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You could hardly blame a twelve-year-old for snubbing an eleven-year-old girl whom she had met at a party years ago. On the platform she saw her draped on the arm of a pale blond boy. He reminded Ginny of a rat, his face pointy and his body seeming to be all angles. Pansy was on his arm as if she belonged there. Her steps mincing and her smile apologetic and indulgent all at once. When Pansy saw Ginny her smile fell and then reappeared slowly, her eyes darting back up to the boy at her side. Ginny could feel the memory of soft hands tugging on hers, leading her into a room she still saw and felt in dreams.

You could blame the twelve-year-old for nicking your diary and then dumping it into the toilet of the girl's bathroom. Ginny had slogged into the flooded room and had searched in vain after Pansy had slid a note into her hand in between classes.

Tom was in the diary, Tom knew everything, Tom loved her. Pansy did not. She never had.

When Tom kissed her softly, ever so softly, in the Chamber Ginny wished his mouth wasn't so unyielding. She had dreamed of blistered lips and rough bitten nails. Ginny tried to put her tongue into his mouth but he hissed and pulled away. His hands were clenched into fists and when he opened them she saw that there were crescents etched by his nails. He put one hand over her eyes and said, Sleep, little Ginevra. She slept.

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She was asleep even when she was awake. Her mother had wanted to take her home right-a-way but Ginny had refused. She went through classes like a sleepwalker. When Snape had hissed at her that she was five seconds from blowing up her potion she had only smiled at the tone of his voice, so like Tom, and said she was quite all right.

Ginny could feel eyes watching her all the time. She was in a fishbowl she hadn't asked to be put in. The Headmaster had talked with her seriously and frankly - or so he said - about Tom Riddle and asked questions to which she had no answers. He seemed to want to know something. They went around in circles until he finally cleared his throat and asked, Did he ever touch you? Ginny had been confused. Tom had touched her a lot. A hand on the shoulder, his soft hair against her cheek, the angles of him. He had kissed her and it hadn't been like what the books said. That was a secret only she would hold. No, Headmaster.

Except she had understood. She remembered the touch of fingers pressing her through her underwear, of fingers threading through her own. Ginny had done some of her own touching and then more, hand reaching down to the wetness between her thighs and tasting it for the first time. It had been awkward and painful and lovely.

Except it hadn't been with Tom.