Romancing the Sorcerer's Stone

Chapter 2: Silver Stars

Ginny sits at her writing desk, quill in hand, and stares down at the innocuous leather book. There's nothing sinister about it, nothing that should give her pause, and yet.

She sighs. Start how you mean to go on, she thinks, and opens the cover, forces herself to dip the quill in the ink. The motion is jerky, more forceful than she intends, and a few drops of ink splash onto the first pages. She supposes she should feel annoyed or irritated but she actually just feels relieved, for the ink stays where it lands with no sign of sinking into the page. Reassured, she begins.

Dear Diary,

She pauses again, heart racing, but the words remain unchanged. A minute ticks past, then another, and her heart slows. She feels a trifle silly — a grown woman, afraid of writing in a diary — but those memories still haunt her nightmares. But that was then, and this is now, and so she begins again.

I suppose it's silly to be afraid to write in a diary. I didn't think I ever would, again. Not after— well. I suppose I don't have to tell you about that. For you are only a reflection of my thoughts, and I already know how that story goes.

So. Why am I writing in a diary now? The same reason as before, I suppose. I'm lonely, and desperate for someone to talk to, as I rattle around in this empty house. I'm not used to the silence. And poor Breezy has sent me away to entertain myself so that she can get dinner started and some of the housework done. I don't mind that everything isn't kept in perfect order, but she does. For a house-elf, keeping the Master's house ready for his return trumps keeping his fiancée from perishing of boredom, more's the pity. Truthfully, I'm not sure he would notice if I did.

She stares down at the words on the page, watching the glossy ink turn matte as it dries. The words don't change.

She sighs, sets her quill to the page once more.

Well, that settles that, I suppose. You're just a diary; there's not a whiff of Dark magic about you.

She pauses, staring out the window as she ponders, then scrawls another line before capping the ink and pushing her chair back from the desk. She leaves the book open so the words can dry.

It's funny — I'm not even sure if I'm more relieved or disappointed that you don't write back.

—

Dear diary,

Harry took me to dinner today. It should have been lovely — a quaint, romantic little restaurant in Paris with a view of the Eiffel Tower — but I couldn't enjoy it like I wanted because all I could think was that Malfoy probably recommended it.

I know I shouldn't be jealous of Malfoy. I'm the one Harry's marrying, after all. But I'm not so sure I'm the one he sees.

Our table was tucked into a little balcony, and there were fairy lights on the railing, and a single long-stemmed rose in a crystal vase in the center of the table. The faint strains of violin wafted out from the main restaurant, with the enticing scent of chocolate that mixed with the scent of roses and the jasmine that climbed the walls. And it would all have been ever so romantic if only Harry had been focused on me for a change.

Instead, he regaled me with tales of his daring exploits and adventures, and it was just a refrain of 'Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy,' and if I'm honest I'd stopped listening not long after we were seated.

He ordered for me, which was different. I didn't think much of it; he'd mentioned finding this restaurant with Malfoy. I figured he just knew what was good. And it was. Good, that is. It wasn't what I would have chosen — I'm just not a chicken person — but it was all right.

I was nodding along politely, picking at my salad, chin propped on my hand and probably looking bored out of my mind, but Harry didn't see it; every other word out of his mouth was 'Malfoy,' and his soft smile wasn't for me.

He trailed off, then, apparently losing the thread of his story, and I just waved him off because it didn't matter — I hadn't been listening anyway.

I offered him a bite of my chicken, since I wouldn't be able to eat it all, and he looked so... puzzled. I realized, then, what had happened, but I asked, just to be sure. Maybe it was one of their specials. Maybe he'd had it before and really liked it. Maybe...

But, no. He ordered it because it's what Malfoy always ordered. He'd never tried it; he doesn't care for chicken either. It's funny; I'd never realized that.

It all felt so surreal. I was confused, mostly. I mean, it was like he didn't even want me there. Like he would rather be dining with Malfoy. But surely, I thought, I was imagining it...

He frowned slightly, and it almost looked like he saw me, just for a moment. Then his eyes skittered away again and he smiled, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket and presenting it with a flourish.

I opened it, feeling my heart sinking as I realized what I was likely to find. I exclaimed over it, of course, and made all the right noises and he didn't seem to notice that the smile never reached my eyes.

Then the inevitable owl swooped down beside us, and he looked up from the note, eyes already far away, and only a trifle apologetic, and I sighed again and told him to just go.

I sat alone for a long time at our table for two, staring at my barely touched dinner and the necklace in its velvet box.

It's lovely, truly it is, and so very nearly what I'd asked him for. So he was listening, sort of. Only...

All I could do was smile sadly down at the exquisite pendant of black pearls and a smoky gray stone I didn't recognize, threaded through a silver chain so fine it was nearly invisible. My hand stole up to touch the silver-and-black-pearl pendants dangling from my ears as I tamped down the traitorous urge to hurl the necklace off that balcony, wishing that just once he'd bring me jewelry that wasn't a perfect match for Malfoy's eyes.

Ginny drops her head into her hands, spattering her words with ink. She reaches up to run her fingers across the smooth black pearls that nestle at her throat, wincing again as she remembers.

Sighing, she pushes back her hair and unclasps the necklace, settling it gently back into its box. She stares at it for a moment, then resolutely shuts it back into the desk drawer. She's going to think of something else, she decides briskly. She's going to do — well, something, anyway. Anything that will get her out of this empty house.