The pages torn out by bloody hands and stuffed in a bottle, thrown to the seas of Ginny's mind...here is Ginny's second diary.
Dearest fucking diary,
Nobody ever would think that little Ginny'd ever write in a diary, not after Tom. But if Tom's not around anymore, what is there to fear?
I used to have a diary. My first diary. This is my second, and probably not my last. You see, diary, I poured half of my soul into my first diary. I shall now pour the rest of it into this one.
For safekeeping. Not to keep it safe from anyone else, but to keep them safe from it.
Tom was my friend. My betrayer. My poison. The thing keeping me alive and slowly killing me. No one could ever understand. He used to possess me. And that is true in more ways than anyone could ever know. I was his possession.
Tom used to talk about my blood. My pure blood.
"Surely my blood is not different from yours, Tom?"
"Oh, it's much different, Ginny." He took a small knife from his sleeve and cut himself.
"It seems the same as yours, but not all if it is magical, it's diluted. But yours-' here he cut the girl's hand. She gasped, but more of surprise than pain, for she felt more numb when she was with Tom.
"Your blood is full of old magic. I can see it. Feel it." He held her palm up to his mouth and licked it, like a cat licking a wound.
"I can taste it. It's as potent as serpent's venom." He let go of her hand gently. She cradled it, looking down at her hand. She was magical. Special. Different. Pure.
"It's pure. Like you."
I once dreamed that he cut me, told me about my blood, pure blood. I woke up, startled; then I crept to Hermione's trunk as if in a trance and took out one of her razors.
Not one of the ones she uses. Tom says her blood is dirty- I can't let it taint mine.
But a razor, a sharp, silver one; Tom always liked silver. I sneaked into my bed and shut all the curtains, and whispered, "Lumos," to my wand.
It lit up, and I carefully took the razor and slit my arm, just to see my blood. I gasped at the sight of it.
Special. Different. Pure.
I washed the razor and put it back with Hermione's things. I know she doesn't use them often, but sometimes she needs to.
I never touched a razor again, and here I am, thirteen, still having never touched one. Tom's hold on me disappeared, or at least became more subtle, when the diary was ruined. I never purposely looked at my blood again. I was afraid that I might become like him, thinking my blood is any different or better than someone else's.
But every once in a while I get a papercut and I wonder....