If Only

It was dark outside. Working by the light of her wand, she fumbled through her bags. At once, she snatched-up the unfamiliar book in her arms and examined it carefully.

She flipped through the pages of the book in her hands. Each and every last one of them -with one exception - was completely bereft of even the slightest stroke of the quill. It felt as though only her hand had graced the pages of the diary before her, yet there was a definite antiquity to it. Its cover was worn and aged, yet still elegantly beautiful.

"T. M. Riddle," she read aloud. The name rolled from the tip of her tongue, soft like sun-softened toffee. It was the only clue to the diary's original owner, written in smudged ink on the first page. Some day, she hoped she could find out for herself who this Riddle was. She felt, with a certain surety, that he was a very powerful wizard.

Ginny picked-up her quill from her bedside table. Turning to a fresh page, she let the ink flow. Her hand moved smoothly against the fine parchment. A smile found its way onto her beautiful eleven-year-old face; the glimmer in her eyes would charm any wizard in only a few short years.

"My name is Ginny Weasley,"she began, turning the bottle of ink absentmindedly. She could not remember ever having kept a diary before; she wasn't really sure what to do. Now that she had one, though, she found she rather liked the idea. She felt compelled to write something – anything. The parchment between her fingers had become a new home, a peaceful and private refuge – a quiet realm for her deepest, most intimate thoughts.

As her hand rested in the air over the page, her mind turned ideas for what to write next. In a blink, the ink disappeared. She frowned. She wrote the same five words again and again, and, each time, they vanished.

As her frustration grew, she set her quill down at the side of the diary. It was no wonder that the diary was empty if the ink refused to stay on the page. As she made to close it and return to the idea of sleep, new words formed where hers had been just the moment before, freshly arranged from her very own ink.

"Hello, Ginny Weasley. My name is Tom Riddle." At first she was startled, but she chose to write more, pouring her heart into her every word. If only she had known then what that diary truly was, what effect it would have on her, and the ones she loved. But Tom was her friend – he would listen. She could tell him everything; he was a book and could not betray her.

She told him everything. She told him of her heart's greatest desire, a dark-hair, green-eyed boy by the name of Harry. Tom had been very interested in him, almost annoyingly so, but that didn't matter. She had a friend.

If only she had known.

Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed this little piece. Please review.