in the air, clinging to broomsticks, and throwing a ball the color of the formers' hair. A fourth red head, the only girl present, was lounging in the tall grass, laying on her stomach and propped up on one elbow, using her free hand to write in a tiny book. She finished with one final line, then set her tattered quill down and positioned her arm to mimic the other. She stared at the book, as if studying what she had just written, and at once her face lit up and her rosy cheeks rose up as her lips curved into a smile, forming dimples. She hastily reached for the old quill and immediately went back to her previous task. And so this went for countless hours, each time her smile growing as she looked upon what was seemingly her own words.
This was one Virginia Anne Weasley, fondly known as Ginny, or not-so-fondly, in the case of some of her brothers. The book was her diary, which she had found in an old school book her mother had bought in a second hand shop. The diary was her dearest friend at this moment, she loved it more than she had ever loved an object in her life, and definitely more than she presently loved her brother, Ron, who had only just yesterday laughed at her with his best friend, Harry Potter.
Ginny laughed, a small giggle which mingled with the voices of the small birds which lived in the oak nearby. She looked again at the page her diary was opened to, which was, oddly enough not the thirty-first of August, but rather the second of March. This is what was on the page:
Well, if his hair is so messy, then why doesn't he just cut it?
This was odd for many reasons, but apparently, was quite normal for Ginny who at once wrote on the page:
He can't just cut it, Tom. It won't fix it; besides, I think it looks kind of sweet. Honestly, you sound like my mother. "I could cut it for you, Harry dear." Now, as I was saying…
How hours of writing could produce only a single question, which looked to be written to the writer, and who exactly Tom was, one could not know without further insight to this diary. You see, this was no more an ordinary book than Ginny Weasley was an ordinary girl. Neither was this an ordinary house nor were the boys playing any ordinary sport. For, to any of the so-called and self-proclaimed "ordinary" persons in this world, all truths to the workings of the previously described object would be mistaken as fairy-tail gibberish spoken by children to draw the attentions of their elders.
This diary was magical, which in turn brought truth to the fairy-story theory, but all the same… It was inhabited by a presence known simply as 'Tom' who came and went as he pleased most times but who, for the past twelve hours, had stayed faithfully in that page labeled March 2nd, conversing with none other than little Ginny. It had only been in the last three hours that they had been out on the grounds of the Burrow, and before that, Tom had found himself lodged between a glass of juice and a patched up Potions manual as Ginny finished the last of her dinner. Ginny seemed happy to spill her entire life story into Tom's book in a most gratifying flood of emotion wrapped around the curling script of her writing. At times, Tom would become bored with the silly girl's ramblings, but during those times he would still allow her to write on, knowing that eventually she would have something of worth to say.
As for Ginny, her new diary was a gift from the heavens. It provided a confidant for her, something which she had truly needed and desperately wanted since the ripe old age of five, when her brother, Ron, had discovered the usefulness of guy friends, and thus left her alone with her thoughts. She could say anything and Tom would be most interested in it, whatever it was. He would answer with witty remarks and a sly cunningness, which struck the eleven-year-old's fancy and left her with a feeling of pure joy at having found such a companion. Tom was cool, and sensitive, and downright hilarious. Ginny simply loved him.
March 2nd
So what's the deal with this Harry character, anyway? I mean, besides the strange hair and talents on the Quidditch pitch?
Oh, Tom, don't you know?!
He's the Boy Who Lived! But you wouldn't know about that; not if the date on your diary means anything. You see, there was this evil wizard, and he came to kill Harry's family when he was little. He killed Harry's mom and dad but, oh Tom it's so exciting I can't even say! Harry KILLED HIM and he was only just a year old!
What was this evil wizard's name?
We don't say it, Tom. Nobody does, ever! It's just too scary I suppose. It's like a sort of curse word of the worst kind. But-
Well, if you promise to erase this page as soon as you read this and never say it again, I suppose….
Promise. Cross my heart.
His name was VOLDEMORT.