Ginny doesn't like reading. All the books are dead.
One day she had found Tom. Tom had been alive. Tom had been so alive that it had become dangerous. And then he was gone again. Ginny had lost a friend.
In her fifth year Tom somehow returned to her. The book had been lying on her bed most innocently, as if nothing had ever happened. Just the hole reminded her of past things, things that weren't important anymore. Neither was it important that Tom didn't answer anymore.
But Ginny has gotten used to writing around the pages' holes by now.