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Description: Few seem to want to ask her The Question…but Ginny's been preparing her answer nonetheless. Tom, and how he changed her.
You're asking me why. Why. Funny, why nobody's ever asked me that before. It's got to be intensely puzzling from the outside…hah.
Why did I map out my soul for a complete stranger? Fall into that stranger's trap, Petrify a dozen people, and end up in the Chamber of Secrets? About to die until two twelve-year-old boys rescued me? That's an awfully big "why" to go unanswered – I can tell you all about that.
But no – let's back up for a minute. Why's not what you want to know. What you really want to know is more specific. You want to know the choice I made, the conscious choice that made me…well, that made me do something that fucking stupid. You want the instant when I toppled forward, that moment in time where I could have said "no" where I said yes or "yes" where I said no, and the whole fiasco my first year wouldn't have happened. It might as well be "why," but it's undeniably different.
Does that about cover it?
– No, I'm not angry. Nobody's ever asked me that before. They're probably afraid of offending me, or making me relive it, or probably they're afraid of the answer.
– Why would they be afraid of the answer? Well, it's rather obvious, isn't it? As long as they don't know, I'm the silly girl who wrote to a diary I shouldn't have, who trusted the untrustworthy boy, who said "yes" where I should have said no. If they don't ask, then I'm that girl. And if they do ask, then most likely they'll hear what they think they'll hear, which is what they want to hear. But there's always a chance they won't. I know it. They know it. So as long as I'm the silly eleven-year-old, the naïve little girl, then everything's fine. I know it. They know it. As I imagine sometimes, they know I know they know it.
It's convenient for everyone, the why replaced by the what, and the what remaining an unknown.
– Yeah, I've thought about this a lot. An awful lot, actually. And the strangest thing of all is that I know exactly what I want to say. I can see it in front of me, but it's kind of like a smoke-figure that dissolves whenever I try to touch it. I can't even catch hold of it, but I can still, faintly, perceive it.
– Well, since you started out asking about the Chamber of Secrets, I guess I can start talking there. Why did I follow Tom into the Chamber of Secrets?
Come with me, he says. He never says where.
I'm sitting on my bed, in my dormitory, studying alone. The open window's letting in that Hogwarts springtime smell of cut grass and mountain rain. All very light and airy, a clear afternoon for an equally clear morning. Then there's a boy at the door, all of a sudden. He's just there.
"Hullo," he then says.
"Hullo," I then answer. "Who are you?"
"I think you know," he says. His words are lighthearted, but they have an undercurrent of danger that I can't help but pick up on. He knows I sense it. I know he knows (and, he knows I know he knows). It's really quite funny when I look back. He's pretending to be the kind, charming boy you can find on any page of the old leather diary I wrote to him in, but there's practically no need.
And he knows it.
"Hullo, Tom."
"Ginny." He winks at me then. "Took you long enough."
"I've known who you were since you walked into the room," I counter, not completely lying.
A little smile and Tom says, "I knew you would," and he's in earnest.
I had never seen him before this – I had only written to him. You would say I barely knew him, but I would counter. Come with me, he says. But to where, he never answers.
"Homework?" he asks. He's seen the books spread out on my comforter.
"Yeah," I say. "Transfiguration. Our exams are coming up." I hold up the thickest book to show him, and yes, he comes into the room. Tom Riddle, right here in my dormitory, the spirit of mere ink and paper. Here he is, physical. Tangible. As if to illustrate this change, he sits down on the bed next to me.
"I remember this lesson," he says. His eyes are deepest brown, and when they meet mine they do feel familiar. "Here's a secret – you'll never need it for anything else."
"Ever?" I ask, mostly just to bring him into eye contact again.
"Ever. Ignore what McGonagall says, she just wants you to learn the theory of the theory. Very useful once you get into the transfiguration higher levels. For now, stick with the need-to-knows."
"Tell me about the transfiguration theory," I say, and close the book with (and the motives get clouded, swirled together, here) what could have been a satisfying thump.
"You don't need to know," he says, but with a half-smile that says he knew I would want to know.
"But I want to know," I answer. I can't help but imagine I wore the same half-smile. A little self-mocking, a little genuine, but aimed toward Tom full-bright nonetheless.
"Well, aren't we the devoted scholar?" says Tom with a laugh, and he's called it. "Hermione has competition."
Red heat in my face, and biting my lip, but still sitting there next to Tom. No, it wasn't a blush. A blush is less self-conscious. Still sitting there next to Tom, if you don't find that too strange.
"Am I right?" he asks, though he doesn't need to.
"Of course," I say. "Hermione. Ginny. Same level. Obviously."
Tom laughs, but the sound is affectionate. He cocks his head towards me. "So self-mocking. Am I mocking you, Gin?"
"No, you're not," I say. And it's true.
"Then what am I doing?"
"You're saying what I was thinking – what I didn't even know I was thinking. And my reactions. And you're able to tie together…" I trail off, self-conscious.
"And I'm able to tie together…what?" he prompts. He's beginning to sound like a teacher, prodding me this direction and that toward a conclusion. Leading me to the thoughts he desires. It doesn't occur to me to be frightened of his ability.
"You don't need to defend yourself to me," says Tom.
"What do you mean?"
"I know you know what I mean, Gin. So I'll ignore that question. But you've built up barriers, Ginny, barriers that keep you locked up and away from everything – needlessly, I might add."
"You know me better than anyone," I say defiantly.
"Feel free to whip out the clichés," says Tom belatedly. But he adds, "And I'm not being sarcastic. You can't surprise me, so don't try to dress things up."
"But clichés are so empty." I don't even know what I'm arguing here.
"Are they?"
"So impersonal."
"So make them personal. So, Gin, what did you want to know?"
I try to remember, though my brain seems to have trouble working through the past few minutes.
"Transfiguration theory." Nice dodge, Ginny.
"What did I say?" The arch of an eyebrow, almost familiar from his written-out personality.
"Fine." I play with a strand of my hair, trying to make it catch flame in the light like it normally does. Mostly to waste time. "I do want to know about it, though." Do I? I can't remember, and all I know is that Tom is in one of his wise teacher phases again.
Tom laughs again. "Alright. I'll just let that last bit go."
He can let it go because he knows me, knows my motivations, knows what I am thinking at the exact time that I know (and sometimes before), and there is no need to talk the whole labyrinth of Ginny Weasley mind-games out. I can let him go on because, for one, I know he knows. I trust him to understand, to be affectionate.
Come with me, he says. Two hands offered, arms wide. He never says where to.
"So forget transfiguration," I say after a few moments of silence. I drop a strand of dull hair to look back at Tom.
"And again I repeat," says Tom, though he doesn't repeat out loud what he was referring to. Close as we are, his mocking, though mild, the little turn of frivolity in his mouth when he talks to me this way chafes against my pride.
I really hate it sometimes when Tom is in one of his wise teacher phases. Then again I like him too much to call him on it.
"Don't treat me like a child," I settle on. Then I laugh with the same frivolity. "No need to call that one out."
"I'm well aware," he says. "I'm not treating you like a child, Ginny – I'm treating you like someone who knows you."
"You laugh at me."
"You laugh at yourself – come on now. I love you, Ginny, those little corners of your personality that come out when you talk. Strengths and vulnerabilities. I love knowing them, and I can't help but call them out. To know them better. To let you know them."
Well, when he puts it like that.
A few more moments of silence ensue. The sunlight outside has faded, looking more like the kind of cloudy skies you get all autumn and winter around here. Tom is sitting still, preternaturally still, on the foot of my bed. Fingers splayed out on the comforter. He sees me looking at him.
"What is it?" he then asks.
"If I had a voice in the back of my head," I then say, and I'm not so sure why I said it, "it would sound like you."
"I know," says Tom. He gives me what is both a knowing and a know-it-all look. "I'm the voice in the back of your head."
"I really think you are, sometimes," I say, peeved now.
"Anger as a distraction – good call."
"How about being a prick as a distraction?"
"Dodging the issue. Another classic. Don't you see, Ginny, your mind is a labyrinth, a wonderful labyrinth that even you haven't mapped out yet."
"And you're going to do it?"
"I'm nearly finished."
I look at him for a moment.
You have to understand I'm not angry with him during this conversation. Or it's not actual anger, at least. I'm angry in the way I would be angry with myself for doing something silly. He's the one who supplies that angry voice, that oh no, Ginny, what have you done? after a faux pas that causes the real irritation of the faux pas itself. If you could just get rid of that voice you would be happy, but also you wouldn't. There's something satisfying about the voice. The voice in itself becomes part of who you are.
Yes, I'm assigning praise to Tom Riddle. It's how I felt at the time. And it was really beautiful the way he could look into my words and know exactly what I meant, even though what I said might be totally different.
I look at him for a while.
"So, Ginny, it seems we've got your studying wrapped up," says Tom after a few minutes. "Unless you've any more exams to cram for?" He winks. "You know you'll do well. You're a good student. Don't doubt it." I roll my eyes, flush again, look down at the bedspread. "No, you are," he says. He lifts my chin with his fingers (his fingers that are warm and real and actually there). I'm looking into his eyes, but not by my own design. "Here's another of your little corners, Gin – you doubt yourself. And yet you realize your potential, even if your own mind won't let you see it as a possibility. There's some part of you struggling to let you know. So you have these thoughts – I can be a better student than Hermione, I can beat Fred and George at Quidditch, I can be a better friend to Harry than Ron – but once you've thought them, thought the truth, you have to cover them up with embarrassment. Tell me it's not true, Ginny." I'm looking into his eyes, so dark and so there and looking right back at me.
"It is true, Ginny," says Tom. So dark, so real, so there. My mouth won't move to form the words. I can only look at him. I try to look away, try to pry my gaze away but no, he knows me, he won't let it go and he shouldn't, and he's determined towards confrontation.
"Tell me, Ginny," says Tom. "Tell me."
Wind on the eardrums. Cold and heat, both in my face, both at the same time. Wind.
"Tell me, Ginny."
"I am."