A/N: Hogwarts Writing Club Competition – prompt: example

The Restricted Section Challenge – prompt: no dialogue

Word count: 920

Ginny lay on her bedroom floor, staring up at the pale pink ceiling. Her eyelids fluttered and drooped with exhaustion, but she refused to let them close. She knew what was waiting for her in the land of dreams; whenever she surrendered to its pull, she found herself bombarded with memories of times that were simultaneously better and worse, lonelier and less isolated, than the present. The numbing detachment of wakefulness wasn't much of an improvement, but at least it wasn't pure agony.

Tucked into the small space between her bed and her desk chair, it felt like she was hidden away behind the twin barricades of the worn furniture. But the feeling of protection that usually came from retreating to her special spot was noticeably absent; where she once would have felt the safety of a cocoon of familiarity, she only felt emptiness. The coolness of the floorboards seeped into her skin like a cryonic branding iron, and the stark silence of the almost empty house was unwelcoming and jarring.

It would have unnerved her a mere matter of months prior. Yet, somehow, little things like that had ceased to faze her. What was uncomfortable muteness and cold floorboards in comparison to the biting chill of Tom Riddle's betrayal? They were nothing but a petty mimicry of the very real frost that still clung to her like the ink of a tattoo. Although that boy had been charming when he wanted to be, he had unexpectedly turned icier than the harshest of winter nights. It was, therefore, hardly a surprise that the discovery of his true plans for her had left her as a shivering mess.

Nobody seemed to understand her anymore. With six older brothers, she'd heard more than her fair share of teenage temper tantrums about maltreatment and being misunderstood. As clichéd as it was, however, she felt that her situation was different. Her claim was real.

Word had spread through wizarding Britain like a blizzard, rushing through everyone's good opinion of her until nothing but icicles and ruins remained. She had quickly become the example of what young girls weren't to do. Don't write in sentient diaries; they'll suck you in for the sole purpose of spitting you back out. Don't trust invisible friends; they may be real, but they are never well-intentioned. Don't be fooled by charming young boys who oh-so-earnestly tell you they care; all they'll do is take your soul and your life and anything else they can get their earnest little hands on.

Almost overnight, Ginny Weasley had become the most judged twelve-year-old girl in wizarding Britain. And, no matter how caring and open-minded her family tried to be, she just couldn't shake that pressure off. It didn't help that her parents and brothers were utterly unable to comprehend what had happened to her. How could they? To them, Tom Riddle had leeched away at her like a parasitic villain, but his defeat had broken his hold over her. For all their good intentions, they didn't understand that it wasn't as simple as that; he still had power over her because, despite the past, he was the one person who would have understood everything.

Despite the horrors he had so casually unleashed upon the school, he had been her first true friend, and she yearned for the familiarity of his presence. It was sick, but, even after the ground underneath her feet had crumbled away, the only person whom she could think of turning to was the one who had created that fissure in the first place. Above all else, Tom Riddle had excelled at one thing making her feel as if he were the only person who was, or could ever be, there for her. Even knowing how deeply he had betrayed her, part of her instinctively wanted to run to him for sympathy and advice.

She wasn't stupid; she knew that was unhealthy, and she despised herself for it. Growing up at the Burrow had taught her to be strong and fiercely independent, but that hadn't stopped the diary-bound boy from reducing her to a co-dependent weakling. She might have thrown the diary away once, but that hadn't stopped her from stealing it back from Harry and writing in it once more.

Still, despite her self-recrimination, she knew one thing for certain. If she did ever get the chance to write to him again – if he did ever come back – she wouldn't take it. She wouldn't risk falling back into the same trap again, even if he offered answers and platitudes and the comfort that she so desperately needed. If she ever came across him again, she would act differently.

If she ever came across him again, she would do everything she could to kill him herself. She would play the role of the heroine rather than of the hapless damsel.

Killing her only friend wouldn't be an easy feat, but she would do it. She would have to.

Not just because she wanted him gone, although that was certainly part of it. No; the main reason was that she was terrified about what she might do if he ever truly returned. He had become both her disease and her treatment, corrupting her even as he eased her symptoms.

The scary thing was that she had relied on him for aid for so long that she didn't know how to cope without him. She might find a way one day, but she would be lost in bitter isolation until then.