Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ginny stared at the sorting hat as if she expected it to burst into flames. She dreaded this part. Fred and George went into detail about the horrible pain and agony. They warned her that the hat would unravel her thoughts, exposing all her deepest secrets.

Her face blanched, and she shuddered at the idea. Not that she had much to hide. Being the youngest of seven, it was hard to keep secrets in her house.

Would it hurt? Surely, the school wouldn’t put her up against something painful...

Ginny shifted from foot to foot in her worn shoes. Her robes, passed down from Ron, rustled around her. Even her wand had belonged to her Aunt Mildred. She owned nothing she could truly call her own, but that was okay. She had grown accustomed to it. One day, she would make a name for herself and set herself apart from her family. She would bring herself out of poverty and build herself a brighter future.

One day.

Her eyes glanced over to the Gryffindor table, instinctively searching for Harry—the boy who was already remarkable and distinctive, but she didn’t see him. Maybe he sat in the back…

Professor McGonagall, a tall witch in emerald green robes, stood beside the sorting hat, reading off a list of names. One by one, the students approached the stool. None of them appeared to be in pain when the hat touched their heads. Eventually, the ratty fabric opened at the brim and shouted out one of the four Hogwarts houses. Bouts of applause sounded through the Great Hall as the student joined their new table.

“Weasley, Ginny!” She stood alone in front of the school—the final name to be called. Slowly, the last of the Weasley children sat before the entire school. The older witch placed the hat on her flaming red hair, letting it fall over her eyes. Then a disembodied voice echoed in her mind...

“Another Weasley. But a girl. It’s been a while since a female Weasley has come to Hogwarts.”

Ginny stiffened. “You’re different from the others, aren’t you? It seems that you know this already. Don’t quite fit in with the rest of your family. I’ve done it before, sorting someone into a different house.”

No!

The thought rang through her head. She had to be in Gryffindor. It was where she was supposed to go—expected to go!

“No? Why ever not? You are ambitious and cunning. You strive for so much more. Slytherin would be—”

No!

She started pleading with the hat. She couldn’t go to Slytherin’s house!

“I sense a calculated mystery in your heart. An edge the others in your family lacked.”

Her hands gripped the sides of the stool, her knuckles turning white. She focused in her mind. Why was it so insistent on putting her in Slytherin?!

Briefly, she wondered what the rest of the school was seeing as they watched her. Could they tell she begged the sorting hat to place her in a different house?

Probably not, right?

“So be it.” The hat shifted on her head, the brim moving, and it shouted, “Gryffindor!” Ginny let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding as she climbed off the stool and made her way to the table through the applause and cheering from her new housemates. She barely managed a weak smile.

When she crawled into bed that evening, she brought her blank diary with her. She flicked it open to a random page in the middle and poised her quill.

The Sorting Hat tried to put me in Slytherin today, but I asked to be placed in Gryffindor, she wrote. Slowly, her black ink faded into the paper, and new words appeared.

What’s wrong with Slytherin? the mysterious boy asked. She bit her lip and stared at his elegant handwriting.

This was her secret. One she didn’t want to share with anyone. It was the only thing that was hers—Tom was hers.

Ginny sat by herself at the Gryffindor table the next morning as Professor McGonagall passed out the schedules. Her eyes swept over the subjects. She asked her brothers what to expect from each class at Hogwarts, but they weren’t particularly obliging. Percy may have told her if she bothered to talk to him, but his pompous attitude drove the house crazy. She avoided him. Luckily, she had Tom, who explained everything to her.

When she arrived at her first lesson, only one open chair remained. The rest of the students were exceedingly eager to arrive to class early. The two girls in her Gryffindor year were childhood friends, uninterested in inviting Ginny into their group. On her first day of school, she could already feel the weight of being an outcast.

She settled beside a Ravenclaw who stared at Ginny with her large, piercing, blue eyes. Her platinum blond hair glowed in the dull castle lighting. It was like she was from a different planet, unaware of the social norms that everyone else followed. Had her mother not told her it’s rude to stare?

As if reading her thoughts, the girl said, “Sorry for staring. Your hair is very red.”

Ginny blinked at her. She had no idea how to reply. “Thank you?” it sounded more like a question. It wasn’t exactly a compliment or an insult.

“Having red hair symbolizes chaos and anger. Are you troubled by something?”

“Um, no. My hair is naturally red.”

“Perhaps your mother was disturbed when she was pregnant?”

Ginny couldn’t say. She never asked her mum about her pregnancy. “All of our family has red hair.”

“That is bad luck. You know Gulping Plimpies nest in vividly colored hair. You should watch out for that.”

With those parting words, the girl returned her attention to the board. She wore a dreamy expression, caught up her own fantasy world. She never introduced herself.

Ginny frowned and wondered what Gulping Plimpies were. She had never heard of them. Perhaps a magical creature of some kind? Was she supposed to know what that was already?

It took her a few weeks to learn the girl’s name was Luna Lovegood. Then another six months passed before she realized Gulping Plimpies were fictional; after she mentioned something about it to Tom.

As Ginny sat with her diary each night, the flickering candlelight casting shadows on the walls of her dormitory, she couldn’t shake the feeling of isolation that had settled in her heart like an unwelcome guest. She traced the worn leather cover of the diary with her fingertips, outlining the slight indentations where the name “Tom Marvolo Riddle” was embossed in silver print.

Tom had become her confidant, the one person who understood her loneliness amidst the bustling halls of Hogwarts. He despaired at his own isolation, being trapped in the journal. Despite his cryptic nature and vague mention of how he came to be this way, she found solace in their secret exchanges. His intelligence and quick wit had drawn her in, making her feel special whenever he effortlessly solved a problem or offered insightful advice.

Her thoughts wandered to Luna Lovegood, the quirky Ravenclaw who seemed to float through life with a serene detachment. She also claimed to be ostracized by the school and tried to connect with Ginny, sharing tales of imaginary creatures and extraordinary phenomena. Ginny struggled to relate. Hogwarts castle, once a place of wonder and excitement, felt like a maze of echoing corridors and distant laughter. She desired the easy camaraderie she glimpsed in her brothers’ letters home. She yearned for someone to sit with at meals, to share secrets with under the invisibility cloak, or to simply walk with along the lake’s shores.

Turning back to the diary, Ginny hesitated before dipping her quill into the inkpot. She could tell Tom anything…

It’s lonely at Hogwarts sometimes. She wrote. I don’t have any friends. People think I’m weird or unsocial. I wish I fit in here.

Perhaps it was because she was placed in Gryffindor? Would she have thrived in Slytherin—where the sorting hat wished to put her?

It was too late to second guess this now.

I’m top in every class, at least, but it doesn’t seem to be enough. She didn’t mention that the reason she excelled in her classes was because of Tom.

His response appeared almost immediately, etched on the page in neat, slanted script. They must be jealous of you. You shouldn’t trust those people. They don’t really know you.

She considered his words. He had a way of seeing things that made her feel validated. He was never wrong.

They could have given me a chance. She decided to argue with him.

Perhaps. But in the end, nobody will know you like I do. You can trust me.

Something warm flared to life inside her chest. A comforting pressure and warmth. She was endlessly grateful to him.

Yes. She could count on Tom.

“You’ve lost weight,” her mum frowned at her as Ginny exited the Hogwarts Express after completing her second year.

Ginny looked down at her clothes, baggy over her skinny frame. She decided not to comment.

It wasn’t until she got home and really examined herself in the mirror that she noticed the difference in her appearance. Her hair thinned, losing its usual luster. Her skin appeared paler than normal. Even her eyes sank into her face, making her look older and haggard.

“Oh dear, you should take better care of yourself,” the mirror sighed.

Once again, Ginny didn’t comment, but she wished the mirror would keep its thoughts to itself. She skipped meals sometimes when she got distracted writing back and forth with Tom. She stayed up late talking to him. Everything in her life surrounded him.

The black journal sat on her bedside table. It was the first thing she pulled out of her trunk upon returning home. She picked it up and perched on the edge of her bed, ready to tell Tom about how she’d changed. She flipped open the book, but as she stared at the blank parchment, her resolve faltered. Her grip on the diary tightened.

She slammed the cover closed, stood, and shoved it under her mattress.

No. She shouldn’t rely on Tom for everything. It wasn’t right. She went down to dinner, where her mum forced her to eat extra helpings of stew.

By the time the Quidditch World Cup came around, she felt a renewed sense of energy and excitement. It hit her how she had been living in a state of perpetual exhaustion without realizing it.

The diary remained under her mattress. She shouldn’t have abandoned him—he was alone. The guilt weighed on her, but she tried to push it aside. She loved quidditch and was looking forward to this match. Hermione’s company was surprisingly enjoyable as they shared the tent.

Things seemed to look up.

Then the night fell, and the Death Eaters appeared…

The Quidditch World Cup was attacked. She wrote. On her return, she wasted no time in pulling out her journal and writing to him. She couldn’t focus. The entire ordeal sent chills up her spine: The Muggles hanging upside down, the Dark Mark in the air.

Where have you been?

We had to escape in the middle of the night, and someone cast the Dark Mark.

You haven’t written in almost two months. He repeated, not letting it go.

She hesitated before writing back. I’m sorry, Tom. I needed some time to myself. It wasn’t a lie.

What about me? I’m always alone in this diary. She flushed, grateful that he couldn’t see how uncomfortable she was.

You abandoned me here.

I’m sorry!

Are you trying to get rid of me?

No, not at all!

Then why did you feel you needed to stay away from me? I thought you enjoyed writing to me.

She did! She cared about Tom. Guilt washed over her. She hadn’t considered him being aware of every second of her absence.

I do! I’m sorry.

What happened at the World Cup?

She told him everything, but it didn’t escape her notice that he didn’t forgive her.

✧❅✦❅✧

His consciousness existed in an in-between world, a space suspended between reality and something far more sinister. Years of this existence wore on him, tearing him to shreds. Trapped in the dark void. The loneliness was relentless, gnawing at his sanity. Then, finally, she wrote in the pages of the diary, providing the contact he so desperately craved.

For the first time since he attached a fragment of his soul to the book, a dormant part of him awakened, flooding his being with renewed vigor. Her words were like a lifeline, pulling him from the abyss. She told him about her pointless crush on Harry Potter, a boy she admired from afar. He learned how lonely she was at school, surrounded by people yet isolated in her own thoughts. She divulged everything, thinking her secrets would be safe with him.

Perhaps they were. For now.

She informed him of Harry’s fame for vanquishing Voldemort as an infant. When she wrote those words, Tom could barely formulate a response. It was inconceivable.

How?

HOW?!

He questioned her about it, but she wasn’t inclined to discuss the details. Frustration gnawed at him, the unanswered questions like a poison. He had no way of finding out what had happened. Surely, after making this Horcrux, he must have made others. One lost piece of his soul was tragic, but ultimately, it changed nothing.

But to be defeated by a baby!

The more she wrote to him, the more embedded he became in her soul. He felt her presence, her thoughts, her emotions intertwining with his own. In a sense, he existed alongside her. He owned a part of her that nobody else could touch. Her life was an open book to him, and he drank in every detail. He considered using her to open the Chamber of Secrets... but no. Not yet. Not now. He required her trust; her continued connection.

Their conversations became more infrequent as she got busy with school activities. She stopped writing during the summer after her second year, saying she needed time to herself.

It infuriated him. How dare she leave him?! It was inexcusable! He tried not to let his anger flow into his words. He didn’t want to frighten her away just when she came crawling back. While he was only a piece of a soul, she was full of vibrant vitality.

She mentioned something about the Triwizard Tournament taking place. She worried about the attack and the Dark Mark in the sky. He wondered what sort of symbol he created for himself. She tried to describe it: a skull with a snake coming from its mouth. Green.

He didn’t like the description.

He asked her to draw it instead. While not the most artistic, Ginny did her best. He had to admit; the image had appeal—a threatening air to it. His future-self created something rather menacing. And apparently, despite his absence in her world, his Knights were still at large.

Good.

She called them Death Eaters, though. He was fond of the new title.

At the end of her third year, she opened his diary and informed him that Voldemort was back.

Tom regarded her words. So he returned. It would imply he made more horcruxes. The realization was both thrilling and infuriating.

I’m scared, Tom! The things he has done! He longed to ask what specific things Voldemort had done, but her fear was palpable. Instead, he planned to gradually draw out the information he wanted from her.

The more she wrote, the deeper his fascination grew. She was his connection to reality, guiding his understanding of the past and shaping his view of the future. Her fear, her secrets, her life—all belonged to him now. He relished the power he held over her, how she confided in him, unaware of the dark presence lurking behind his comforting words.

And so he waited, biding his time, his restlessness growing with each passing day. He would find a way back through her if necessary. She was the key, and he would not let her go.

As time passed, his hold on her took a darker turn. He manipulated her emotions subtly, ensuring she felt lost without him, feeding into her insecurities and fears. His desire for her presence grew into an all-consuming fixation. Her words no longer served as a link to the outside world, but as an anchor for his sanity.

When she didn’t write, he would rage silently within the confines of the diary, his mind consumed by her. He envisioned her daily life, her interactions, her thoughts. He craved not just her words, but her very essence—her soul. She became more than a means to an end; she became his obsession.

His influence over her grew stronger. He whispered ideas into her head, pushing her towards isolation from her friends, ensuring she relied solely on him. He needed her to need him. The lines between her thoughts and his own blurred. He reveled in the control he had over her, the way she hung on his every word, the way she confided in him.

She mentioned her fears about Voldemort’s return more frequently, her anxiety growing. He fed off her fear, using it to deepen their connection. He assured her he was the only one who understood her, the only one who could protect her. She believed him, and her trust in him was absolute.

Then, the writing stopped. The silence was unbearable. He could think of nothing else. The need to hear from her, to feel her presence drove him to the brink of insanity. The lack of any communication continued—months passed… and Tom went mad.

✧❅✦❅✧

She stared at the diary in her lap, tapping the cover with her fingertips as she leaned back in the hospital bed. Luna brought it down for her, along with a pile of other belongings. Ginny didn’t bother asking how the Ravenclaw got into the Gryffindor dormitory.

Nobody said anything about that night. They just returned from the Department of Mysteries. She broke her ankle, and Neville slept across from her, his nose bleeding heavily. Already he took two Blood Replenishing potions, since Madame Pomfery couldn’t stop the flow. He snored, each exhalation releasing small spurts of blood onto his bed.

Despite his loud sleeping, Hermione remained unconscious. Madame Pomfery doused the large dark scar on her abdomen in potions and wrapped it in linens. She let out an occasional whimper, but never woke.

They gave Ron dreamless sleep potion to allow the Laughing Curse to wear off. Ginny wished she had the foresight to ask for some herself.

Harry was nowhere to be seen—which didn’t surprise her. He and Luna had minor injuries and didn’t need to stay in the Hospital Wing.

She recalled how Tom used to say they were probably deceiving her. He told her to be wary of who she trusts, and she followed Harry into the Department of Mysteries—for what? To nearly get killed?!

Sirius Black died.

Ginny frowned at the journal.

It had been so long since she’d written to Tom. Almost a year—last summer. With Umbridge looking over everyone’s shoulder and the school on high alert with Voldemort’s revival—she couldn’t bring herself to pull out the diary. Not that she didn’t want to talk to Tom, but she worried that someone might notice. Her secret would get out.

She didn’t want to share him.

Even now, while nobody was watching in the Hospital Wing, she wondered how to start up with him again. What to say? Should she just pretend like everything was normal? As if it wasn’t odd for her to disappear for almost a year.

Her guilt was overwhelming. She knew how lonely Tom was. He told her repeatedly, and she abandoned him—left him inside the pages of the book. She didn’t know how to make amends.

What would he say?

The door to the Hospital Wing opened, and her mother raced into the room. Ginny tucked the diary under her pillow and forced a smile on her face toward her frantic mum. Tom would have to wait.

It wasn’t until six months later that she finally built up the courage to write to him again.

Hello Tom. It was such an understated way to start, but she didn’t know what else to say.

Where have you been?

She expected him to ask. Things have been hectic with Voldemort gaining power. She wrote. It wasn’t entirely a lie.

Why didn’t you write?

I’m sorry.

What else has been distracting you?

Indeed... she considered this, unsure how to respond. Guilt rose in the pit of her stomach again, but she had no reason to feel guilty! She shook down the pesky emotion and poised her quill.

I’m dating Dean Thomas now. she said.

The ink faded faster than normal.

Who is he? The script didn’t look as elegant.

A boy a year older than me.

Why did you feel the need to date him?

Because he asked me. He’s nice.

Nothing showed up for a long time. No words.

Then his handwriting appeared. I want to meet you.

She stared. Her eyes widening. Her heart raced in her throat.

But we can’t meet.

Yes, we can.

She had only glanced at the letters when a light emitting from the pages of the diary flashed. A swirling sensation surrounded her. She felt like she was falling. Her mind spiraled. Her body tingled. As she regained her balance, the feeling of being in a mirage washed over her, making her surroundings seem unreal. The world appeared faded and blurred. This wasn’t her dormitory.

She spun, looking around, and then saw him. A boy. A man. Handsome and mysterious. Dark eyes that held secrets, hair as black as midnight, tall and enigmatic, his presence commanding attention.

“Tom?” He stepped towards her, his eyes assessing her petite frame and shining red hair. Though Ginny had been called pretty before, the deliberate way he looked at her made her confidence falter.

“You’ve been gone.” His voice sounded hazy and distant. She couldn’t believe she was meeting him for the first time. His rich, smooth speech echoed in the surrounding space, making her heart race. There was an intensity in his gaze, an allure that drew her in despite the uncertainty swirling in her mind.

She took a tentative step towards him. “Where am I?” She tried to hide the tremble in her voice. Somehow, she couldn’t wrap her head around this being Tom. Her Tom. So magnificent.

His lips curled into a faint, enigmatic smile. “You’re in a place between dreams and reality,” he answered, his voice carrying an almost hypnotic quality. “A place just for us.”

She glanced over the hazy scenery. The sun shone, but she felt no warmth on her skin. The lake expanded before her, and Hogwarts in the distance. From this vantage point, she would usually catch sight of Hagrid’s hut, but instead, all she saw was an uninterrupted expanse of the field.

“This is my version of Hogwarts,” he said. She jumped as he spoke right behind her. His voice smooth in her ear.

“How did I get here?” She whispered, both captivated and unnerved by his presence.

“Magic,” he said simply, as if that was the only explanation she required. She turned to face him again, finding him so close to her. His hand brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear, but his touch tingled her skin like a phantom waving over her. Somehow, he manipulated her hair, but she couldn’t actually feel his skin.

“Could you always do this?”

“Yes.”

“Why now?” The tickle of his touch ran over her cheek as he cupped her chin. His ghostly hand put subtle pressure on her. The world pulsed in sync with her heartbeat.

“You left for a long time, Ginny. A very long time.”

She couldn’t tell if he was angry or hurt. The way he spoke was impossible to interpret. His face was a mask of emotion, muted in this fantastical place.

“I was busy—”

He leaned closer, “With Dean?”

“Huh?” The tingling moved in places he wasn’t touching. A shiver ran through her. She knew this person, and he knew her. They spent hours writing to each other. She never imagined this could be possible.

“Does he touch you?” His voice was low, dangerous.

“I—” she swallowed. Dean once ran his hands under her shirt. It wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience—the way he honked her breasts.

Tom’s eyes darkened, a shadow of possessiveness crossing his face. “He has no right!” he hissed. “No right to lay his hands on what’s mine!”

A mix of fear and an inexplicable thrill surged within her at his sudden explosion of darkness. “Tom, you can’t mean—”

“I do,” he interrupted, his voice cold and resolute. “No one will understand you as I do. No one will have you like I will. Dean, Harry, nobody—they are nothing compared to what we have.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “Tom, this isn’t right. You aren’t real!”

Although she couldn’t feel his skin, she perceived the increasing pressure of his hold. His eyes darkened, turning menacing. “I’ve waited too long. Watched you from the confines of this damn book!”

The world dimmed as his possessiveness enveloped them. He caught her in his trap, but had no desire to leave his ensnare. She reached out to touch him; her hand connected with something solid, but it wasn’t like flesh. An indescribable force kept her from passing through his translucent body.

He bent, running his lips along her temple. Instead of his warm breath on her skin, she felt a faint breeze that seemed to carry his whispered presence. It was too much. The magnitude of it overwhelmed her, even without the physical connection. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to experience Tom Riddle with all five of her senses. She wanted to feel more than his pressure and light touch—she craved the temperature of his body and the pain of his grip. “You’re going to ruin me...”

His mouth curved upward against her cheek, “Yes—does that scare you?”

“It should.”

“You’re right. It should terrify you,” he snarled, his words a menacing promise before he seized her lips with his. He kissed her with a violent intensity. It was a fierce proclamation of his passion and possession. Electricity sparked between them, fusing their spirits together in a dance of fiery desire and cold, unyielding dominance.

It was strange kissing a phantom, longing for a touch that wasn’t fully tangible. She yearned to hold him closer but couldn’t find a perch. She longed to drown herself in him, but there was no substance to suffocate her. Yet she still couldn’t breathe. His movements and grip were unrelenting. Her mind and body succumbed to him willingly, surrendering to the intoxicating power he held over her.

Everything around them faded into insignificance. Time became irrelevant, and all that mattered was the ferocity of their union. Their bond defied logic, defied the limitations of the solid world. In that surreal moment, she realized that sometimes the most powerful connections were the ones that existed beyond the confines of the physical realm.

He owned her.

He pulled away, leaving her dazed and breathless. His face was a picture of smug satisfaction.

“Are you in your fifth year now?” he asked her, stepping away.

She nodded. She turned sixteen a few months ago.

“You’ve grown up.” He tilted his head, scanning her from head to toe.

“How did you get trapped in the diary?” she breathed, wanting to get the attention off her.

Something in his jaw ticked. He replaced the arrogant expression on his face with something more stoic: “In my seventh year at Hogwarts, I placed a piece of myself here, thinking it would be a way to keep my memory alive.”

“It worked.”

“Yes, but now I’m stuck here in this limbo.” He looked up at the blurred sky. She wondered if it looked as hazy to him as it did to her.

“Is it possible for you to leave?”

He examined her again. “Perhaps,” he answered slowly. He didn’t expand on what he meant by that. “Are you going to break up with Dean?”

“What?”

“Break up with him,” he demanded, his eyes narrowed.

“Okay.” His stiff posture relaxed.

They stared at each other, a silence descending on them. He appeared hazier than when she first arrived.

“I need to return,” she said. She made a promise to herself two years ago that she wouldn’t skip meals—so far she kept to it.

“Will you abandon me here again, Ginny?” His tone was low and threatening.

“No!” His menacing stare didn’t let up. “I’m sorry Tom! Please!” She stepped closer, reaching out to touch his face. The contact softened his expression—to her relief.

“I want a promise from you.”

“I promise I won’t stop writing to you again…”

He leaned down and pressed his lips against hers again. This was short and quick, unlike the last kiss he gave her. Her toes curled in her shoes. She wanted so much more from him. “I never forget those who have wronged me.” He said against her lips, “and I never forgive those that break a promise.”

With those last words, the world started spinning. She closed her eyes, seeing lights flashing behind her eyelids. When she opened them again, she was in her bed—as if she’d never left.