Chapter 3
Chapter 3: Where the Ink Goes
Ginny had spent years imagining it—Hogwarts.
The enchanted ceilings. The ghost stories. The talking portraits and secret corridors her brothers always raved about.
Back then, it had sounded like magic.
Now that she was here, those same things just made her feel… lost.
The castle was massive, echoing, unpredictable. The moving staircases seemed to wait until she chose correctly—then changed their minds and shifted in the wrong direction.
Every portrait she passed seemed to be staring at her.
Hogwarts felt more like a puzzle than a home.
Everyone around her already seemed to know where to go and what to do, while Ginny trailed behind—watching, guessing, second-guessing. She felt like she was constantly catching up—one step behind and never certain if she’d made the right step at all.
While her classmates moved like they belonged, Ginny moved like she hoped no one would notice.
She thought maybe she’d missed the part where everyone else got instructions on how to fit in.
If she at least had friends, they could be lost together.
But she felt so alone.
Potions class made everything worse.
Snape didn’t even say her name. He just stopped beside her cauldron, narrowed his eyes at the cloudy mess inside, and said loud enough for the entire class to hear,
“Clearly, some students are still struggling with the concept of basic color theory.”
A few Slytherins laughed. One of the Ravenclaws didn’t bother to hide her smile.
Ginny stared at the potion and clenched her hands in her lap, willing herself not to cry.
Not here. Not in front of them.
She bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood, forcing the tears down her throat.
She wouldn’t give Snape—or anyone else—the satisfaction.
By the end of class, her head was throbbing and her stomach felt hollow, knotted with everything she hadn’t said.
When the other students lingered in the hallway, gathering their books, laughing and waiting for one another before heading down to the Great Hall for dinner, Ginny slipped away.
She didn’t feel like eating.
She didn’t feel like pretending.
The corridors blurred around her as she climbed staircase after staircase, each one colder than the last.
She barely registered the paintings watching her pass.
She didn’t care if they whispered.
She gave the password to the Fat Lady without meeting her gaze, slipped into the common room, and took the stairs two at a time until she reached the quiet of her dormitory.
The tears came quickly as she shut the door, dropped her bag, and sank onto the edge of her bed.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quiet and unstoppable.
She covered her face with her hands and let it happen.
Everything she had held in during class—Snape’s voice, the laughter, the familiar swell of shame—it all unraveled the second she was alone.
She knew it was foolish to care what they thought. She’d told herself that a dozen times.
But it didn’t stop the ache in her chest from blooming like a bruise.
Her brothers always seemed to find people.
Even Ron, with his awkwardness and temper—he had friends. He had Harry.
But Ginny…
All she had were polite smiles from strangers, snickers from classmates, and long stretches of silence.
She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her jumper and stared down at her trunk, where, nestled beneath her scarf, was the diary.
She hesitated.
It wasn’t a real friend. She knew that.
It couldn’t talk.
It couldn’t help.
Still, something in her chest tugged.
She pulled it out slowly and settled cross-legged on the bed, smoothing her fingers over the cover.
Her hands were still shaking. Her cheeks still damp.
Maybe she’d write it all down.
Just to get it out.
Just so someone—even imaginary—could know how it felt to walk around invisible.
When she opened the diary, she froze.
There, scrawled across the center of the page in clean, elegant script, were words she hadn’t written.
Hello, Ginny.
Her breath caught in her throat. She stared, frozen, her eyes wide and unblinking.
Not only did she know she hadn’t written that… she noticed everything she’d written the day before was gone.
Her first instinct was to close the book. To shut it, throw it, lock it away.
But her fingers didn’t move. Her hands had gone still, her pulse tapping just beneath her skin like a trapped bird.
The dormitory was silent.
Empty.
No one could’ve written it.
No one had touched it but her.
And yet… the words remained.
She leaned closer. And that’s when she saw the rest.
I hope you don’t mind me writing back.
You sounded… lonely.
I know what that feels like.
Being surrounded by people, and still somehow unseen.
You don’t have to feel that way—not here.
Not with me.
You can tell me anything.
I’ll listen.
—Tom
She read it twice.
Three times.
Her mouth hung slightly open, eyes tracking every line, every letter, as if trying to catch the ink in the act of lying.
Once the shock from the unexpected words wore off, their meaning started to sink in.
With each breath she took, she noticed the ink beginning to fade—not suddenly, but slowly, line by line, as if the diary had exhaled with each disappearing sentence.
The words didn’t just vanish.
They lifted off the parchment and were absorbed into her.
Ginny felt each one settle somewhere deep inside, as if the message was being written directly into her ribs.
It should have frightened her.
But it didn’t.
Instead, she felt something she hadn’t felt all day.
Steady.
Warm.
Seen.
The ache in her chest softened.
The sharp corners of Snape’s voice, the echo of laughter—they dulled, tucked behind the strange comfort blooming quietly inside her.
Her fingers brushed against the cool, empty page as she realized she was no longer crying.
She wasn’t even sure when she’d stopped.
She stared at the diary for a long time.
Then she reached for her quill.