It was late autumn, Ginny's favourite time of year. She was running, running through a forest in god-knows-where, and she was looking for someone. She wasn't sure who...
Oh, but yes, she was. A boy, crouching over something, prodding at it with his wand. She rushed over to him, feeling happy, happier than she'd ever felt in her life.
She sat beside him and embraced him, then looked up into his eyes with complete trust and then froze.
His eyes were blood red, and he seized her wrists and began to pull her away. They were standing now, and it was winter, winter, cold and icy and as merciless as always. She was screaming at him, screaming and crying and writhing and he was only laughing at her. He was laughing, oh, there was no pity, no sympathy, no understanding in that laugh. Those who love are weakened by it, his voice was saying in her head.
"Please, Tom, please, oh god, Tom, don't," she wept, and she pulled at him harder, but he didn't listen, only laughed more.
He flung her into the thorns beside the house he dragged her to. They stabbed her skin, her eyes, and ripped her clothes.
"You will die," she sobbed.
"I may," he hissed, "but you, Ginny, you will die with me...for you put your soul in mine, and I put my soul in you."
And she screamed and screamed and screamed until her voice was hoarse, and her lungs would not obey, and her blood fell onto the snow and burnt through it like acid, because it was tainted. It was Riddle's blood now, and not her own. And yet...
But it was still blood, still red and shining and dark and thick and sweet.
My birthday's in autumn, November the second, the same as Marie Antoinette, who was beheaded.