That's the first "one point" that comes to mind, but it's definitely not the one point. My choice to follow Tom Riddle that day wasn't an aberrant foolish decision. He was someone I trusted, someone I knew, someone I loved I would even say.

– concern, concern. I should've expected it, I guess. Oh, go ahead and purse your lips, there's no reason not to. I know at this point you're wondering why I loved him, maybe even howI could. You want to know why I felt the way I did about someone I knew for nearly a year and talked with every day? The reasons run into each other. My memory is colored with them, the countless feelings and intents passed back and forth between pens over many months.

– Actually, now that you mention it, there is one conversation…

Dear diary, I write. Blue ink looking crisp because it's on creamy paper, the words standing out for a moment from, and then fading into, the off-white. Just like they have before. I'm beginning to get used to it, but for now I still must pause to marvel at the beauty of it. Now etchings are appearing in the off-white, red scratches, forming words that I can read a second later: I assume you're trying to anger me, Ginny, using that phrase after I've finally broken you of the habit. I smile, not without some satisfaction. I've annoyed him.

Broken me of it? I write again. I don't think so.

You're a pest, says Tom, in rankly handwriting that seems to convey his emotions just like he's in front of me.

Shut up, I say, and now I'm really smiling.

My observation is confirmed, writes Tom. What's your problem, he asks. I don't have a problem, I say. But apparently you do.

There's something bothering you, Ginny. You're trying to pick an argument with me, God knows why, maybe just because I'm the most convenient person to argue with.

I'm not trying to pick a fight. And there's nothing bothering me.

Not fight – argument. There's a difference. Arguments can be fun. Fights can't. And don't even pretend there's nothing bothering you, because it's obvious.

You know everything, apparently.

There's a reason this is called a "diary," Ginny. Are you going to tell me what's wrong?

I thought you didn't want me to call you a diary.

I am a diary, he says, and the ink is redder, the handwriting ranklier, by this point. I'm here to listen to you, and you're supposed to tell me what's wrong. Think of it as therapy. My name, however, is not "diary" but "Tom."

Diary, I write, and it stands out blue against the cream for a moment or two before fading.

I'm playing along now, says Tom a moment later, because obviously you're not in the mood for a real conversation.

My name is not diary.

Diary, diary, diary.

Pest, pest, pest.

Diary, diary, diary, diary.

Little girl, little girl, little girl.

I hesitate. Shut up, I write finally, and I'm not smiling anymore.

Ah. A raw nerve. Now will you talk to me?

Just shut up.

I'm not trying to hurt your feelings, Gin. I'm just trying to find out what's wrong. I'm worried, and I'm even more worried because it sounds like even you don't know what's wrong.

I know myself, thank you very much Tom Riddle.

Finally my name. Ginny, why don't you talk to me? That's what a diary is for. Maybe I can help you.

How?

Write down why you're feeling bad. Then you'll understand it better, and I'll be able to talk to you about it.

I don't really know what to say, I write, and I hesitate. My words are already fading into the page and being replaced by more writing in red –

Try, says Tom, and maybe I can understand. I'm pretty good at that.

I pause, think through the evening – how to begin? That overarching feeling to the night, that mental image…ridiculous.

I promise to take you seriously, no matter what you say. It will make sense to me.

That struck a chord in me, cliché as it is to say.

All right, then.

Nothing is real, I write, and I lean back from the diary, wondering whether or not that covers the breadth of the evening.

A longer time than usual elapses before Tom writes back, and I lean over the diary page to read his response, heart pounding.

"Nothing is real." I think that's one of the most interesting things anyone has said to me in a long time. What does it mean?

I don't know, I say. That was your job to figure out.

I need more to go on, he says.

The world isn't real. Nothing around me is real. Nothing around me really happens. I'm in a little air-bubble.

Kind of like a diary?

I laugh. Yes, I write, like I'm in a diary. I say, I think there's somebody holding a wand over my life and charming things.

Everything is going wrong?

No, everything is going right.

Everything is going right. How, how to explain it to you, Tom? Everything bad is happening around me, away from me, Harry and Ron almost got expelled tonight, Fred and George made Percy trip and scratch his arm, but me, nothing. I wanted to be in Gryffindor and I got in, did I tell you how much I wanted it, Tom, and another girl, this blonde girl who went into Ravenclaw wanted to be in Gryffindor and she cried, I saw her later, but it worked out for me, like a fairy tale, does that make sense?

A longer pause. I think I understand, Ginny. No one's ever talked to me about this before. Everything's going right for you, and you're upset because you think you're not facing real life, that you're living in a cushioned world.

Exactly, I say, and begin writing feverishly. It's exactly like I'm in a cushioned world, like a cushioned room or something, I don't have to worry about anything and I don't have to try for anything and it's not…it's not really real.

It's not real, and it's not true, he says, you don't think you're getting a glimpse of what is truly true.

Exactly, Tom.

That's intriguing. I've never thought about that before…do you need problems to be a good person?

That sets me aback. No, I say after a long pause. Not to be a good person.

But it bothers you.

It makes me feel weird, yeah.

You need problems, because then you can overcome them and be a real person.

I pause. Do you think that? Half fearful of the answer.

No, that's what you think. That's what your words are screaming at me. You don't think you're getting a chance to be a real, or a good, person and it makes you mad.

Yeah, it does.

You want the chance to be a real person in real life. To make a difference.

Exactly! I write, and I grin. I write in a fever, as if I must get the words, the thoughts, out of my head or I will lose them.

That's exactly how I feel, Tom, nothing around me is real and I'm just sort of floating and there's water around me that just absorbs any move I try to make, and nothing's really going to touch me and I can't do anything, I can't make anything change and that's bad, Tom, because maybe then I'm…I'm…I don't know why that's bad, Tom, tell me why that's bad.

It's bad because you don't want a watered-down version of reality. And you want to be able to have an effect on the things around you.

Yes!

Because otherwise you're a little girl.

I don't write back. After a few seconds' pause, red ink begins sifting up through the page again, Tom continuing.

I don't think you're a little girl, he says. I think it's a mark of character that you're worried about this. Most people wouldn't be.

Another pause. Do you ever feel like the air around you is too thin, like you're having too easy a time moving?

Yes, I say, and if I could I would shout it. You know how I feel.

So we have something in common, says Tom, and his words come faster now. I'd never thought of it the way you put it, Ginny, that nothing is real. But sometimes I'll be walking in the halls at school and it's like I'm in a dream, like I can move so gracefully and yet I'm not really making a difference, it's so easy to move everything that I'm not really catching hold of the world, it's just slipping through my fingers like air. Another pause, and he says, I would say it happens a lot before tests, but that would trivialize what we've felt.

I laugh. It would, I say, but it would be kind of funny.

It would, says Tom, but let's focus on the serious. We've both been stuck in this situation. Maybe we can figure out how to get out of it.

Maybe if we run into a brick wall really hard.

Yes, or if we run into an emotional brick wall. Do you have any problems, Ginny?

Yes, I say hastily, of course. You know Harry hates me.

There you have it.

I bite my lip. Tom, you always say that Harry doesn't hate me, he just doesn't love me.

And that's what I still think, says Tom, but you're trying to snap yourself out of unreality, so we'd better make the brick wall as hard as possible.

I understand.

So, Harry Potter hates you, Gin. Does that help?

I consider. No, I say. It didn't change anything.

Don't you see what he meant? Don't you see that we were friends, that we understood each other? Or at least that's the impression Tom always wanted me to have. Looking back I see his subtle manipulations, his flattery in all the right places, that hooked me and brought me further and further in. But even now, when I look back, some conversations give me pause, and this is one of them. Conversations I remember like they were yesterday, because they have meant so much to me. A world of unreality. Air that is too thin.

Don't you know I've used those descriptors ever since, because they still apply to my life? Don't you know that everything Tom ever said to me I still have in my heart – but that's not a good descriptor; no, I still have it in my psyche – that's better, though it means about the same thing as the more clichéd phrase. The right word makes the meaning. Tom's words still pop up in my mind and still matter. When I talk to myself now I become my own Tom.

And yes, that creeps me out big time. Just in case you were wondering.

I say, I've always wanted to be an only child. I ask, is that bad of me?

It is several seconds before Tom answers.

There's nothing really wrong about that, Ginny. At least I don't think. People wish that all the time. What worries me is that you wonder whether it's right or wrong.

Why should that be worrisome? Isn't it good that I care?

Of course it's good that you care about right and wrong, but it's only good if what you're worrying about is really valid. If you're making too much of something you shouldn't be worried about, you're just holding yourself back from something that could help you.

Like what?

Namely, thought. If you're afraid to wish that you were an only child then you'll still wish it but you won't think it through, because the thought is "bad." But if you don't worry that the thought is bad, you'll look at it closer. And then you'll see, maybe, why it is you wish you were an only child.

I guess that makes sense. And I know why I want to be an only child, it's so I won't have six brothers hanging around all the time trying to make sure I'm perfectly safe, perfectly good little sister Ginny.

Should I add a mental "Ginny-winny" or "ickle Ginny-kins?"

Yeah, that about covers it. But of course it's wrong to think that because I guess I should actually love my brothers, or something like that.

Should you?

Okay, that was sarcastic. But now you want me to ask myself whether I actually do love my brothers and whether or not it's bad if I don't.

You catch on quick, ickle Ginny-kins.

Okay, I should love them because they're my family and your family is people you're supposed to love. Don't say anything, I know you're going to say something.

I trust you to complete that thought later. Do you love them, though?

You know, I really don't know.

Yes you do.

I'm thinking maybe I don't, because I don't really feel anything about them. Can I tell you a secret, Tom?

I think you've done that before, Gin. I'm as safe now as ever.

Okay, then. Sometimes I imagine something horrible happening to my brothers. Not because I want it to, but because I want to imagine how I would feel if it did.

What do you feel?

Nothing.

Interesting.

Isn't that horrible?

I'm not going to pronounce judgment. I suspect you really would miss them if they were gone.

I say that, but I don't really think it.

Is there anyone you would miss?

Not Percy…not Fred…not George…not Ron…Harry I would miss, but not Hermione. I would miss Harry a lot. And of course I'd miss you, Tom.

Why was there an "of course" in front of my name?

It didn't mean anything. I would really really miss you.

Don't dress it up, ickle Ginny-kins. You won't hurt my feelings.

I'm not kidding, Tom, I would miss you. More than my family.

I don't intend to hold you to that. But I would miss you, too, Ginny. An awful lot, even if my name came last on your list.

I'm sorry, it shouldn't have been.

I'm just teasing you, Gin.

Do you ever feel like that about your family, Tom?

Yes, all the time. Especially my father. I was an only child, so there were only me and my parents.

I feel better now.

Good.

Maybe love is just something that is good if it exists, but you can't make it exist if it's not coming naturally.

That makes sense.

I mean, have you ever tried to love someone? Or even to like them? It just doesn't work. But…

Go on.

Maybe your family is just a group of random people that you're born into, that you can't love unless some really special case comes up, and people just say they love their families because it's "bad" if you don't. I mean, people love their friends because they've chosen to spend time with them. People just spend time with their families because they don't know what else to do. Does "family" even mean anything? People say it's special, but I'm not so sure.

Not to interrupt you, Ginny, but this is the most interesting discussion we've ever had, you and I.

Do you agree with me? About families?

I can't say. I wasn't completely honest with you earlier, Ginny. I didn't grow up with my parents. I'm an orphan.

Why did you lie to me?

No "I'm sorry, Tom, that must have been dreadful"?

I'm sorry, Tom, that must have been dreadful. And really I am sorry. But why did you pretend to have parents?

I don't know, maybe I just didn't want to get into it.

You can tell me anything, Tom, I won't think badly of you.

I think that's my line.

Well, maybe I'm your diary. Like you're mine.

Maybe so. Listen, Ginny, why don't you tell me more about your family theory?

He let me talk, you see. He would listen to whatever I had to say, and he wouldn't bat it down. If you still can't understand it, then imagine having someone who smiles at you and says, "you are incredibly insightful and unique" – in so many words – every time you have a conversation with them. The flattery worked; it was really quite a brilliant campaign he put up. When I look back on it. I didn't even realize what had happened until my third year, can you imagine that, when I was going over the whole experience in my memories. Second year I was still in that "how could I have been so stupid?" phase where the very subject of Tom or the diary was a repelling magnet for my thoughts.

Very much like the "good or bad?" thoughts Tom led me to abandon. "Tom led me"…yes, that's a pretty accurate statement for all of my first year. Tom led me to this, Tom led me to that. Prodding me this direction and that toward a conclusion. Leading me to the thoughts he desired.

It doesn't occur to me to be frightened of his ability. It simply was. Once he'd gotten inside my head, of course he could do whatever he wished. I let him. It doesn't occur to me to be frightened of his ability, even now looking back. Wary lest it happen again, yes. Creeped out big time, yes. But I don't prize my mind so much that I think it is impregnable. No one's mind is impregnable, except maybe Tom's itself.

– the diary. Funny, I was almost getting away from my story. Anyway, Tom became more and more real for me. Until finally, he was real.