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SIYE Time:10:51 on 28th March 2024
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Gods Bless Accidental Magic!
By Dopeydo

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Category: Alternate Universe
Characters:Harry/Ginny, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, Ron Weasley
Genres: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Humor, Romance
Warnings: Mild Language, Mild Sexual Situations, Spouse/Adult/Child Abuse, Violence, Violence/Physical Abuse
Story is Complete
Rating: PG-13
Reviews: 306
Summary: Everybody has their limits. As Harry finds his reason to live, he will break many of them… and not all intentionally. As Harry finds his reason to live, he will learn what it means to be broken in turn. There is a great power in friendship, but there is just as great a power in fear. (Crossover occurs late in the story.)

Note: Picks up from halfway through chapter six of PS. Abuse warnings are limited to pre-Hogwarts experiences. Rating is mainly for language.
Hitcount: Story Total: 200321; Chapter Total: 3535
Awards: View Trophy Room




Author's Notes:
And two more pieces fall neatly into place. I wish I could accelerate the release schedule, being this close to the end, but unfortunately I have exams coming up.
My gratitude to Arnel and BobVosh for their attention and effort on this story.




ChapterPrinter
StoryPrinter


“What are you doing?” said Ron, irritated. “You’re not going to kill the monster by showing it how ugly it is.”


Hermione couldn’t help but glance up briefly at the sound of Ron’s rancour. They were seated comfortably in her favourite part of the library, overlooking the entire lower floor while maintaining some peace and solitude.


“It’s been stuck in the Chamber for a thousand years,” said Neville. “Maybe it’ll appreciate some fashion help.”


“So why are you looking into it?” said Hermione.


Neville grinned even as Ron tried to keep his jeering to a non-Pince-attracting level. “To be honest, I’m not sure why I’m looking into this. It’s just...”


Their smiles faded as Hermione and Ron both leaned in.


“I keep getting this creeping feeling that mirrors would be really useful,” said Neville, frustrated. “I don’t understand it, and I don’t know where it’s coming from, but I can’t get the thought out of my head. I know it’s important.”


Neither Ron nor Hermione had anything to say to that, so they slowly returned to research, though mirrors were on all of their minds. What kind of monster could be defeated with a mirror? The story of Perseus sprang to Hermione’s mind, and the way in which he had bested the gorgon Medusa with his mirror-shield. Could there have been some truth to the tale? Was Slytherin’s monster some creature accursed with the power to Petrify all that it gazed upon?


The problem was not the monster, however. It was Neville. For if this idea of his were more than simple dream or fancy, Neville had inside information on Slytherin’s heir — Harry’s attacker...


She said nothing of her thoughts as they left the library to go to dinner. There was nothing she could say, and nobody left to speak to. It was an incredibly lonely feeling, to think you might be the only person left uncompromised. How loathe she was to think herself the only person she could still trust. If only she could talk to Professor McGonagall... She could still do that, it was true. The issue was in the fact that Hermione would have absolutely nothing to tell her.


‘Professor, Neville thinks mirrors would be a useful defence against the monster, and I’m worried about whether he has been compromised in some way by the heir.’


Yes, that conversation would go just swimmingly.


There was only one option left to her. As ever, it began and ended with books.


The next day, Hermione went straight to the library after breakfast, making plentiful apologies for missing spell practise with the others. As was to be expected, the dangerous creatures section had plenty of gaps in the shelves. That did not mean there was not plenty of material for Hermione to peruse, however.


Finding a thick volume called Magic in Mythology, Hermione found herself flicking through an endless stream of magical creatures and how they had been represented (and misrepresented) in Muggle myths. The sphinx alone had twelve pages dedicated to it. Hermione skipped over it, her indomitable curiosity quashed. She was only concerned with one beast.


Gorgons


One of the more popular creatures in Muggle mythos, the gorgon is in fact imagined by Muggles with startling accuracy. A woman above the hips and a snake below, the gorgon...


Hermione’s eyes trailed off the page.


‘Snakes?’ she thought, confused. ‘Why are they...?’


... the gorgon has hair made entirely of living, writhing snakes. To look a gorgon in the eyes...


‘But of course snakes are important,’ Hermione told herself sternly, feeling more unstable by the moment. ‘Slytherin was famed for affinity with the reptiles, it’s why there was such a fuss about Harry speaking Parseltongue!’


Hermione sat for a moment, simply breathing, as though cut suddenly loose. Her vision of the book had blurred into incoherence as her attention drifted. Meanwhile, the library around her was relatively empty, as the vast majority of students were outside enjoying the pure white January snow. Around her, Hermione could not see one living soul. A strange chill of fear ran down her spine. Danger tingled at the back of her brain.


... look a gorgon in the eyes instantaneously turns the victim to stone, a power not wholly dissimilar to that of a basilisk...


A quiet thud sounded in the library.


Staring down at the fallen tome, Hermione barely noticed the dark fingers reaching into her vision. She only saw the name of the beast the book had fallen open on.


Basilisk.




The smell of parchment slowly filled her nostrils, tickling behind her eyes until Hermione blinked them slowly open. Her face was resting with uncomfortable firmness against the desk. How long she had lain in this way she could not know, but from the familiar, irritating way her cheek stuck to the mahogany surface she was sure it had been too long. Brushing the thick brown hair from her face, Hermione’s expression fell from its already low state as her eyes found the book she had dropped.


Its long, forked tongue extending between lethal, blade-like fangs, a vast snake seemed almost to be grinning up at her. Venom dripped from its mouth as it hissed, the tongue flicking almost faster than the eye could see.


“Basilisk,” Hermione muttered. “King of the Serpents, whose gaze is so terrifying that it kills any who looks it in the eye. How could I forget?”


Hermione reached down and picked up the book.


A sensation, like whispers in the wind. The grace of a touch on her ear.


How could she forget?


Fear’s cold, slender fingers crawled over her heart, which began to race with a sudden urgency. Looking around at the empty library, Hermione felt the fingers squeeze.


As if she were working on autopilot, Hermione began to put the books away. Every scrape of book on desk was the great beast sliding on the library carpet. The back of Hermione’s nose was burning right through to her brain. But the smell that was so overpowering was ink, blood and... flowers?


Hermione froze as she came to return the compendium of mythological creatures to its home shelf.


“The basilisk...” Hermione muttered. “Neville’s mirror! You fight it exactly like a gorgon. But that means we...”


The ink soaked into the parchment like dark blood, forming letters like molten metal poured into a cast.


“You are so very troublesome, Miss Granger.”


The flowery smell of the meadows past the Burrow, a not so gentle reminder that made Hermione’s blood run cold.


“I modify your memory again and again and yet you keep coming back. I must say I admire your perseverance, but I cannot be envious of your luck.”


The black eyes of Hermione’s best friend in the whole world, as she sandblasted the memories from her mind.


Gasping, Hermione slammed the book shut as the last of Tom Riddle’s Memory Charm washed away. Strangely, even as the picture painted itself before her eyes, Hermione’s panic faded to the back of her mind. She knew now what needed to be done, if she would only be granted the chance to do it.


“I think I’ll make a special case of you. You shan’t recall this conversation, but I rather hope that when you meet my pet, in that brief moment when your eyes connect, you remember the fear you feel now.”


Tearing the basilisk page free with a muttered ‘sorry!’, Hermione put the book back on its shelf and raced towards conjuration. No dirty snake was going to take her out. Tom Riddle could put his fear exactly where Hermione Granger was going to put his wretched little book.


“Household...” Hermione muttered, pulling the relevant index free. “Cosmetic... Hmm, should be here.”


Dropping An Index of Transfigurations for Home and Garden open upon the tabletop, Hermione began rapidly scanning the index for mirrors.


“Aha!” she said triumphantly, fingering her wand as she looked up the relevant spells.


Lumia Speculare was a potential candidate, but being translucent the mirror would only be useful as a periscope and not a Persean shield. Would that she had made Neville teach her his Shield Charm. Shaking her head, Hermione raised her wand.


Examining the image reflected back at her, she was a little surprised by just how pale and panicked she looked. She took a moment to breathe, but the colour did not look to be returning to her face. Suddenly irritated by this, Hermione dispelled the mirror with a flick of her wand.


Terror’s icy fingers crept along her shoulders, making Hermione shiver as she practised the spell.


“No, no, no,” Hermione hissed. “Smooth clockwise rotation, you just had it!”


“The older students always said to do a shot of firewhiskey before casting,” said a woman’s voice. “Especially before exams.”


Hermione noted the complete lack of a flinch when she whirled and aimed her wand at the blonde Ravenclaw.


“Have you been taking their advice, Prefect Clearwater?” said Hermione.


Clearwater’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t think even Professor Snape ever addressed me so formally. Penelope. You’re Hermione Granger, of course.”


Hermione couldn’t hold back a nervous titter. “Of course. As if my exam results are going to matter when the basilisk comes.”


“I was referring to your assault on whatever Professor Dumbledore was hiding downstairs. Last year?” said Penelope. “But what’s this about a basilisk?”


“Slytherin’s monster is a basilisk,” said Hermione. “So if you know a spell for a one-way mirror now is the time.”


“I do, but it wouldn’t help,” said Penelope. “A basilisk doesn’t have to see you to kill you. It’s you looking it in the eye that does you in.”


“But we’d only be Petrified,” Hermione insisted.


“Which is only an advantage if...” Penelope trailed off, suddenly looking worried. “You aren’t trying to hunt the beast. How do you know it’s a basilisk?”


“I’ve met the person controlling it,” Hermione admitted. “It’s coming for me.”


“You what?!” Penelope shrieked. “Why didn’t you-?”


“Shh, don’t draw the thing here,” said Hermione. “Please! He erased my memory. Look, are we the only ones here?”


“Yeah,” said Penelope. “Madam Pince puts me on duty while she goes for lunch.”


“We are not safe,” said Hermione.


“What was your first clue?” said Penelope. “Let’s barricade the entrances and hide. It has a good sense of smell but I can scrub the air.”


“It doesn’t need to smell us,” said Hermione anxiously. “Do you honestly think Muggleborns have a different sweat composition? The person controlling it guides it somehow. Telepathy or possession.”


“Well, I’m rapidly running out of ideas,” said the prefect, vexed.


“I told you, mirrors,” said Hermione.


“I don’t want to be Petrified!” said Penelope. “I don’t want to be locked into my body until the bloody mandrakes finish puberty! We are getting out of here!”


In that moment, as much as she empathised with Penelope’s anguish, Hermione couldn’t help but feel some compassion for Neville. How he was coping she could not imagine.


“You think I’m not scared?” said Hermione. “I can barely cast right now, and I got 110% in Transfiguration. But we don’t stand a chance of outrunning a thousand-year-old basilisk controlled by the Heir of Slytherin. All we can do is trick it into not killing us.”


“So we conjure a giant shield and walk with it in front of us,” said the Ravenclaw. “We’d see it without eye contact, and then we can Petrify ourselves as much as you like.”


“Alright,” said Hermione. “You wouldn’t happen to have a mirror? I don’t want to leave this to chance.”


Penelope withdrew a small makeup mirror from her bag. “Let’s go to Professor Flitwick, he’s the closest.”


“Right you are,” Hermione breathed, feeling suddenly a little light headed. ‘No, not now. Get it together.’


Crushing the basilisk page tighter in her hand, Hermione screwed up her courage and strode forward with the prefect. Penelope raised her wand as they descended the stairs, conjuring less a shield, more a fracturing mass of mist to float in front of them.


“Damn!” Penelope cursed. She tried again, and a gust of wind issued from her wand. The prefect’s hand was visibly beginning to shake. “I knew I should have learned bloody Calming Charms instead of Enraging Elixirs.”


“I don’t think I’ve ever longed for a broomstick before, but flying out through the window sounds excellent right now,” said Hermione.


Penelope stared at her. “Accio broomstick!


Hermione neglected to mention how erratic the blonde’s wand movements were, but her heart sank. She could feel the snake coming, as though it were sliding through her very chest, scraping it’s gargantuan body on the bone of her ribs.


“Merlin’s shit, why are we the only ones here?!” Penelope near-shrieked.


Hermione put a calming hand on the girl’s shoulder. She was only a head shorter than the prefect, she noted with a strange sense of pride before her mind rapidly refocused.


“We’ve still got a shot at this,” said Hermione. “Never give up while you’ve still got a chance.”


It sounded like what Harry might have said were he there. Or rather he would have acted in the spirit of such a sentiment. In his absence, she would have to make do.


And so, trembling, they crept towards the library entrance.


Madam Pince’s deserted desk only added to the feeling that they were in a bad horror film. Hermione wanted nothing more than to fling open a window and scream for help, but the thought that it might encourage the basilisk to attack sooner and with greater violence stymied that urge. Being Petrified was generally a bad thing, but it did make you extraordinarily resilient. The power of the basilisk was akin to the legendary gorgons, and stones are exceedingly difficult things to kill. The addendum of ‘unless you are a basilisk’ was not something Hermione was in the mood to consider.


Penelope raised her mirror in a shaking hand. Hermione’s breath hitched as they clasped each other’s hands tightly enough to feel the joints creak.


Was it hissing she heard?


Hermione clenched her jaw tight, staring unblinking into the mirror as it turned.


Her wand felt insecure in the death grip Hermione ached to maintain. She was suddenly very sorry she hadn’t joined Neville in looking for a spell to turn the serpent’s organs into pâte.


There was definitely something heavy moving in the corridor outside. Could they not run in the other direction? They had to!


With her fears roaring like wildfire in her ears, Hermione steeled her nerves and remained steadfast. And just then Penelope’s hand jerked.


There was not time to scream. Hermione realised what had happened only as she stared into those huge yellow eyes, so full of murder and malice. She tried to look away but her eyes were no longer hers. Even as she squeezed the parchment deeper into her fist the fingers froze in place and she was left to drift, drifting through the worlds of dreams.




When he had heard there had been another attack, Neville did not stop to think. He did not try to find his friends. Whipping the cloak over himself he ran straight to the hospital wing, dodging the prefects trying to shepherd everyone to their dormitories.


He knew.


Somehow, from the moment Neville heard the alert go out through the school, he knew who it was that had been attacked.


Perhaps he did not want to accept it. Maybe Neville believed that if he could get there quickly enough he could save Hermione from her fate. But when Madam Pomfrey opened the infirmary door, her face as solemn as a mourner at the graveside, Neville’s heart began tearing itself to pieces. His two best friends in all the world, the best and brightest of their generation, both now taken from him. Hermione’s terrified eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling.


Sitting heavily on the visitor’s chair, Neville put his head in his hands. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just waiting for my turn.”


Seconds passed like years as he sat there with only his thoughts for company. Neville Longbottom, the last of his name, sitting in the ashes of the best days of his life. He was not ready to say goodbye. This revelation had barely been reached when he noticed something strange.


Hermione wasn’t clenching her hand into a fist. She had her fingers closed tightly around something, characteristically patterning them in a way that was too subtle to notice at first glance. Casting a muttered Lumos Charm, Neville stared at Hermione’s hand. Her fingers were closed tightly upon a crunched up sheet of parchment. Returning his wand to its holster, Neville tried to gently pry Hermione’s fingers open, but they were about as malleable as cold steel bars.


Still, her fingers were not so tightly clenched that the parchment was inaccessible. After a few seconds, he was able to work his finger in to just barely reach the rough writing material. Neville worked gently but insistently at the wad of paper, but finally impatience got the better of him. Firing his wand into his hand, he took Hermione’s hand gingerly into his own before drawing a marked swish and flick.


The parchment twitched, rustled, and finally seemed to pour out of Hermione’s clenched fist like so much milk from the jug.


Carefully flattening the page, apparently torn from a book post-haste, Neville stared at the opening words.


“The basilisk is...”


His wand dropped to the floor with a clatter.


Images flew past his eyes as though he were trapped in a tornado. Pain flooded his head like fire. But the images were strange. It wasn’t that what he was being shown was alien or unintelligible — in some ways it was too familiar, like something long lost. Only when they began to move did he realise exactly what they were. He was in a tornado of memory.


Books. Harry. Myrtle’s bathroom. Books. Ginny. Malfoy. Pansy.


“Ugh!” said Neville, slamming his palm into his forehead as though he could beat the pain into submission. But even as he grunted and gritted his teeth it began to fade. And behind that pain was a terrible clarity.


With one last touch to Hermione’s hand, Neville turned to find Harry in near-pristine condition, the fresh skin on his hands standing as final testament to the trauma his body had suffered. Structurally sound as Harry was, however, the boy did not so much as blink.


“Harry, how do I fight Ginny?” Neville said in utter despair.




Percy was right. Ginny had been getting progressively paler. A weariness she had not known weighed upon every fibre of her being. And as Ginny stared into the mirror, she could swear she saw something behind her. Someone.


Ginny was cracking.


It had been difficult when she lost Harry, but Tom had been there to help her through it. Still, Tom or no Tom, she did not think she could handle losing Hermione too. The image of her best friend’s face frozen in horror came to her, unbidden. It was skewing in a most peculiar manner as she watched. A shiver ran up Ginny’s spine even as a bead of sweat broke out upon her stone cold forehead.


Hermione... The news had only just reached Gryffindor Tower. And now Ginny was standing here, looking at the bed that would be as cold as the girl who should be sitting there with Deriving Divination: The Arithmantic Techniques. Instead, Hermione was lying frozen stiff in the Hospital Wing. What would happen to their dormitory ribbing and late night chats? Where would Ginny turn to exchange tales and myths of mages and Muggles? Who would she talk to about Harry?


Suddenly quite cold, Ginny pulled her robes more tightly around herself. That, however, was of little use. The chill of cold stone under her belly penetrated and permeated every inch of her until she was shivering and her organs all wanted to seize up and cease to be. The seconds felt like hours as she stared at herself through wide eyes. Once the sensation became truly painful, Ginny screwed her eyes shut, balling up her fists and trying to block everything out. To her surprise, it seemed to be working. Ginny was far more surprised when she opened her eyes again.


The first thing that Ginny noticed was the cinching feeling around her chest. She felt no curiosity about it at all until she realised that it was moving very slowly down her body. Instinctively, she knew she was passing through something. But what was it?


Ginny was never very good at defying her curiosity. It was her best and worst trait, according to her mother. To her brothers, of course, her temper was a far more severe problem. But as she realised that she could not look down to see what exactly was pressing so uncomfortably on her body, Ginny found that her temper was not omnipresent. She had no control over herself at all.


In her mind’s eye, Ginny saw the hiding place of the Philosopher’s Stone, the last place she had experienced such immobilisation. But when she tried to shout, Ginny found herself making an entirely different kind of noise.


‘No,’ Ginny thought, quaking. ‘Don’t let it be...’


Whoever she thought she was praying to evidently did not deem her worthy of their time, for Ginny continued to hiss.


The hissing cut out just as the cinching feeling reached Ginny’s waist, some ten to fifteen metres behind her. That was the exact moment that Ginny realised which corridor she was in.


‘NOOO!’ Ginny screamed. ‘Not you, please! Anything but...’


A small mirror was emerging from the library entrance. Ginny wanted to shout a warning, call for help, drive the massive snake into the wall. She would have given her arm not to see what came next.


The mirror turned.


Ginny awoke on the floor, soaked in sweat and tears. The chill had not yet quite left her; presently it was joined by a thick, heavy fog in her mind and the most peculiar feeling that she was being followed. Her skin crawled. Through the fog of disorientation, Ginny knew only that she needed to get away from this room. This room, this accursed dormitory, was danger.


The fog began to lift as Ginny half-collapsed from the spiral staircase into the Gryffindor common room. Everyone nearby moved to help her or offer sympathy, but Ginny waved them off distantly. Her mind was starting to process what it had learned, and what she saw made her want to find a bathroom.


‘But it was a memory,’ Ginny thought. ‘I was seeing through my own eyes, not watching someone else. That snake... that basilisk — it was me.’


Ginny made it not five steps from the Fat Lady before collapsing in a heap against the wall. No matter where she looked, she saw Hermione’s face as the curse took her. Had Ginny done it? Why would she be having visions of the past? By the same token, why would she only be remembering now?


An image flashed through her mind, of waking up covered in feathers and blood. Of waking up on the floor in Myrtle’s bathroom. Of waking up with her face on her diary...


Ginny had been having memory blackouts. And somebody had been further tampering with her memory to make her pay them no need. Somebody didn’t want her knowing what she had been doing. It could have been a few things, but Ginny was ready to swear by it. She was being possessed.


The cold feeling settled in the pit of her stomach, and Ginny wanted nothing more than to bolt back to her dormitory and talk things over with Tom. Something was stopping her. Perhaps it was the desperate sense of danger she had felt in that room before. Perhaps it was that every memory that came back to her had her holding that little black book in her hand. Or maybe it was the mirror. For the person standing behind her had had a face. It was the face of an older teenage boy.


Ginny was not sure exactly when she started running. She knew only that she was putting as much distance between herself and the Gryffindor dormitories as possible. Before long she found herself halfway down the marble staircase and sweating uncomfortably, her legs feeling the burn of exhaustion.


“Ginny!”


It was Percy. ‘Thank goodness for small mercies.’


“Ginny, are you quite alright?” said Percy. “You look awfully pale.”


“Percy, I…” Ginny began, panting from her exertions. A choice. To tell him, a much older and more capable wizard with solid connections, at the risk of his telling Professor Dumbledore and getting her expelled from Hogwarts… “I’m late for lunch.”


Percy looked at her as though she had grown a second head. “What?”


“I’m starving, I didn’t have breakfast, or dinner last night either,” said Ginny.


“Why on earth?” Percy stammered.


“I’d love to stop and chat, really,” said Ginny. “But if my nose is still screwed on the right way there’s food over there and I am having some.”


And with that, she left her brother gaping in her wake.


Ginny arrived in the Great Hall to find it verily abuzz with activity. A few people seemed amused, many were excited, but an equal number seemed rather dejected. Amongst those people was Ginny’s youngest brother.


“Hi, Ron,” said Ginny nervously.


Ron stared at her. Ginny thought he might yell, or walk away, or turn back to his food at the very least. However, Ron simply kept staring at her, as though he had seen a ghost. It was beginning to make Ginny uncomfortable, and she started to fidget, but as eye contact was broken, so too was Ronald’s trance.


“You… spoke to me?” he said.


Nothing Ginny could have imagined was as painful as that single sentence.


“I…”


“Ginny, are you talking to me?” said Ron, his food completely forgotten.


“Yes,” she said, sitting demurely opposite him. His neighbours, few as they were, recognised the need for privacy and shifted away.


“I didn’t think I’d miss you,” said Ron. “Annoying little sister and whatever. Ginny, you haven’t said a word to me in months. What happened?”


It was her turn to stare now. But as she thought back, Ginny could not recall speaking to Ron since Autumn. In fact she had been pointedly ignoring all of her friends, even Hermione when she could get away with it. Ginny could only gape at Ron as she realised this. Ron, unfortunately, didn’t seem to take this well.


“Fine, whatever,” said Ron. “Just… do whatever it is you’re doing.”


"No, Ron, you don't understand," Ginny said desperately.


"Clearly," said Ron, picking at his steak.


"That's what I came to talk to you about," said Ginny.


"Hagrid's been taken to Azkaban," said Ron.


Ginny stared at him, the world around her coming into focus.


"He's too stupid to hide something like this."


"It's a stupid idea. How long would it be before the school was shut down and he was caught?"


"He's so nice though."


"... just in front of everybody like that."


"Shit..." Ginny muttered.


"That's all you've got to say?" said Ron.


"Ron, I'm in trouble," said Ginny quietly.


"So's Hagrid," Ron muttered.


"Ron, I'm sorry!" said Ginny, tears coming to her eyes as the extent of the damage wrought on her friends began to sink in. Why hadn’t she known? Why couldn’t she think? "You have to listen to me, please!"


Her brother looked at her blankly. "I am. What is it?"


"There you are, Ron!" said Neville loudly.


The boy was doing his level best to hurry over while looking utterly relaxed. Ginny's gaze, fixated as it was upon Neville, entirely missed the blonde girl who was so pointedly watching her.


"What happened to that chess game you promised me then?" Neville said, slapping Ron on the back.


Curiously, as he did so he leaned in, whispering frenetically in the red haired boy's ear. Ginny recognised the look in his eyes. It was the same one she had seen in every one of the basilisk's victims — terror.


The fight drained from Ginny, and she barely noticed Ron and Neville leave as she half-slumped at the table. Already she could feel Tom's fingers on the back of her neck. It would be so easy to simply give him what he wanted. Unwittingly or not she had been doing it thus far. Ginny gritted her teeth. She could see Hermione's face in front of her, freezing slowly into that mask of fright. Almost before she could take a breath, Ginny was on her feet and running.


Neville's panic meant one of two things. Either Tom had a finger on him too... or somehow, Neville knew. It was a small hope, but Ginny held onto it for dear life.


The blonde girl nodded sadly, and returned to her lunch.


"Ginny!" said Percy. "Ginny, you didn't eat!"


Ginny did not pause. If Neville had been compromised then so too was Ron. She needed to find a plan B, and fast. Perhaps... If she was quick, maybe she could get to the diary before Neville and Ron. There was no way that Neville, mediocre as he was on a broomstick, had infiltrated the girls' dormitories and removed the diary between Ginny leaving the common room and Neville's arrival at the Great Hall. No, if Neville was under Tom's influence and trying to reach the diary, he would be racing there now. Being a girl, that put the odds in Ginny's favour.


Unfortunately, it meant that Ginny would need to find some way of disposing of the diary. She imagined numerous scenarios as she barrelled up through a secret passageway. Throwing the offending item out through the window was a foolish enterprise, and such a powerful Dark artefact was unlikely to be left so unprotected as to be combustible. Ginny could always gamble on her raw magical might being sufficient to destroy the thing, but considering what had happened to Harry she wasn't entirely sure that any direct attack could end well. She needed to hide it. The book would have to go somewhere that nobody would ever look for it.


Ginny's first thought was the Black Lake, but the book would most likely float until some poor soul picked it up. The Forbidden Forest was a nice thought, but Ginny didn't need to worry about some random creature trying to eat her while she fended off Tom's will.


Gasping out the password, the answer came to her. Ginny could simply flush it down the toilet. And there was one toilet at Hogwarts that nobody ever used.


Ginny's body rebelled against her as she tried to keep running up to her dormitory, and she collapsed against the wall for a moment, panting. But she could not allow herself rest. She needed to be rid of Riddle while her mind was still her own.


The same sense of danger, of fear, suffused Ginny's being as she opened her door — the same door that once had promised excitement, freedom and wonder. Down her neck ran a single, chilling tingle as she picked up the diary. It was all that Ginny could do to try to think peaceful thoughts, to act naturally, but somehow she could hear mocking laughter in her head.


It was an agonising walk from Gryffindor Tower down to the second floor. Ginny kept the diary tightly clutched to her chest, hoping against hope that nobody would stop her and ask any questions. She did not consider that the majority of people in the school had assumed that Hagrid was in some way the culprit. The Chamber of Secrets was closed. Ginny trembled, and hurried on. She did not want to think about Hagrid being held at the merciless wizard prison, left to the tender care of its guards. She did not want to think about how it was her fault.


Ginny reached the second floor in record time, though it had felt like hours. However, as soon as she reached Myrtle's bathroom, she stopped. The foot-high words on the wall remained, even after the months that had passed. Filch had never been able to clean them off.


THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.


Ginny turned to the bathroom, feeling her heart pounding in her chest as if vying to escape its prison. She could sympathise. Walking as casually as she could to a bathroom stall, Ginny made as if to raise the seat cover before slinging the diary under it. Ginny sighed in relief as she flushed the toilet.


The diary, however, was still in her hand.


Her eyes going wide, Ginny shook her hand violently, trying anything and everything to get it away from her. But she could not make her hand release it.


The mocking laughter grew louder now. It was no figment of her imagination.


‘Ginny, Ginny, Ginny…’ Riddle laughed. ‘I thought it would be amusing to witness a little poetry.’


Her body, now answering to entirely different orders from her own, began to walk itself out of the bathroom and back into the corridor. A notice-me-not charm sealed her fate.


Pingieris,” Ginny cast, her wand following an alien motion.


‘Have you yet realised that you walked willingly to your doom?’ said Riddle. ‘Has that unconquerable sense of despair set in?’


Ginny said nothing, continuing to trace the words he was writing while red paint splashed back over her and the floor beneath.


HER SKELETON WILL LIE IN THE CHAMBER FOREVER

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