Ginny woke up convinced she'd dreamed the whole thing.
Sunlight streamed through her bedroom window, illuminating dust motes that danced in the warm air. The diary sat exactly where she'd left it on her desk, looking perfectly ordinary. Just black leather and blank pages, nothing magical about it at all.
She sat up in bed, pushing her auburn hair out of her face. Had she really had a conversation with someone—something—living inside a diary? It sounded ridiculous in the light of day. Maybe she'd been more nervous about Hogwarts than she'd thought, and her mind had conjured up an imaginary friend to cope.
But when she padded over to her desk and opened the diary, there it was: her conversation with Tom from the day before, written in two distinct hands. Her own careful script and his elegant writing, side by side on the yellowed pages.
So it wasn't a dream.
She glanced toward her bedroom door, listening for sounds of her family waking up. The Burrow was still quiet—even Fred and George weren't up yet, which meant it was properly early. Perfect time for another conversation without anyone wondering why she was talking to a book.
Ginny picked up her quill, dipped it in ink, and hesitated. What do you say to someone who lived in a diary? Good morning seemed silly. How did you sleep was worse.
Finally, she settled on: Are you there, Tom?
The response came quickly, as if he'd been waiting: Good morning, Ginny. Did you sleep well?
Not really, she found herself writing before she could stop herself. I kept thinking about Hogwarts.
Nervous thoughts or excited ones?
Both. Mostly nervous, I think.
She paused, chewing on the end of her quill. There was something about writing to Tom that made it easier to be honest. Maybe because he wasn't real—or not real in the usual way. He couldn't judge her with his eyes or make that pitying face adults got when children worried about things they considered silly.
What if I'm not good enough? she wrote in a rush. What if I can't do magic properly? What if the Sorting Hat puts me in Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw and I'm the first Weasley not in Gryffindor? What if I fail my classes and have to come home in disgrace?
The words poured out faster than she'd intended, her fears spilling across the page in increasingly frantic handwriting. She set down her quill and stared at what she'd written, feeling simultaneously relieved and mortified.
Oh, Ginny, appeared on the page, and somehow Tom's handwriting looked gentler than before. Those are perfectly normal fears. Every student worries about the same things before starting Hogwarts.
Even you?
Especially me. I'd never seen magic before my Hogwarts letter arrived. I thought I was going mad for years before that, making strange things happen when I was angry or upset. At least you've grown up knowing magic exists.
Ginny blinked. She'd never thought about it that way. Tom had been Muggle-raised, like Harry Potter. She'd grown up watching her brothers practice spells, seeing her father's Ministry work, helping her mother with household magic. Magic was as natural to her as breathing.
I suppose that's true, she wrote. But you still ended up in Slytherin. They only take the clever ones.
Slytherin takes the ambitious ones, Tom corrected. Though I admit there's often overlap. But Ginny, you're already cleverer than you give yourself credit for.
How would you know? We've only talked once.
You organized your room without magic yesterday, planned your approach to each task, and managed to have a conversation with a diary-bound stranger without running away screaming. That shows both intelligence and courage.
Ginny felt her cheeks warm. I almost did run away screaming.
But you didn't. That's what matters.
She found herself smiling despite her worries. Did you really worry about not being good enough when you started Hogwarts?
I worried about everything. The other students, the classes, whether I'd embarrass myself at the Welcome Feast. I'd never eaten at a proper table before—I kept using the wrong fork.
There are wrong forks?
Several, apparently. The house-elves were very patient with me.
Ginny giggled. The idea of the mysterious Tom being confused by cutlery made him seem more human, less like some ancient magical entity.
What was your favorite class? she asked.
Defense Against the Dark Arts, though the teacher was rather timid. I enjoyed the practical aspects—learning how to protect yourself, understanding how magic can be used for both creation and destruction. What about you? What are you most looking forward to?
Transfiguration, I think. I love watching Mum change things around the house. She can turn a button into a beetle, then back again without even thinking about it.
Transfiguration is fascinating, Tom agreed. It's all about understanding the fundamental nature of what you're changing. You can't successfully transfigure something unless you truly comprehend both its current form and what you want it to become.
That sounds complicated.
All magic is complicated when you really examine it. But that's what makes it beautiful. Take something as simple as levitating a feather—you're not just making it float, you're fundamentally altering its relationship with gravity.
Ginny stared at the words, intrigued despite herself. I never thought about it like that.
Most people don't. They learn the wand movement, memorize the incantation, and consider that sufficient. But if you understand the theory behind the spell, you can adapt it, improve it, even create variations.
Could you teach me some theory? Before I start school?
There was a pause before Tom's response appeared. I'd be happy to, though I should warn you that I might be a bit out of date. It's been fifty years since I attended Hogwarts.
But magic doesn't really change, does it?
The fundamentals remain the same. Magic is magic. Though I suspect the teaching methods have improved considerably.
Probably. Fred and George say Professor McGonagall is brilliant but terrifying.
McGonagall? I remember her as a student—Minerva McGonagall, a 2 years above me. Gryffindor, if I recall correctly. Exceptionally talented at Transfiguration even then.
Ginny's quill froze over the page. You knew Professor McGonagall when she was a student?
Indeed. She was one of the most gifted students in her year. I'm not surprised she became a professor—she had a natural talent for both magic and teaching.
That's... wow. You really have been in that diary for fifty years.
Time moves strangely when you're not properly alive. Sometimes it feels like yesterday, sometimes like centuries.
Ginny felt a pang of sympathy. Doesn't it get lonely?
Tremendously. That's why I'm so grateful you're willing to talk with me.
She found herself writing before she could second-guess herself: I'm grateful too. I don't really have anyone else to talk to about being nervous.
Your brothers wouldn't understand?
They're all so confident about everything. Charlie was Quidditch Captain, Bill was Head Boy, Percy's a prefect. Even the twins never seem worried about anything. I'm the only girl, and the youngest. Sometimes I feel like I have to prove I deserve to be a Weasley.
Ginny, Tom's writing appeared slowly, as if he were choosing his words carefully. You don't have to prove anything to anyone. You already belong, exactly as you are.
But what if I'm not brave enough for Gryffindor?
You're talking to a mysterious diary entity without knowing if I'm friend or foe. That takes considerable bravery.
Or considerable stupidity.
Sometimes those are the same thing. The best Gryffindors I knew were the ones who acted first and worried about consequences later.
Is that supposed to be reassuring?
It means you'll be where you belong.
Ginny smiled, feeling some of the tight knots in her chest beginning to loosen. Tell me about the castle. What's it really like?
Magnificent. Ancient stone that seems to hum with centuries of magic. Moving staircases that will teach you patience whether you want to learn it or not. Portraits that gossip worse than any village busybody. The Great Hall with its enchanted ceiling—have you heard about that?
Percy mentioned it. It shows the sky outside?
Better than that. It shows the sky as it ought to be. Perfect weather for the mood of the castle. Gentle snowfall during winter feasts, brilliant sunshine for celebrations, dramatic storms when the mood calls for mystery.
That sounds incredible.
It is. And the library—thousands upon thousands of books, with entire sections devoted to subjects you've never dreamed of. Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, the theoretical foundations of potion-making.
You really loved school, didn't you?
I loved learning. School was... complicated. But the magic, the knowledge, the discovery of what was possible—that was intoxicating.
Will you tell me about some of the magic you learned? The interesting bits they don't put in first-year textbooks?
If you'd like. Though perhaps we should start with theory that might actually help you in your classes.
For the next hour, Tom explained the principles behind basic spells, weaving together magical theory with practical applications in a way that made Ginny's textbooks seem impossibly dry by comparison. He described magic as a living thing, responsive to emotion and intent as much as proper wand movement and pronunciation.
Magic isn't just about following rules, he wrote. It's about understanding why the rules exist, and when they can be bent.
That sounds dangerous.
All worthwhile magic is a little dangerous. That's what makes it worth doing.
Ginny was about to respond when footsteps thundered up the stairs—her brothers, finally awake and arguing about something. She quickly closed the diary and shoved it into her desk drawer just as Fred burst through her door without knocking.
"Ginny! Mum says you're supposed to help with breakfast, and George says you're supposed to help us test our new Canary Creams, and I say you're supposed to settle an argument about whether Chudley Cannons are worse than Puddlemere United."
"They're both terrible," Ginny said automatically, then realized she felt lighter than she had in weeks. Her worries about Hogwarts hadn't disappeared, but they seemed manageable now. They stopped feeling like insurmountable obstacles.
"That's our sister," George said, appearing behind Fred. "Always the voice of reason."
"Someone has to be, in this family," she replied, following them downstairs to help with breakfast.
But all through the morning chaos of Weasley family life, she found herself thinking about Tom's words, about how he viewed magic as a living thing, how he broke the rules. She thought about Professor McGonagall as a student, about the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling, about the possibility that she might actually belong at Hogwarts after all.
And she found herself looking forward to their next conversation.
The diary, tucked safely in her desk drawer, seemed to radiate a quiet warmth. As if it too was looking forward to continuing their discussions about magic, theory, and the wonderful complications of growing up witch.
That evening, when the house had settled into its usual rhythm of post-dinner activities, Ginny snuck back upstairs with the excuse of organizing her school things. She opened the diary to a fresh page and wrote: Thank you for today. I feel much better about everything.
You're very welcome. Sleep well, Ginny. Tomorrow we can talk about the practical applications of Transfiguration theory.
I'd like that.
She closed the diary with a smile, tucked it carefully into her desk drawer, and went to bed feeling, for the first time in weeks, genuinely excited about starting school.
In the darkness of his void, Tom felt something new he hadn't experienced before, the satisfaction of helping someone without expecting anything in return. Ginny's fears had been so genuine, so heartbreakingly normal, that easing them felt like the most natural thing in the world.
He'd been honest with her—more honest than Tom Riddle had ever been with anyone. The loneliness, the fears, even the embarrassment about using the wrong fork. All of it true, if carefully edited to remove the darker elements of his Hogwarts experience.
The void felt warm tonight, filled with the echo of her laughter and the promise of tomorrow's conversation. For the first time since awakening in this strange existence, he wasn't counting the days until something better came along.
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AN: Hey!
Added the setting that 50 years before they used multiple forks...!!! don't mind it, its just what I thought would be a nice thing that voldi did when young to break the ice.
If you got any better suggestions instead let me know!
Anyway, author off. Ciao!