Ginny's lips moved, and then the tears began to fall.
They were not the kind of tears that came with loud sobbing, but quiet, soundless ones, like a faucet that had not been turned off properly, dripping drop by drop. Tears slid from the corners of her eyes, down the sides of her nose to the corners of her mouth, then to her chin, falling onto the cover of the Black Diary. She did not wipe them away.
McGonagall said nothing. She took a handkerchief from a drawer, rose from her chair, walked around the desk, and held it out to Ginny.
Ginny accepted the handkerchief but did not wipe away her tears. She merely clenched it in her hand. Her fingers gripped one corner tightly enough for her knuckles to turn white. "Professor, I—I have something to give you." Her voice trembled, like a fawn drinking beside a crocodile pool in winter, skittish and afraid.
She placed the diary on the desk, beside the stack of documents McGonagall had been reading. It did not make much sound when it landed on the parchment, but it was heavy, like a stone thrown down from a great height.
McGonagall lowered her gaze to the diary. Its cover was black, without patterns, markings, or anything at all. Under the candlelight, its surface gave off a dull sheen—not the shine worn smooth from being handled too often, but the sort of darkness that seemed as though it had always been meant to be that color.
McGonagall held out her hand but did not pick up the diary. Instead, she lightly pressed the tip of her index finger against its cover. The leather was cool and smooth, and her fingerprint left a tiny mark on it, like a stain left by water.
"Where did