As Ginny watched the ink twist and curl across the diary's pages, forming words she hadn't written, a memory surfaced unbidden. Something her father had said once, almost offhandedly but with a seriousness that had lingered.
Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain.
Ginny's grip on her quill tightened as she reread the words of the mysterious entity that called itself Tom. She knew she should be cautious, perhaps even close the diary altogether, yet something about Tom's friendly, unguarded replies kept her rooted to the spot, curiosity urging her to read on.
Though she couldn't fully understand what sort of magic might animate the diary, Ginny found her curiosity overpowering any misgivings. Ignoring her father's admonitions, she dipped her quill once more, determined to uncover the secrets hidden within the enchanted pages.
'How are you speaking to me?' Ginny wrote. 'And what are you?'
In response, the ink bubbled up on the page in neat, careful lines. 'I am Tom.' The words taking form with a smooth, almost soothing pace. 'Think of this diary as something like the enchanted paintings at Hogwarts, but simpler. I was once a student at Hogwarts, back in the 1940s - a Muggle-born who wanted to leave a record of my thoughts and memories.'
Ginny's doubts started to fade as she thought about what Tom had said. The idea of magic like the enchanted paintings seemed believable - her brothers had told her plenty of stories about strange spells like that.
But what really made her want to trust the diary wasn't just the magic. It was the idea of having someone to talk to, someone who wasn't her family. Her brothers loved to tease her and her mum, while kind, could be a bit much sometimes. Tom felt different. He just listened.
She liked the thought of sharing things she couldn't tell anyone else, like how much she admired Harry Potter. It was so embarrassing she'd never tell her brothers - they'd tease her for weeks - or her mum, who'd probably try to make it into something bigger than it was. And maybe Tom could help her figure out what to do when Fred and George pulled one of their tricks on her or how to get sorted into Gryffindor. It was comforting, having someone to turn to.
Ginny convinced herself that the diary wasn't dangerous or bad. It was just special - a chance to have someone who understood her. She stared at the page for a moment, her quill poised in the air, before taking a deep breath and starting to write again.
'Ginny here again,' she started, her handwriting slightly shaky. 'I want to talk to you about something.' She paused. 'Someone, actually. His name is Harry Potter.' Tom's response came swiftly, his words forming in the same neat script as before. 'Go on,' he encouraged, his response comforting.
'He's... well, he's famous,' Ginny continued, her words tumbling out in a rush. 'He defeated You-Know-Who when he was just a baby. And now he's at Hogwarts, and everyone knows who he is. Even my parents talk about him.'
Tom's reply was measured, his advice calm and reassuring. 'Famous people like him often want to be treated like normal boys,' he suggested. 'Try not to let his reputation make you too nervous. Treat him like you would anyone else.'
Ginny nodded to herself, taking Tom's words to heart. 'I'll try,' she wrote. 'But it's hard. He's just... he's Harry Potter, you know? And he's spending the summer with my family. I see him every day and I just... I freeze up."
Tom's response was understanding, his words a gentle. 'If treating him like a normal boy doesn't work,' he advised, 'try to distract yourself. Focus on something else, something that makes you feel confident.'
Ginny sighed, feeling a weight lift off her shoulders a little bit. 'Thank you,' she wrote, just being glad to have someone who listened and wouldn't betray her. 'I'll try that. I'll try to be brave and not let my nerves get the best of me.'
Ginny took a deep breath as she walked downstairs, determined to do something bold - talk to Harry Potter. Tom's advice swirled in her mind. Treat him like a normal boy. But even with Tom's reassurances, her nerves buzzed under her skin, her cheeks already flushed with anticipation. As she reached the kitchen, she spotted Harry across the room. Just say hello, she reminded herself. Just be normal.
But before she could even take a step toward him, Fred and George popped up beside her, their grins matching mischievously. They slung their arms over her shoulders and turned to face Harry.
"Oh, Harry!" began Fred. "Have you met our sister Ginny?"
George picked up seamlessly. "Looks just like us, doesn't she?"
"Only with a few more freckles…"
"And a rounder face…"
"And longer hair!" They finished together, laughing.
Ginny's face turned a deep shade of red as she felt Harry's gaze land on her. She couldn't bring herself to look at him, her mind filling with their taunting words. To her, it felt like each word magnified her insecurities: Her freckles, her round face, her hair that she'd always wished was less plain.
Mrs. Weasley, who had been busy with dinner preparations, looked up, her expression firm as she scolded. "Fred, George, that's enough! Leave your sister alone."
She felt humiliated. The one time she'd tried to build up the courage to talk to Harry, her brothers had ruined it, making her feel as if she'd been exposed for a joke. The way they'd pointed out her features only made her more painfully aware of everything she disliked about herself.
She'd fled up the stairs, ignoring her mum's calls and the twins' laughter echoing down the hall. Reaching her room, she shut the door firmly behind her, locking it with a decisive twist. Away from the family chaos, the silence settled around her, amplifying the sting of embarrassment.
Her resolve to speak to Harry had crumbled the moment the twins started up with their teasing. Why did they have to make her feel so small, like her hopes and crushes were just another joke to them? Ginny took a shaky breath, her eyes drifting to the mirror.
Now, alone in her room, Ginny found herself standing before the mirror, stripped down to her underwear, arms wrapped tightly around her thin frame. She studied her reflection, trying to find something - anything - attractive about herself.
Her eyes lingered on her round face, the small chin she'd inherited from her mother. A few freckles stood out against her pale skin, dotted across her cheeks and nose like splashes of brown paint. She ran a hand through her hair, wishing it was sleeker, shinier - something that wouldn't look so plain next to the other girls at Hogwarts.
'How could someone like Harry ever find me beautiful?' The thought pounded through her mind as she looked over her too-thin arms, her flat chest, her shoulders that felt almost bony. She was nothing like the girls in the magazines she read, nothing like the picture she held in her mind of who she wanted to be. And the loneliness that pulsed inside her only grew as she stared at her reflection, feeling utterly invisible and unworthy.
Unable to hold it in, she turned away from the mirror, threw herself onto her bed and reached for the diary that lay open beside her. Her quill scratched across the page, faster than she could think, pouring her heart into Tom's waiting presence.
'I hate the way I look,' she wrote, watching the ink glisten on the paper before fading. 'I'm ugly. Plain. Just wrong! My hair, my face, my whole body - none of its good enough. Harry will never notice me, not like this.'
Her eyes blurred, and tears began to drop onto the diary, smudging the ink as she filled the pages with her insecurities. She closed her eyes, feeling a surge of shame for even putting these feelings into words. When she opened them again, Tom's writing appeared below hers, his letters smooth and reassuring.
'Ginny, please don't be so hard on yourself,' he wrote, his tone gentle. 'You're a lovely young girl. But if you'd like to feel more confident, there are things we can do. Magic, in fact, can help enhance your natural beauty.'
Ginny sniffled, staring at the words as if she'd never seen anything like them before. 'Magic? You mean like a glamour charm?'
'Not exactly…' Tom replied. 'There are spells that can bring out the best in you - enhance what's already beautiful.' His words seemed to flow, rich and comforting, across the page. 'And potions, too, to help your body grow into its best shape. With some guidance, we could take care of the things that trouble you.'
Ginny felt her heart skip. 'You mean, there are spells to make my hair shinier? And… for my freckles?'
'Yes,' Tom wrote smoothly. 'Though, as I said, it would require a little help from me. If you're willing to trust me, you could cast the spells yourself with my guidance.'
Ginny read his words, excitement bubbling in her chest, until her eyes paused on his next sentence.
'To make it work, though, we would need a deeper connection - a way for me to be there for you, guiding you as if I were right by your side.'
'What do you mean?' she wrote, a pang of nervousness breaking through her eagerness.
'It's simple,' Tom assured her. 'A touch of blood magic would form the link we need. Just three drops, Ginny, to open our connection. Then we could communicate in your mind and I could help you not just with beauty, but with classes or with speaking confidently… anything you'd need. It's common for wizards and witches to bond to magical object with blood, you know. There is nothing to worry about.'
Blood magic…
Ginny's heart lurched and her hand stilled over the page. Blood magic had always sounded ominous, something dark, something her mother would probably forbid outright. She could almost hear her parents' stern warnings in her mind.
But then her gaze dropped back to the page, to Tom's words - gentle, reassuring, promising to help in ways she'd only dreamed of. The weight of her loneliness, the ache of feeling small and unnoticed, pressed down on her and her resistance began to fade. She'd never had anyone who truly understood her, let alone offered to help her like this.
Ginny glanced over at the needle lying on her bedside table, a forgotten remnant from her mum's latest attempts to get her to learn embroidery. Her fingers trembled as she picked it up. With one quick prick, she felt a sharp sting on her fingertip and a small bead of blood welled up. She hovered over the page, hesitating one last time.
'It's all right, Ginny,' the diary's words reassured her. 'Three drops, and then everything will be so much easier.'
Closing her eyes, she let three drops of blood fall onto the diary's page, each one soaking in as if absorbed by a thirsty sponge. A chill ran through her, her hand lingering over the diary as a quiet stillness filled her mind. Had she made a mistake?
And then, without warning, she heard his voice - deep, calm and strangely comforting, as though he were right beside her.
"Thank you, Ginny. This is the beginning of something wonderful," he said. "Now, let's start with something simple. Take out your wand and I'll guide you. Together, we'll bring a shine to that beautiful hair of yours."
Ginny felt a tingle as her hand, with the wand still gripped in her fingers, lifted almost of its own accord. She blinked in surprise, feeling her muscles shift without her directing them, her wand hand guided as though by some invisible string. Her heart skipped - Tom was really controlling her, in the gentlest, lightest way. Her wrist rolled in a graceful movement, the wand now pointed toward her hair and she sensed her magic responding to his touch, like a current drawn toward him.
"There we are," Tom's voice murmured in her mind, calm and reassuring. "Just relax and let me guide you."
Ginny's hand moved delicately, performing a soft flick of the wand, and a shimmer enveloped her hair. She watched in astonishment as the strands seemed to deepen in colour, catching the light with a soft gloss that hadn't been there moments before. Her hair looked fuller, almost luminous. A surge of joy bubbled up inside her.
"See?" he whispered. "Your magic is more powerful than you think, Ginny. All it needed was a little direction."
Her hand dropped to her side for a moment as if waiting and then lifted again under his influence, her wand now pointed at her face. "And for those freckles," he said gently, sensing her unease. "Not that they aren't lovely, but a little smoother look if you prefer…"
Her fingers, feeling light and deft, traced a gentle line over her cheekbones, her wand glowing with a soft, warm light. She felt a strange, exhilarating warmth as her magic pulsed, responding directly to his control, until a faint tingling spread over her face. The freckles that had always stood out against her pale skin softened, their edges blurring, until she could barely see them. Her skin looked clearer, smooth and even - the way she'd often dreamed it might look.
"Perfect," Tom murmured approvingly. "Already, you're seeing just how beautiful you can be, Ginny."
She gazed at her reflection, hardly recognizing herself. Her hair fell in a smooth, shining cascade and her skin looked even and flawless. For a moment, she didn't feel like the ordinary, freckled girl she usually saw in the mirror - she felt like someone new, someone almost… lovely.
"This is just the beginning," Tom's voice echoed softly in her mind. "Potions can help with anything else you'd like in time. But even now, you're already beautiful."
Ginny felt a thrill run through her, a mixture of awe and gratitude. With Tom's help, she could be someone Harry would notice - someone special.
But her mum was not as thrilled about her glossier hair and vanished freckles, when she entered the kitchen later.
"Ginevra Weasley!" Mrs. Weasley said, her tone brisk. "What have you done to yourself?!"
Ginny's hand flew to her hair instinctively. "What do you mean, mum?" she asked, her voice a touch too defensive. She could feel the heat creeping up her neck.
Her mother crossed her arms, her face clouded with suspicion. "Your hair's shinier than a polished cauldron and your freckles - where have they gone? Don't tell me you've been fiddling with magic. You haven't even started Hogwarts yet!"
Arthur Weasley, sitting at the table with a tinkering project - a strange Muggle device with wires spilling from its sides - glanced up, sensing the tension. "Now, Molly…" he began gently "there's no harm in a little experimenting. Girls her age like to... well, try things out. It's perfectly normal."
Molly turned to her husband, the wooden spoon in her hand now wielded like a weapon. "Normal? Arthur, she's too young to be tampering with her appearance like this!"
Ginny flushed, her embarrassment mounting as her parents debated her choices in front of her. "It's not a big deal!" she protested, her voice rising. "I just wanted to see if I could make it look better, that's all."
Her mother's expression softened for a moment, but her voice remained firm. "You're beautiful just the way you are, Ginny. There's no need for all this nonsense."
Arthur cleared his throat, trying to mediate. "Molly, if I recall correctly, you might've… adjusted your nose a bit when we were at Hogwarts. Didn't you tell me about that once?"
Molly's cheeks turned a faint shade of pink and her lips pursed. "That was different," she said sharply. "And I certainly didn't do it before I'd even set foot at school."
Her father gave Ginny a conspiratorial wink, but Molly noticed. "Arthur!" she huffed. "Don't encourage her! Ginny, I'm putting my foot down. No more magic like this, do you hear me? You're not to use spells or charms on yourself until you've had proper lessons at Hogwarts. Am I clear?"
Ginny opened her mouth to argue but closed it again when her mother's expression grew even more stern. She nodded mutely, her stomach churning with frustration and shame. Her mother didn't understand - she didn't see how much better Ginny felt about herself with Tom's help.
"Good," Mrs. Weasley said, turning back to the stove and giving the pot a particularly vigorous stir. "Now wash up for dinner."
Ginny steps out of the kitchen. She was desperate to escape the uncomfortable conversation, but as she rounded the corner, she froze. Harry was standing there, looking like a deer caught in headlights. He cleared his throat awkwardly, eyes darting away.
"Er… hi, Ginny," he muttered, his face flushed.
Ginny's heart skipped in her chest, mortified beyond belief. She suddenly felt self-conscious of her glossy hair and her now-freckle-less face. She barely held back the urge to hide behind the wall. "You… you heard that?" Her voice came out smaller than she meant.
Harry shrugged, scratching the back of his neck, his gaze still not quite meeting hers. "Uh, yeah. I mean, I wasn't trying to listen, but I… uh, well, I just, uh… wanted to say… your hair looks nice. It's… uh… different. In a good way, I mean."
Ginny, mortified beyond measure, nodded awkwardly. "Right… well, thanks," she said, quickly glancing at him before turning and practically fleeing to her room.
The door slammed shut behind her and Ginny leaned against it for a moment, her heart racing. The rush of embarrassment soon morphs into a heady mix of giddiness and relief. Tom will understand, she told herself, pressing the diary to her chest as though it could shield her from the world.
In the privacy of her mind, she whispered to Tom, "Did you hear that? He said I looked nice… I can't believe he noticed me!" A soft giggle escapes her lips, and she sank down on her bed, the feelings of satisfaction mixing with her growing need for Tom's approval.
oOoOo
Alexander lingered within the diary, his consciousness tethered to Ginny as she sat cross-legged on her bed. The diary rested against her chest, her fingers curling around its smooth cover as though it were a lifeline. Her thoughts spilled into him without hesitation, a steady stream of unguarded musings that no longer required the formality of a quill.
"I wonder what Hogwarts will be like, Tom," she mused. "I hope I make friends. Maybe… maybe Harry will notice me more."
A flicker of irritation rippled through Alexander, buried just beneath the calm exterior he projected. His reply was a wordless hum of acknowledgment, carefully neutral, though his patience thinned with every mention of Potter. This was far from the first time he'd endured her incessant daydreams about the boy. Ginny's juvenile infatuation wasn't just tiresome - it was a grating reminder of the naivety he was forced to tolerate.
'How does she not tire of this?' he thought, suppressing a sharp retort. Manipulating her had become so effortless it felt almost insulting and yet her innocence - her joy, her insecurities, her unrelenting optimism - was a constant abrasion against the cold rationality of his own mind. To him, her thoughts were too bright, too unguarded and utterly alien.
Still, her attachment to Potter was useful and he reminded himself that patience was a virtue. She was already his in every way that mattered. The blood bond she had formed with the diary - three drops of blood, willingly given - had solidified his hold over her, far beyond what she could comprehend. She thought it was simple magic to strengthen their connection.
She'd done it willingly, blissfully unaware of the deeper implications. Alexander savoured the memory of her ignorance as she performed the ritual. Offering one's blood to a Horcrux was no trivial act. It solidified a bond far deeper than mere words or thoughts could achieve. And the significance of the number three had only magnified its power.
With those three drops, she'd unknowingly surrendered more than she realized. Her mind, her will, even her soul - everything would be his to mould… soon.
Her voice jolted him from his musings. "Maybe today I'll actually talk to Harry again!" she thought, a hopeful lilt in her tone. Alexander stifled a groan of exasperation. 'Can't she think about anything else?' he thought annoyed. The Potter boy was the last thing on his mind, yet here she was, fixated on him as though it mattered.
But then again, her fixation on Potter was part of her charm, wasn't it? A weakness he could exploit. Alexander leaned back into the bond, his mental presence steady and comforting. It was almost too easy. For now, her trust was paramount. Her growing dependence on him was a tool he wielded with precision, each moment pulling her deeper under his influence. The body he coveted, the freedom he craved, was so close he could almost feel it. But rushing would undo everything.
Patience, he reminded himself, had always been his strength.