She likes darkness.
"Dear Diary;
My name is Ginevra Weasley. I'm eleven years old."
Silence.
"Hello, Ginevra. Pleasure to meet you."
Cold.
"Dear Diary;
I've completely embarrassed myself. I'm such an idiot. Harry will never look at me again."
"Then he's an idiot. You are beautiful, Ginevra."
Certain types.
"Dear Tom;
People are turning up frozen. Like statues. I'm forgetting things. I'm scared. What if it's me?"
"It is not you, Ginevra. I know for certain. Not you."
"Who is it then?"
Certain darkness.
"It is not you."
Like the dark, worn leather of her favorite book. Her best friend. She likes darkness.
"I wish I could see you, Tom."
"I may know a way."
--
There are many forms of darkness. The darkness of a velvet dress. The darkness after a too-bright flash of light. The darkness of her bedroom in the middle of the night, as she crawls out of bed, draws her wand, and walks away, closing the door softly behind her.
"I want to meet you, Ginevra. I feel I must meet you."
That isn't the darkness she likes.
"But you'll have to do something for me."
He is her closest confidant. Her knight in paper armor.
"Anything, Tom."
--
When she meets him, all she sees is darkness.
"Tom?"
Silence.
"Hello, Ginevra."
Cold.
His eyes are mesmerizing. A crystal, perfect blue. Light and beautiful.
His eyes are darkness.
"Are you... are you real?"
A quiet laugh. She feels his breath against her cheek.
He is darkness.
"I will be."
Her eyes are losing focus. She's probably very tired. It is the middle of the night. She hasn't been getting much sleep. She's getting dizzy. Tired. Dark.
"Thanks to you."
Darknesssilencecolddarknesssilencecolddarknesssilencecold
Her eyes open blearily. Harry's green ones blink above her anxiously. They are just slightly darker than Tom's.
Too light.