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The diary, Ginny decided, was as much her horcrux as it was Voldemort’s. She thinks often of her first encounter with the dark lord, the kind and handsome boy who listened to her when she was just Ron’s kid sister. She remembers vividly the hours she spent pouring herself into the pages, her fears and frustrations. Ginny wonders just how much of herself she lost that year, and how much of him replaced what vanished into the diary.
Ginny still keeps a diary, not full of concerns about the boy who can’t see her, but about the war that’s begun to spill into every aspect of her life. She fills pages with frustrations about the Ministry, sadness at the loss of Dumbledore, anger toward the evil that has curled its fingers around her beloved school. She writes about being abandoned, left to fight without question for the students, while Harry is off running a dead mans errands. Ginny still addresses the entries to Tom.
Perhaps she imagines it, but some nights Ginny swears she can hear Tom’s smooth voice whispering in her ear. Confirming her doubts, planting new fears in her head, she can feel his cruel gaze upon her when she dreams.
Some nights when she is feeling alone, Ginny welcomes his voice.
When death eaters replace teachers, Ginny fights side by side with her friends. She is fierce, and wild, and brazen. She voices the importance of their cause, loud and often, trying to ignore the emptiness she’s afraid will replace Tom when Harry finally kills him for good.
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They’re laying together after the war is won when Harry really explains the horcruxes to her. He tells her how Voldemort himself destroyed the bit of soul that had been lodged somewhere inside Harry for the majority of his life. Ginny listens intently as Harry pulls her close and murmurs something about hardly being able to believe how lucky he’s been.
Ginny closes her eyes, smiling softly. She has not been so lucky.