It was just an ordinary diary.
An ordinary notebook bought from some stationery shop for a few Sickles, with a few pages used and torn out, then tossed into some corner.
McGonagall withdrew her hand from the diary and placed it on the desk, her fingers spread apart. She looked at Ginny, and there was something in those brown eyes—not suspicion, not distrust, but weariness and helplessness.
"Miss Weasley, this diary... has no magic." She weighed her words for a long time before finally speaking.
"It isn't a magical object. It cannot speak. It never chatted with you. It never taught you your lessons. It never made you tired. It is merely an ordinary, blank, discarded notebook."
Ginny's body jolted violently. Her face turned even whiter, so white that the cracked cuts on her lips looked as though someone had traced over them again with a red pen. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
"But—but it—it really—" Her voice trembled. She seemed to see disbelief in McGonagall's eyes and coughed anxiously for a long while before forcing out a low defense. "I wrote 'Hello,' and it replied—it would reply—it asked me—it asked who I was—those words—those words weren't written by me—it—it—I saw it—I really saw it—"
McGonagall handed her a cup of hot tea and watched Ginny take tiny sips before rising, walking around the desk, and stopping in front of her. She reached out and gently stroked Ginny's head in comfort. Her hand was not heavy, but it was steady.
Her face was very close to Ginny's, close enough for Ginny to see the fine, web-like wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, close enough to see her own pale, tear-washed face reflected in McGonagall's pupils, like a sheet