Secrets

---------------------------------------------

CHAPTER 9: Telling Stories

---------------------------------------------

The Monday before Christmas, students poured out of the castle and into carriages bound for the Hogsmeade train station. Gryffindor Tower was nearly empty -- apparently no one wanted to be close to Harry without the camouflage of other students -- which left Ginny alone with her brothers, Harry, and Hermione.

She was glad the Gryffindors were gone, but she wished Xanthe had stayed. Instead, she'd handed Ginny a small present, wished her Merry Christmas, and disappeared along with her housemates. The Hufflepuff table was now nearly as deserted as Gryffindor.

The Ravenclaw and Slytherin tables, though, had more students. The Ravenclaws seemed determined to ignore the other houses, but Draco Malfoy and his thugs, Crabbe and Goyle, sneered at Harry, Hermione, and the Weasleys all during Monday dinner and wondered loudly who the Heir would attack next.

Ginny fumed. She wished all the Slytherins had run home to their parents, but that was probably too much to ask for, especially since they liked the Heir. At least Daphne and Electra were gone for the holidays.

Tuesday was fun in a way her days hadn't been lately -- with nobody else around, and with no classes, her brothers relaxed and treated her like their sister instead of a pawn in a mysterious family war. Fred and George snagged Ron and Harry out of bed and called up the stairs to the girls' dorms, summoning Ginny and Hermione down to the common room where they played Exploding Snap for hours.

A house elf in an embroidered towel popped in at one point to deposit cocoa and biscuits near the fire, which Ron gleefully pounced on.

"We should go downstairs and eat lunch as well," said Hermione, looking up from her cards. "Eating nothing but sweets is awfully bad for your teeth."

"It's Christmas Eve, Hermione, give over," mumbled Ron around a mouthful of crumbs. He sat down in his squashy armchair and held the plate across the table in her direction. "Want any?"

"Oh, since it's Christmas..." Hermione seized a handful of chocolate biscuits and bit into one with a highly unconvincing air of resignation.

Ginny stifled a laugh, and noticed Harry doing the same. He grinned at her. She managed to smile back through her sudden blush, and drifted through the next half hour in a warm haze of daydreams.

Later Hermione dragged Ron and Harry off to practice dueling, leaving the twins to plan jokes for next term. Ginny hung around for a while, enjoying the warm fire and soft cushions of her armchair, and offered to sneak plants out of the greenhouses for experimental potions. "Great!" said George. "Bring the plants and hang around to see what we do with them. You'll probably like watching us blow ourselves up."

"Or you could test things for us, and we could blow you up," said Fred with an overly cheerful smile. Ginny kicked his shin, and he doubled over in theatrical pain. George winked at Ginny and patted his twin's shoulder solicitously.

By mid-afternoon, though, Ginny was tired of feeling shut out of their conversation, and she left to wander the castle. Fred and George were funny, cheerful, friendly, and generally willing to make time for her -- when they weren't making her life miserable -- but nobody could quite get into their little circle of two. Charlie came closest, but even there it was more like a leader and his two sidekicks instead of three equals.

Ginny missed Charlie. Since he'd gone to Romania and the dragons, she almost never saw him anymore. She'd grown up seeing him only during summers and holidays, since he was so much older and away at Hogwarts, but even that was more than a three-day visit once or twice a year.

She missed Bill, too, missed him more than Charlie. Charlie was the twins' big brother, but Bill belonged to her and Ron. He was a better listener than Charlie, and he knew how to solve puzzles, play games, and keep secrets. She hadn't seen him in even longer than Charlie.

"It isn't fair," Ginny said to herself. She slumped against a window in a deserted corridor and stared out at the bleak, snow-covered forest. One week ago Bill had unearthed a treasure trove in the Valley of Priests -- the magically hidden companion to the Valley of Kings and Valley of Queens -- and decided to use his percentage to invite the family to Egypt. Except by then Ginny, Ron, and the twins had convinced Percy to stay at Hogwarts in order to avoid Uncle Edward, Aunt Bernice, and Aunt Charlotte, and if they changed their minds then the aunts would know they'd only been staying to avoid them. The aunts always knew things like that, and not even seeing Bill on Boxing Day could make up for the aunts in a bad mood on Christmas.

If only Bill had found the treasure a few weeks earlier, or if Mum and Dad hadn't invited Uncle Edward and the aunts, they all could have been together in Egypt right now. Ginny sighed. It was wonderful being able to actually spend time with even three of her brothers -- Percy, as usual, was trying to have nothing to do with the rest of the family -- but she did miss Bill and Charlie.

...And it would have been nice to get away from the Heir, who couldn't possibly follow her all the way to Egypt. She could have relaxed, teased her brothers, seen Egyptian tombs and mummies, and let Tom out of the diary to see them with her. He'd never left Britain, after all, and Ginny was sure he'd be fascinated by Egyptian magic.

She headed for Gryffindor Tower to ask Tom if he knew anything about Egypt.

He did. In fact, Tom had studied Egyptian irrigation projects and water-magic for a History of Magic assignment, knew heaps of Egyptian curses -- "marvelously indirect and self-perpetuating," he called them -- and was very interested in the bits and pieces of dynastic lore Ginny had picked up from Bill over the past few years.

"Did you know," asked Tom, as he slouched mistily on the window seat of her dormitory, "that the court wizards of Ancient Egypt were attempting to create spells of immortality and resurrection? They tried various ways to extend life, including linking souls to amorphous powers from beyond the veil -- this was couched in religious terms, as was most of their magic, leading to the creation of a god-cult around the pharaoh -- and began to create mummies so that they could revive their kings if and when they finally perfected their spells.

"They found ways to trap souls on this plane, somewhat like ghosts, whether the souls in question would have normally become ghosts or not. The fragments that retained intelligence slept in their sarcophagi. The ones that became mindless revenants are the source of the bloodthirsty, shambling tomb guardians Muggles have incorporated into their myths."

He smiled at Ginny's theatrical shiver. "Remind me to tell you Muggle ghost stories some evening, Ginevra; I think you'd like them. But in any case, while those magics were powerful and dangerous, Egyptian theories are the basis of modern Pensieves and healing spells. They did know quite a lot about bodies and souls." Snow fell thick and white on the other side of the glass, dimly visible through Tom's misty body.

"Hmm," said Ginny from where she sat cross-legged on her bed, the diary open on her pillow. Had Tom based his diary spell on Egyptian magic? He was like a trapped soul... but that wasn't really important. "I guess it's good we got more from them than just mummies and lost treasure. So you know Muggle stories about Egypt?"

Tom laughed, and then waved his hands with a dramatic flourish. "Myths and legends galore, Ginevra! The Egyptian wizards were fond of partial transfiguration and obscure codes, as well as attempts to defeat death, so their religion made use of an astonishing mess of symbols, which Muggles later elaborated in a number of strange directions. And while the director of the orphanage didn't believe in 'nonsense,' she did have a large store of Egyptian scholarship inherited from her predecessor." A brief look of distaste washed over his face and vanished.

Ginny tactfully ignored the orphanage comment; she didn't think it would be fair to make Tom remember unpleasant things on Christmas Eve. "That sounds like fairy-tales," she said. "Dad brought home a book of them, once -- a witch had enchanted the pictures to move, so he had to confiscate it -- and I talked him into letting me have it. They were always talking about magic and dragons and fairies, and it was all mixed up and wrong, but they were good stories anyway. Are your Egyptian stories like that?"

"I suppose so," said Tom, "though these are designed to explain the natural and supernatural worlds rather than to amuse children."

"Tell me one," said Ginny, inching forward.

"Certainly. In fact, consider this my Christmas present to you, Ginevra, since I can't make or buy a more traditional one," said Tom apologetically.

Ginny waved this off, and he smiled. "Very well," he said, pulling his feet up onto the window seat and crossing his legs. He closed his eyes -- hints of color had begun to swim into his misty form, and Ginny thought his eyes might be blue when he was finally solid -- and gestured as if he were opening a book. "You dream about a princess, so I'll tell you a story about a queen. This is the legend of Isis and Osiris.

"A long time ago, a pharaoh named Osiris ruled in Egypt. He was a strong and fair king, but his brother, Set, was jealous and wanted to rule in his place. He gathered wicked men and promised them riches if they would fight his brother. But Isis, Osiris' wife, was suspicious of Set, and she watched him so that he never had a chance to bring his servants into the palace.

"Set was cunning, though. If he couldn't bring his army to Osiris, he decided, then he would bring Osiris to his army. He invited his brother to a feast in his house by the desert's edge. Osiris accepted, and despite Isis' warning, he traveled alone to Set's house.

"Set's wicked servants dressed in fine linen, painted their eyes, and pretended to be lords and priests so Osiris didn't suspect any danger. Then Set announced that he had found a magnificent chest, decorated with gold and painted with brilliant colors like the tail of a peacock. He planned to give the chest away to whichever man could best fit into it, lying down."

"Oh, that doesn't sound good," said Ginny. "I bet it was a trap."

"Yes, it was," said Tom, "exactly as Isis had foreseen. But Osiris trusted Set. Several men lay down in the chest, but were either too short or too tall to fit. 'Let me try, brother!' said Osiris. He stepped into the chest and lay down. 'See,' he said, 'it fits me perfectly!'

"'I built it to fit you,' said Set, and he slammed the lid. He ignored his brother's shouts and cries while he nailed the lid shut, poured molten lead into the cracks, and ordered his men to toss the chest into the Nile. Then he traveled to Osiris' great palace and declared himself pharaoh."

"I knew it!" said Ginny, slapping her pillow for emphasis. "What did Isis do? Did she fight Set?"

Tom shook his head. "No, she didn't fight. Isis went to find her husband's body, since she was a mistress of magic and hoped she could bring him back to life. Along the way, she gave birth to a son, Horus. She hid Horus so Set couldn't attack him, and continued on her way to find Osiris.

"The chest, meanwhile, had floated down the Nile, out to sea, and all the way to the mouth of a river in the land of Syria, where a tree grew up around it. The tree's magic was so strong that when Isis finally reached Syria, she walked along the riverside and didn't know that her husband's body was next to her. It was a hot day, and the tree's wide branches were covered with thick green leaves and flowers that smelled like honey and citrus. She leaned against the tree to rest.

"Then, of course, Isis felt the magic of the chest and knew that she had found Osiris. She cut the chest out of the tree and waded along the shore, dragging the chest through the water behind her, until she reached the city of Byblos. There she paid for a ship to take her back to Egypt.

"That night, she took the chest into the ship's cabin, and, all alone, she opened the lid. Osiris' body was terrible to see -- scalded by molten lead, soaked with seawater, pierced with nails, and broken by his futile attempts to break out of his coffin before he died. But Isis sprinkled potions on him, chanted spells, and brought him back to life.

"Before returning to the great palace, Isis and Osiris stopped to see their son Horus, and for a few days, they were very happy."

Something else was going to go wrong; Ginny shivered in anticipation. Tom noticed, and broke his storyteller's pose long enough to wink at her before he continued.

"While Isis and Osiris rested, Set went hunting along the Nile. He passed by the place where Horus was hidden, and heard human voices. Curious, he peered through a stand of reeds and saw his brother alive. Set was furious, but he was patient. He waited until Osiris went down to the river that evening, and he stabbed his brother from behind. To ensure that Isis couldn't revive her husband a second time, Set chopped Osiris into fourteen pieces and scattered them into the Nile."

"He cut his own brother to pieces?" interrupted Ginny. "Killing him is bad enough, but... eww."

"It does seem rather barbaric," agreed Tom. "In any case, Set wanted to marry Isis to cement his rule, but Isis refused. She swore to bring back Osiris again or die trying. She hid Horus in a new place and traveled down the Nile collecting the pieces of Osiris' body.

"She found all the pieces except for his... er..." Tom looked awkward; Ginny wondered if she was only imagining the hint of pink in his cheeks or if he was really becoming solid enough to flush. "Except for his... manhood, shall we say... and stitched his body back together. Then she used her potions and spells to bring him to life a second time.

"Unfortunately, because Osiris' body wasn't whole, he couldn't fully return to life. Instead, he traveled to the underworld, where he became king of the dead. Isis promised to join him, but first she helped Horus lead a rebellion, kill Set, and become the new pharaoh, so her vengeance was complete. And there you are."

Isis, decided Ginny, sounded dead cool.

"You know," she said slowly, "you're not cut up into pieces, but you're sort of dead. And if everything works out you'll be alive again. So you're sort of like Osiris."

Tom smiled. "I suppose, though I hope I won't have to settle for a half-life as a ghost or a voice beyond the veil." His smile widened. "In some versions of the legend, Isis is Osiris' sister as well as his wife. You've adopted me as your brother, Ginevra; does that make you Isis?"

Ginny pulled a face and stuck her tongue out at Tom. "Not if I have to marry you, it doesn't! That's disgusting!"

He laughed and shifted the topic to her holiday Potions reading, much to Ginny's disgruntlement. "It's Christmas," she told him. "I should have to bother with work."

"But won't it be satisfying to show up Snape by knowing your lessons ahead of time?" asked Tom, raising his eyebrows significantly.

Ginny allowed that surprising Snape might be good thing. And, she added to herself, maybe she could figure out what the mysterious potion in Myrtle's bathroom was meant to do.

---------------------------------------------

Christmas morning broke silently over Hogwarts, revealing a castle swathed in snow. Ginny woke at the first hint of false dawn and couldn't get back to sleep; she had to forcibly restrain herself from rushing downstairs in search of the holiday stockings that Mum used to tack up along the mantelpiece and stuff with sweets and silly yarn animals. Instead, she sneaked on tiptoe into the boys' tower. She thought, briefly, that she might peek in on Harry and Ron, but she couldn't quite work up the nerve. Ginny sighed. Maybe the Sorting Hat should have put her in Hufflepuff.

She crept into the twins' room instead, careful not to slip on the appalling clutter strewn over the floor, and cracked the window open. The wide sill was inches deep in snow -- Scotland had much more properly Christmassy weather than Ottery St. Catchpole -- and Ginny scooped up enough for two sloppy snowballs.

The snow landed squarely on Fred and George's faces, and Ginny grinned. You couldn't grow up with her brothers and not learn how to throw properly, especially not when they spent months training you to play Quidditch so they wouldn't have to keep talking Mum into dusting off her old flying skills.

Ginny made a mad dash for the door and slammed it shut just before two jets of hex-light could reach her. She turned the skeleton key she'd filched from George the other week, cast a locking charm for good measure, and fled for the girls' tower, taking refuge just around the bend that led to the first landing and the second years' room.

"Ginny! What the bloody hell was that for?" one of the twins yelled up the stairs after her.

"Revenge!" she called back.

"Revenge? For what? Would we hurt our ickle baby sister?"

"Yes you would, and I'm not coming down!"

Hermione stuck her head out of her room, eyes still bleary with sleep. "Ginny, what on earth--?"

Ginny shrugged, feeling guilty for waking Hermione; they weren't exactly friends, but Hermione was nice enough when she wasn't bossy, and she'd given Ginny a tour of the library and the teachers' offices back in September. "I threw snowballs at the twins because they kept scaring me after Colin was Petrified. They're a bit annoyed."

"You realize this means war?" one of the twins called up the stairs.

"...Make that very annoyed," muttered Ginny. She looked at Hermione. "Help?"

Hermione folded her arms over her nightdress and frowned. "You shouldn't push back; it only makes things worse."

"Yes, but nobody else was going to call them on it. They only stopped because Percy threatened to tell Mum!"

Hermione's frown deepened. "Oh, honestly. Percy has nothing to be ashamed of; you might learn a lot about responsibility from his example, Ginny."

"We could get brooms and fly up there, you know!" one of the twins yelled.

Ginny raised her eyebrows at Hermione. "Well?"

Hermione bit her lip. "Oh, I suppose... we can't let them up here, after all. Stall them while I dress." She shut the door abruptly.

That was a bit rude, but Ginny figured Hermione had a right to be annoyed when yelling people woke her up unexpectedly. Ginny shrugged and amused herself by loudly retelling the story of the time when the twins decided to unlock the bathroom door and scare her in the shower -- it hadn't ended well for them.

"--And then, while Fred still had his foot in the toilet, George finally noticed the shower curtain was loose and trying to strangle him -- he was so distracted it'd already wrapped around his neck three times--"

"Did that really happen?"

Ginny turned back to the doorway. "Yes, it really did. They got into heaps of trouble over it, and since it was my first accidental magic, Mum and Dad were so happy I proved I was a witch that they didn't even scold me for trying to strangle George and flush Fred down the toilet."

"Hmm." Hermione, now neatly dressed in a sweater and jeans, with a heavy bag slung over her shoulder, bit her lip in thought. "I think I'm glad I'm from a Muggle family -- magic seems a bit dangerous around children."

"Not really, since we don't get wands until we start Hogwarts -- accidental magic is easier to clean up, Mum says. Although we did used to steal Dad's wand and send him to the office with just a polished stick." Ginny grinned. "That was always fun."

Hermione looked like she was trying not to smile. "In any case, we should deal with your brothers. They aren't angry with me, so I'll go first and you can slip out while I distract them."

"Really? Thanks! Er, if you can keep them talking for five minutes, I can bring down their Christmas presents and that should work for a truce."

"Bribery is a low and shameful tactic," said Hermione, with a sniff, but Ginny could tell that this time she was putting it on.

"Yes, of course. Thanks, Hermione!"

As Hermione set off down the stairs, Ginny dashed away to put her bathrobe on over her nightdress and gather her Christmas presents. Over the summer Mum had taught her to knit, and Ginny had managed to make somewhat straggly scarves to go along with the jumpers Mum always handed round at Christmas. She pulled out the green one she'd made for Harry, and looked at it. She wanted to give him a present -- he deserved one, and if he thanked her... but he'd probably just laugh at her. Or he'd realize that she liked him, and then she'd have to die of embarrassment.

No, she couldn't give Harry a scarf. It would be worse than sticking her elbow in the butter dish, worse than always turning red when he looked at her, and even worse than when the twins called them "lovebirds." Ginny stuffed the scarf back into her trunk.

Besides, she told herself, if she gave Harry a present, she ought to give Hermione one as well, especially since Hermione had been so nice just now. Since she didn't have a gift for Hermione, obviously she couldn't give Harry anything. She'd have to stick to family only. Or she could give the scarf to Xanthe, in return for the bottles of sparkling green ink Xanthe had bought for her. Yes, that would work -- especially if she charmed the scarf violet. Xanthe liked violet.

Ginny lifted her four squashy packages, wrapped with Spellotape and inexpertly transfigured newspaper, and hurried down to the common room to make peace with Fred and George.

The scarves were well received, all things considered. Percy would probably try to get out of wearing his, but Ginny thought she could shame him into it -- if he was so concerned over her health, he shouldn't neglect his own, after all! The twins promptly did something to straighten and stiffen their scarves, and held a mock swordfight up and down the boys' staircase and out through the portrait hole. Ron blinked, mumbled something about how she didn't need to go to all that bother, and shoved a box of chocolates at her. Then he hurried back to Harry and Hermione.

Ginny tossed the box on her bed and sighed. Chocolates. Ron wasn't much use at picking gifts, but he usually did better than this -- chocolates were what you bought Uncle Edward when he brought his newest bird-brained witch around for the holidays. Chocolates meant you couldn't think of anything interesting. Chocolates meant you didn't care enough to look for a real present. Bill and Ron had explained that to her when she was five.

She was Ron's sister. She used to be his best friend, too. Obviously now Harry and Hermione took that place, but he didn't have to treat her like wallpaper.

Boys. Stupid, toad-licking idiots, all of them. Especially her brothers.

Ginny took her new Exploding Snap cards -- Fred's present, to match George's book of sleight-of-hand card tricks -- and headed for the library to talk with Tom.

Several hours later, while they were finalizing plans to use Tom as a spy the next time Ginny played any games with the twins -- she was sure she could win at least a Galleon off them before they twigged on -- Percy strode in and coughed loudly. Ginny shoved the diary into her bag and looked up.

She snickered.

"What?" said Percy, irritably. "You're the third person who's done that this hour -- do I have something on my face?"

"Nooooo..." Nothing was wrong with his face, and if nobody else had told Percy that his Prefect badge now read "Pinhead," Ginny wasn't about to spoil the joke.

"Hmph. What are you doing in the library? I thought I told you not to hide away from people while the Heir is still at large -- you can't take such a cavalier attitude toward your own health and safety, Ginny. You aren't acting like yourself lately, and you're still too pale -- I worry about you -- but we'll discuss that later. Christmas dinner is ready."

"Christmas dinner?" Ginny swallowed her irritation and stuffed her cards into her bag. "What are we waiting for?"

The house elves and teachers had outdone themselves with decorations -- the Great Hall looked magnificent. A dozen pine trees, covered with frost and icicles, lined the outer walls, while thick garlands of holly and mistletoe crisscrossed the ceiling in complicated patterns. To top it off, enchanted snow, warm and dry, sifted down from the clouds that wandered across the painted ceiling. It reminded Ginny of the Snow Queen's palace in her old book of Muggle fairy-tales, except much more cozy and welcoming.

Dumbledore led everyone through a few carols before they started eating. Ginny was grateful that this time he didn't try to make people choose different tunes; that was bad enough with the school song, but it would be even worse with carols because you knew how they were meant to sound. Then they tucked in, and the food was wonderful -- except someone had clearly made the eggnog a bit too strong, since Hagrid got visibly drunk after only four goblets. Ginny nudged George with her elbow. "Pssst -- who spiked the drinks?"

George grinned and tipped an imaginary hat. "Who do you think?"

Of course. "You charmed Percy's badge too, didn't you."

George attempted to look innocent. Despite his years of practice, he wasn't particularly convincing -- or maybe Ginny was just too used to reading his face. "You know," she said, feeling magnanimous, "if he tells Mum, she'll probably send another Howler. She takes Prefects awfully seriously."

George blanched. "Ah, right. We'll change it back once dinner's over -- one Howler per year is more than enough for one family."

Ginny nodded and turned her attention back to her plate -- the Christmas pudding wasn't quite as good as Mum's, but it came close. She was working through her second helping when she noticed Hermione leading Ron and Harry away from the table and toward the door. Ginny narrowed her eyes. Something had to be up; Ron would never leave Christmas dinner early if he didn't have an adventure planned. And he was leaving her out, again.

Ginny excused herself from the table, but by the time she reached the door there was no sign of Ron and the others. They weren't in the common room either, or the library. Ginny frowned as she headed toward Myrtle's bathroom -- were they going to use that mysterious potion? But the bathroom was deserted and the potion glooped quietly to itself just like it had done for days now. Everything seemed calm.

"Toad guts," muttered Ginny. She knew something was going on -- she could feel it -- but unless she got lucky the way she'd done on Hallowe'en, she'd never know what. Judging by the way he'd ignored her all year, Ron wasn't about to tell her. Hermione didn't know her well enough to share any secrets. And Harry... Ginny flushed. She'd never in a million years work up the nerve to ask him.

She sighed and headed back to the library to talk with Tom.

Percy dragged her off again for Christmas tea -- though he couldn't lecture her since she'd been careful to sit within sight of Madam Pince and a trio of Ravenclaws -- and Ginny, feeling miffed, retreated to Gryffindor Tower as soon as possible. She flopped down on her bed and poked at Ron's box of chocolates.

Well, she'd left before eating any dessert -- she wasn't wildly fond of trifle anyhow -- so she might as well get some use out of Ron's inconsideration. Maybe he'd remembered she liked chocolates with cherry liqueur centers and didn't like the ones with nuts. Ginny peeled off the Spellotape and opened the box.

Oh.

It wasn't chocolates.

Ginny pulled the thin book from its nest of torn newspaper and examined the cover. Garden Legends, by Gladys Green, a collection of wizarding and Muggle superstitions about gardens and plants, with explanations of their origins and full-color illustrations. She'd seen it in Flourish and Blotts this summer and tried to talk Mum into buying it -- she'd wanted a bribe to keep her mouth shut while Mum made an idiot of herself over Lockhart -- but even threatening to make a scene hadn't worked. She'd complained about that to Horace, the family ghoul, when Mum sent her up to fetch the Hogwarts trunks from the attic, but she hadn't told Ron. He must have overheard her -- or he'd figured out on his own that she'd like this book.

Either way, Ginny felt ashamed. She should've known Ron cared enough to buy her something better than chocolates. She should've known he was also stupid enough to reuse an old box and forget to wrap it. Maybe they weren't best friends anymore, but Ron was still her favorite brother and he knew her better than anyone, even better than Tom. She ought to remember that more often.

Two hours later, Ginny looked up from her new book as the portrait hole creaked open and Ron and Harry climbed through. They looked worn out, rumpled, and worried -- and Hermione wasn't with them.

"Ron? You're a mess -- what's wrong?" asked Ginny, marking her place in the book and walking over to them. "Where's Hermione?"

Ron and Harry exchanged a look; Ginny could see them deciding how much to tell her and what to leave out. "She, er, she's in hospital," said Ron eventually. "She botched a potion and kind of turned halfway into a cat -- pointy ears, tail, fur all over her face -- she'll be stuck there for a few weeks."

"Oh." Botched a potion? Like the potion in Myrtle's bathroom, with the waterproof blue fire underneath the cauldron? "Er... does it hurt? Can I visit her?" She did sort of like Hermione, after all, and it was always nice to know that people cared about you.

Harry shrugged; his overly large robe slipped off his left shoulder and he shoved the fabric back up with a small frown. "She's all right -- just embarrassed. Madam Pomfrey says it's not contagious, so we'll visit her tomorrow. You can come too."

"Just don't laugh at her -- she got really upset when Myrtle teased her about the tail -- threatened to hex me if I tried to scratch her ears. I bet it hurts to rub the fur the wrong way, or lie on the tail," said Ron, grinning weakly. "Go on, Harry. I haven't talked to Ginny in ages."

Ginny frowned as Harry trudged toward the boys' dormitories. Why did Ron want to get her alone? "Yeah, I bet you're right -- remember when the twins caught us sneaking through their room? If it hurts to press down on floppy ears, ears and a tail must be worse."

Ron pulled a face. "Too bloody right, that hurt -- and Mum didn't even yell at them -- said it was our own fault for snooping." He frowned suddenly. "Okay, Ginny, I didn't want to say this in front of Harry -- I know you like him -- but whatever you're plotting, stop it. Yeah, we were mucking around with a potion we shouldn't've been, but it was for a good reason. Don't you go poking around too -- it's dangerous."

Ginny scowled -- Ron did know her better than anyone, when he bothered to pay attention, and there were times she wished he didn't. Liking Harry was private. "Isn't it dangerous for you too?"

"Well, yeah -- people turning to statues, dead roosters all over the place, hexed Bludgers -- it'd be hard to miss that! But the Heir's obviously out to get Harry, and everyone already thinks we're evil or something -- bloody stupid, if you ask me -- the Heir of Slytherin in Gryffindor? -- but you don't need to get noticed. Nobody's bothered Percy or the twins," said Ron, "and Mum would kill me if I dragged you into this."

"She'd kill you anyway for going around yourself!" said Ginny. "I could tell her..."

"Ginny!"

She brandished her new book at her brother. "I'm not going to tattle, but I know you're up to something and I'm going to figure it out! Oh. And thanks for the book -- I really like it."

Ron flushed. "Yeah, well, I kind of heard you talking to Horace and I was ordering books for Harry and Hermione already... Er, I like the scarf. But d'you mind if I charm it a different color? You know I hate maroon."

"Go ahead -- it's only maroon because I was using Mum's yarn." Ginny clenched her hand on the book's spine, debated, and then threw her arms around Ron. He didn't move for a second -- her heart sank -- and then he grinned and mussed her hair the way he used to. Ginny squeaked, thumped him on his shoulder, and tried to comb her hair with her fingers.

"Ron! You're such a toad-licker!" She tucked her tangled hair behind her ears and looked down at the carpet; the gold embroidery picked out lions, eagles, and dragons hidden in swirls of scarlet. She shifted her feet. "Er, if I promise to keep out of your sneaking around, will you talk to me more often?"

Ron sighed. "I'm not trying to ignore you -- I just have friends, and you're always writing in that diary of yours, or off in the bloody library. Why don't you hang around the common room more? We could play chess, or cards. I bet Hermione would love to help you study -- she's always on about revising and stuff."

Ginny smiled. "That would be nice. And, about cards... Fred and George got me a new deck and a book of card tricks for Christmas. We can learn together, and then beat the pants off them."

A slow, wicked grin spread over Ron's face. "Beat the twins at cards? For money, right?" Ginny nodded, and his grin widened. "I like it. It's a deal." He held out his hand, and Ginny punched his palm before grabbing hold and shaking. "So, er, Merry Christmas."

"Yeah. Merry Christmas, Ron."

Sometimes, it was good to have brothers.

---------------------------------------------

The rest of the holidays passed without further incident, if you didn't count the twins' outrage when they realized Ron and Ginny had won nearly two whole Galleons off them in one afternoon of Exploding Snap, and Ginny hoped the other students had calmed down away from Hogwarts. Unfortunately, Hermione's mysterious absence raised the tension to new heights -- quietly, once people realized she wasn't actually Petrified -- but as Susan said after their first Flying lesson of the spring term, if one of Harry's best friends wasn't safe, who was?

"But it wasn't the Heir," protested Ginny as she pulled the diary and her Transfiguration book off her bed and slid them into her bag. "She was just trying to get ahead in Potions and mucked something up."

Susan shrugged and hung her winter coat over a bedpost. "It's still suspicious. And why do you care what I think? I thought you weren't speaking to me."

Ginny scowled and stalked off to the library to meet Xanthe. She felt like she was living at the bottom of a lake with water weighting her down, slowing her movements, distorting her words, and blocking out the light. The worst part was that nobody else seemed to realize how many things didn't match up in any theory of Harry's guilt -- nobody except Xanthe. Well, and Apple, but Apple was a stuck-up, toad-licking, traitorous cow, and didn't count.

Ginny pasted a smile on her face as she entered the library and determinedly stopped thinking about the Heir and the general stupidity of people. She was here to study with one of her only two real friends, and she wasn't going to spoil it by snapping at Xanthe.

"Hi, Ginny!" said Xanthe in a loud stage whisper. Madam Pince looked over from her painfully tidy desk and sniffed, but she didn't scold. The librarian didn't approve of loud conversation, but she had a tiny soft spot for children who bothered to spend time among her books and who asked her advice instead of charging into the stacks and pulling books at random.

Ginny nodded to Madam Pince and slipped into a chair next to Xanthe. "Herbology first, or Astronomy?" she asked as she set her bag on the worn oak table.

Xanthe shrugged. "Whichever. It isn't as if we have anything to catch up on, you know. I'd rather hear about what happened to Hermione Granger -- you wouldn't believe the rumors in Hufflepuff. As if Harry Potter would try to kill his best friend! Even if she is Muggle-born, that's the silliest thing I ever heard of. Who would turn on his friends like that?"

"It wasn't Harry and it wasn't the Heir," said Ginny firmly. "She botched a potion, turned partway into a cat, and is in hospital until Madam Pomfrey can turn her all the way back."

"That's all? How boring," said Xanthe. "You know, I never thought it would be so tricky to undo magic. You'd think if it took just one potion to change, it should only take one to change back... if you can change back at all."

"Oh, I know this!" said Ginny, grinning. "Mum explained once when the twins grew Percy's nose out a foot long and didn't know how to shrink it. See, the first change throws your internal magic off-balance, so any further changes are harder since you're trying to affect a messed-up system instead of a normal one. If you're not careful, you really could get stuck forever."

Xanthe tilted her head, hummed briefly, and nodded. "I can see that. That makes a lot of sense, actually." Then she grinned. "Say, if you can understand that, why can't you understand other theoretical things? Like Astronomy?"

Ginny flicked her quill at Xanthe's face and unrolled her Astronomy notes. "Maybe if you explain, retrograde motion will make sense."

Xanthe pulled out her own quill and a somewhat crumpled sheet of parchment, and started sketching orbital diagrams. "It's really very simple..."

Two hours later, Ginny finally had a decent mental picture of planetary motion, Xanthe was prepared for Tuesday's Herbology practical, and Ginny was in a much better mood. She was also starting to wonder why Xanthe was so cheerful -- most students were looking over their shoulders and muttering darkly to each other, but Xanthe didn't seem worried at all.

That was odd, especially since there were times when she seemed awfully unfamiliar with magic. She'd been surprised at the self-propelling boats that brought them across the lake, Ginny remembered, and now she had no experience with magical accidents like Hermione's. Xanthe acted like she was Muggle-born, but she wasn't afraid of the Heir.

Did she know something she wasn't telling?

"Hey, Ginny. Earth to Ginny."

Ginny blinked and looked up from her parchment. "Yes?"

"You looked like you were thinking deep thoughts. Is something going on?"

"Er, not really. I was just wondering..."

Xanthe kicked her heels impatiently against the chair legs. "Yes? Wondering what?"

Ginny fumbled for words. "I was wondering why you aren't afraid of being attacked," she said after a few seconds. "All the Gryffindors are running around like headless chickens, whether they're Muggle-born or not. And, well, you seem surprised by magic sometimes, so I was curious."

Xanthe grinned. "Aha. You know, I told my mother that someone would notice eventually, no matter how hard I tried to watch my reactions. I'm not Muggle-born; I'm sort of a halfblood. My dad's a Squib, see -- Papa Miguel's a wizard but Nana's a Muggle -- and Dad's an insurance claims adjuster, so we have to look normal for any Muggles that drop by. That's why I'm not used to much magic. But my mother's a Winterbourne and I know Grandfather would be furious with the Ministry if anything happened to me, so I'm not worried."

"Your mother's a Winterbourne?" asked Ginny, astonished. "And she married a halfblood Squib, and your grandfather still talks to her?" She knew a little about the older pureblood families -- she was related to most of them some way or other, after all -- and the Winterbournes were some of the most blood-conscious around.

Xanthe grinned again, wider this time. "Oh, Grandfather nearly dropped dead of shock, he says, but he decided keeping his daughter was a bit more important than keeping his blood. My Aunt Psyche doesn't mind at all -- but then, she's always been odd. Uncle Archimedes doesn't talk to us, though, and none of the cousins have much to do with us." She paused. "Electra Summers is my second cousin, you know."

Ginny gaped, trying to reconcile Xanthe and Electra in her mind. She couldn't manage it.

"I knew you'd do that!" said Xanthe, grin stretching still wider across her face. "Yes, we're cousins, but I think I met her twice in my life before this year. Her whole side of the family is death on mixed marriages -- it's because of my Great-Aunt Rose and a halfblood Slytherin she knew back before Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald."

Ginny froze. A halfblood Slytherin and a Winterbourne girl named Rose, fifty years ago? Could that be Tom?

"I'm boring you to tears, aren't I?" said Xanthe. "I keep telling you to shut me up when I go on like this, you know -- I don't mind, really."

"No, I was listening," said Ginny quickly. "I like hearing family stories -- my parents don't usually have time to tell us any. What happened to your Great-Aunt?"

"Well," said Xanthe, propping her chin on her intertwined fingers, "my Great-Aunt Rose was in Hogwarts during the Second World War and the Grindelwald War. She was in Ravenclaw, like most of my family, and she was supposed to watch for potential matches -- to keep the family line pure, you know. But a halfblood Slytherin boy asked her out a few times, and she said yes. He was handsome, you see, and he fascinated her. She couldn't see the point of all that blood nonsense. But her parents wouldn't stand for it -- he was an orphan, a halfblood, raised among Muggles -- what could he bring to the family? They told her to break it off or they'd disown her."

Xanthe paused. "This is where it gets disturbing," she said. "Are you sure you're not bored?"

"Go on," said Ginny. She wasn't certain she wanted to hear how the story ended, but she was about as far from bored as she'd ever been in her life.

"Well, don't say I didn't warn you," said Xanthe. "Great-Aunt Rose's parents pressed until she finally met the halfblood boy one last time, down a an empty corridor in the dungeons -- you know, the sort of place you meet when you don't want other people to interrupt. She told the boy that she loved him but she couldn't see him anymore, that her parents wouldn't let her. She expected him to be angry, but he didn't wasn't. He stood there and told her, calmly, that she was his -- like he owned her! -- and he'd kill her if she left."

Ginny stared blankly at her parchment. That couldn't be right. Tom wouldn't do that.

"He was using her to get accepted by the purebloods, you see. Well, she managed to hex him and run to the Great Hall before he could do anything but make threats. She asked Professor Dumbledore for help, but she had no proof -- she'd got away, after all -- and most of the other teachers liked the boy, so everything was hushed up." Xanthe shivered, and her voice trembled a bit as she continued. "I've always wondered if he tried the same thing again, only the next girl, well, wasn't so lucky.

"The boy stayed away from her, but Great-Aunt Rose never got over that. She thought all Muggle-borns and halfbloods hated purebloods and just wanted to use them to move up in society." Xanthe sighed. "It's a pity one nutcase turned her against a lot of nice people. She would've hated my dad and Nana, you know. If the Death Eaters hadn't killed her, I bet she would've disowned my mother -- and my mother always liked her."

"That's awful," said Ginny numbly. She couldn't think; her mind was heavy and cold. Xanthe's story matched Tom's on the key points -- Rose, Tom, pureblood pride, and a broken relationship -- but completely disagreed on everything else. Somebody had to be lying, but which one? Tom or Xanthe?

Xanthe had no reason to lie.

Did Tom?

---------------------------------------------

Somehow Ginny excused herself without letting Xanthe catch on to her distraction. Her first impulse was to run to the safety of Gryffindor Tower -- everyone would be heading down to dinner, so she could tell Tom and ask him what to think. But that was no good. If Tom was lying, she couldn't trust what he'd tell her. She had to think this through on her own. She had to be calm. She had to be logical. She had to talk to Tom--

No! Ginny snatched her hand out of her bag; she'd almost pulled out the diary anyhow, even after she'd decided not to open it.

That didn't make sense. Something was very wrong about that. She'd have to ask Tom--

Ginny shook her head. What was going on? Probably this was just a mistake -- Rose had made up a nice story so she wouldn't look nasty to her family -- but surprise shouldn't make it this hard for her to think straight, should it? Why was it so hard to think this through on her own, without asking Tom's advice?

She found her hand wrapped around a brass doorknob, and blinked in confusion. Myrtle's bathroom again? Why did she keep coming back here, especially when she wasn't paying attention? Had the Heir hexed her on Hallowe'en?

Ginny shivered at the memory of that night. Red paint all over her hands, all down the front of her nightdress, no idea where she'd been--

Wait.

Absently, she crossed the corridor and slumped to the floor at the base of Sir Vladislav's pedestal. She'd had red paint down her front. But that made no sense. If she'd huddled against the wall to avoid the Heir, she should've had paint on her back. And the words should've been smudged. Ginny glanced back at the ominous message -- no, while the letters were a bit runny, they hadn't been rubbed against; she could see the bristle marks of the paintbrush in some of the strokes, little lines and ridges of red still clear after more than two months.

Maybe the paint can had spilled and she'd fallen into it.

But there wouldn't have been time to clean that up, would there? And if the Heir had cleaned a paint spill, wouldn't he have cleaned the puddle of water too?

Why hadn't she noticed that when Tom explained things to her?

Something was very wrong.

Sir Vladislav leaned down in a creak and clash of leather and metal, pulling Ginny's attention away from her thoughts. She wasn't quite certain how an enchanted suit of armor could look concerned, but somehow Sir Vladislav managed.

"I'm sorry, Sir Vladislav," she said. "I just learned something confusing and I'm trying to sort it out. Is it all right if I stay here for a while?"

Sir Vladislav nodded, then gestured to his chest-plate and tilted his helmet in inquiry.

Ginny shook her head. "Thanks, but I'll be all right -- I need to work it out on my own. Just... warn me if anyone comes along the corridor? Please?"

Sir Vladislav saluted and resumed his guard position. Ginny moved around his pedestal until she was tucked into the alcove, well out of sight unless someone was specifically looking for her. She laid the diary flat on the floor in front of her feet and stared at it. Something wasn't right and somebody was lying. How could she figure out who to trust?

Ginny drummed her fingers against the stone tiles of the floor. She'd have to think logically, the way she wished people would do when they decided Harry was the Heir. Logic wasn't always easy -- it assumed things were neat and orderly, and magic was rarely tidy -- but if she could catalogue potions reactions, she could figure this out. She had to.

If Xanthe was lying or misled, then Tom was telling the truth. But that didn't explain the paint down the front of Ginny's nightdress. And it didn't explain anything about the Heir, or the way Ginny's feet kept leading her to Myrtle's bathroom.

What if Tom was lying? Well, if he lied about Rose, maybe he lied about other things, which would explain why the paint was on the wrong side of her nightdress. But why would he lie? He was her friend! He helped her! He wouldn't -- couldn't -- threaten to kill anyone.

Could he?

Ginny shook her head and refused to think about that. "Logic," she muttered. "Figure it out and worry about other things after." It wasn't a natural way to think, but she could do it. She had to.

Okay. If Tom lied about Rose and lied about the paint, then maybe Ginny hadn't actually seen the Heir? No. That didn't work. But what was she doing with paint on her hands...?

Ginny twisted her fingers into her hair, trying not to panic or open the diary. What if... what if she was the Heir? What if she'd painted that message? ...Ron said someone was killing roosters, and she'd woken up with feathers in her hair and nightdress. She'd known Colin was going to visit Harry. She couldn't remember where she'd been when Justin Finch-Fletchley was attacked!

Oh God, what if everything was her fault?

But that didn't make any sense either! How could she plan things like that without knowing what she was doing? How could she be sneaky while she was sleepwalking, or blanked out? She dreamed about a princess and a dragon, not about being evil and attacking...

Wait.

Ginny tugged harder on her hair. Tom was the one who explained her dreams. Tom was the one who made everything sound normal. And Tom might be lying.

She had to ask him. She couldn't figure this out on her own, with only Xanthe's story as evidence. But she couldn't tell him everything -- he could just lie again, if he was already lying. She'd have to be sneaky.

Well, Ginny decided, she could be sneaky. You couldn't live with the twins and not learn how to be at least a little sneaky, not if you wanted to keep yourself safe. She looked up and said, "Sir Vladislav? I have a friend who's trapped in a diary. I can talk to him and he can talk to me, but he looks like a ghost and so far nobody else can see or hear him. I need to ask him some questions. Will you make sure nobody interrupts?"

Sir Vladislav pointed his sword at the diary and shook his helmet gravely, but he waved up and down the corridor and saluted again.

"Yes, I know there might be something wrong with Tom. That's what I need to ask him about," said Ginny.

Sir Vladislav nodded and turned back to face Myrtle's bathroom.

Ginny raked her fingers through her hair, trying to make herself look less upset... and then changed her mind. Upset was good. Upset was sneaky. She rumpled her robes, smudged a bit of ink on her cheek, and pasted her best poor-little-Ginny expression onto her face, the one she used to convince Mum that the twins were picking on her.

Maybe this was all a giant mistake, but she had to be sure.

Ginny opened the diary.

---------------------------------------------

"Ginevra, is something wrong?"

Ginny bit her lip as Tom coalesced out of the pages. He didn't look like he was lying. He didn't sound like he was only pretending to be her friend. But then, she'd thought Daphne was nice at first, and she'd been completely wrong about that. She had to be sure.

She ducked her head and watched him through the curtain of her hair. "Tom, I'm scared. I've been thinking about why I keep meeting the Heir, but he hasn't Petrified me, and I just noticed that I was always sleepwalking or blacked out for the attacks. Ron says someone's been killing roosters and I woke up with feathers in my bed. I knew Colin would be out at night, because I told him to visit Harry. And on Hallowe'en, I had paint on my hands, not down my back!"

Her voice was going higher, her breath was shallow, and Ginny realized that she wasn't faking all of this. "Percy's starting to follow me around and ask why I'm always disappearing. He says he's just worried that I'm pale, but he said I'm not myself. I think he suspects me! And..." -- Ginny wrung her hands -- "...and what if he's right? What if the Heir's possessing me? Or... or what if it's me?"

Tom went still for a second, expressionless, and then concern washed over his face. He laid a comforting hand on her shoulder and brushed her hair out of her eyes. His fingers felt like feathers wrapped in cobwebs, light and vaguely unnatural, as if bits of him were sticking to her skin and tying them together. "Ginevra, please calm yourself. Take a deep breath, slowly." Ginny complied, wondering about that moment of blankness. Surprise? Or was it guilt?

"Good," continued Tom. "And another breath. And another. Yes, like that. Do you feel any better now?"

Ginny nodded. "I'm sorry, Tom. I didn't mean to panic."

Tom smiled at her, and she couldn't help smiling back. "Don't worry. I might well have panicked, were I in your place. You're quite right, though -- the placement of the paint IS worrying, as is the way you can't remember any of your encounters with the Heir. But I doubt that you've developed the ability to Petrify people -- it's highly advanced magic -- and I further doubt that you'd use that ability even if you did possess it."

"You're right," said Ginny. "Thanks, Tom. But what if the Heir hexed me, or what if he's trying to use me? Do you know any spells to stop that?"

Tom shrugged. "Not offhand, but I'm certain we could find something in the library. Shall we begin searching today?"

"Yes, please! I don't want the Heir controlling me!"

"Neither do I, Ginevra. I hope we can find a solution quickly; I wouldn't want anyone to be at the Heir's mercy, let alone my friend."

But... was Tom really her friend? The more Ginny thought about it, the more plausible her fears seemed: she hadn't had strange dreams until she'd found the diary. Tom explained everything so she stopped trying to figure out what was going on. Tom knew strange, Dark spells, like Serpensortia and that binding ritual.

She took a deep breath and tried a new tack. "I know you wouldn't let anything happen to me, Tom," she said. "You're my best friend, and I trust you! I'm not like that horrible Rose girl."

Tom sighed. "Ah, Rose. Yes, you're nothing like Rose Winterbourne, Ginevra, for which I'm very grateful."

Ginny froze. Rose Winterbourne. Tom's Rose was Xanthe's great-aunt. Tom had threatened to kill a girl, and she'd trusted him for months!

After several seconds, she noticed Tom's hand resting on her shoulder again. "Ginevra? Breathe, please. Have you thought of something else?"

Ginny shook off his hand and forced herself to meet his eyes. "Yes. I have. Tom, did you know that Xanthe Delaflor, who helps me with Astronomy, is a Winterbourne? She told me about her Great-Aunt Rose, and about the halfblood Slytherin boy who tried to kill her.

"How--" Tom stopped himself. "I had always wondered what excuses Rose told her friends," he said mildly, but Ginny had heard the anger in his voice and seen a flash of red in his misty eyes -- red eyes, like Dark wizards were supposed to have -- and that was all the proof she needed.

"You," she said, "are a liar." Her voice sounded oddly flat and steady, even though her heart was racing and her body felt limp and weak with fear. A strange rushing noise filled her ears. "You've been lying to me since September," she continued. "Every time I dreamed I met the Heir, I bet it was you -- you were making me do things. And you tricked me into doing that spell, and now you're turning real and you're going to get out and you're going to kill people! You're the Heir! You're making me hurt people and it's all your fault and I HATE YOU!"

Behind her, Sir Vladislav shifted his sword in his scabbard with a warning scrape of steel on steel. Tom ignored the suit of armor. He simply watched Ginny with a strange, detached expression, until she stopped panting from her outburst. Ginny wanted to run away, but she was a Gryffindor. She was supposed to be brave. So she pressed her hands against Sir Vladislav's pedestal to keep them from shaking, and silently dared him to contradict her.

In a secret place in her heart, she hoped he would. She hoped he could prove that everything was a mistake. She wanted him to be her friend.

She knew that wasn't going to happen.

"I suppose the game is up, for now," said Tom, still wearing that detached expression. "You've decided to hate me instead of helping me, so you've become an obstacle. Pity. I do rather like you, Ginevra; you're a silly little girl, but you have more potential than most."

Ginny glared, anger beginning to swallow her fear. "You like me? You possessed me! You lied to me! You've been turning people to stone!"

Tom smiled -- it was the same smile as before, with the same hints of shared secrets and unbreakable bonds. But now Ginny knew what was behind it, and it was horrible. He was evil, and he was happy about it. "I don't deny the first two accusations, but as to the third... consider your own guilt, Ginevra. I'm nothing more than a memory -- a ghost, if you will, a fragment of a soul. I can't affect the material world. I can't cast spells.

"I haven't Petrified anyone, Ginevra," said Tom. "YOU have."

Ginny punched him. Her fist glanced off his cobweb body, and she crashed into the alcove wall without doing the slightest damage to him. He was like a ghost.

"I didn't!" she yelled. "It was you!"

Tom smiled, and now his lips held a mocking twist. "Oh, no. Percy was quite right to suspect you, Ginevra. You put far too much faith in my power; I can't do anything that YOU don't agree to do. I only supply the Basilisk. YOU supply the victims."

"But I don't!" shouted Ginny. "I didn't."

Tom slipped his arm around her shoulder. "It's best not to deny these things, Ginevra. I recall telling you that you were far too kind to attack a cat. For your conscious mind this may even be true. Your subconscious, however, is far more vicious. The first attack on Mrs. Norris was an accident -- I admit that -- but the subsequent targeting of Harry Potter's enemies? Sheer brilliance. Nobody would ever suspect you when he makes such an obvious scapegoat. I rather admire your hidden self; you could be quite fascinating if you released that potential."

"I'm going to be expelled!" wailed Ginny, trying once again to punch the smirk off Tom's face. "It's all your fault, and everyone will hate me, and I'm going to be expelled!"

Tom lazily fended her off. "I believe we went over this already. I merely supply the means for your actions; I'm hardly at fault. The last time I entered the Chamber of Secrets was in 1942, and a girl died because of it. I wonder... how far are YOU willing to go?"

"I hate you!" Ginny shouted again, and lunged forward. As Tom drifted out of range, she stumbled over the open diary.

The diary!

Ginny picked up the book and felt a dark thrill of satisfaction at Tom's furious snarl and the red flash in his eyes. "I'm not evil," she said, "but I can get rid of you."

She slammed the diary shut. Tom lunged forward, hands outstretched, but he thinned to smoke, wavering on the edge of visibility. And then he was gone.

Ginny leaned against Sir Vladislav's pedestal and cried.

---------------------------------------------

She missed dinner.

She couldn't face anybody, not when it was her fault that people were Petrified. Maybe Tom was right and she was the one who picked the victims, and maybe he was lying about that too, but he'd still used her body. He'd used her body and told her nothing was wrong, and she'd believed him.

Harry would have noticed something was wrong. Harry wouldn't have let Tom push him into doing things. Harry was a hero. All Ginny felt like was scum.

She asked Sir Vladislav not to tell anybody about Tom. Whatever he'd done was her fault, and it was her job to fix things. In return, she promised Sir Vladislav to come back the next day so he could be certain she was all right. It was nice that somebody cared, even if it was only a suit of enchanted armor, but she had no idea what to do until then.

Colin was in hospital because of her. He was a twit, but she'd sent him out alone at night when she knew someone was going around Petrifying people. Then she'd told Tom. And then she'd attacked him.

It was all her fault. She was a dirty, pathetic, toad-licking, idiotic piece of scum.

Ginny wandered aimlessly through Hogwarts -- up staircases, along narrow corridors, through dusty and disused rooms, out onto precarious, windswept balconies, into and out of a peculiar labyrinth laid out in colored tiles, down through dungeons and windowless halls where her footsteps echoed like distant thunder, up to tower tops and wide, ice-crusted windows that leached heat from her bones when she leaned against them, and back to start over again. She was never sure, later, exactly where some of those rooms were located in relation to the rest of the castle, and she couldn't even begin to retrace her steps.

Now and again she spotted other students down corridors, and turned aside to avoid them. Percy would be furious, but Percy thought she might be in danger or ill. He didn't realize that she was the danger.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, Percy popped out of a storage room in the Charms corridor just as Ginny turned the corner. He was whistling, and smiling like he hadn't done for years -- properly, without worrying about how he looked or whether it was an appropriate time to smile. His hair was mussed and his shirt collar was crooked.

He stopped abruptly when he saw Ginny. They stared at each other for a moment.

"Erm," said Percy.

"I'll go," said Ginny, and turned.

Percy rushed forward and grabbed her shoulder. "No, wait! What are you doing here? I've told you and told you not to wander around alone -- it isn't safe. Are you sure you're feeling all right? You've been acting odd lately, and you're still too pale."

If Ginny took more than a second to think about everything, she'd break down, and there was no way on earth she'd cry in front of Percy again. She attacked instead. "Who cares what I'm doing here! What are you doing here, Percy? You shouldn't be alone either, right? ...And why were you whistling? You never whistle."

Percy flushed tomato red. "That's none of your business, Ginny! I'm five years older than you -- I think I can handle myself in a crisis, should one arise."

"Really?" Ginny gave him her best imitation of Mum's I-know-you're-hiding-something-so-confess-already-before-I-get-really-angry look. "That still doesn't explain why you were whistling."

"That's completely beside the point!" snapped Percy. "What sort of world is it when a man can't whistle without everybody sticking their noses into his business? And yes, I can take care of myself, which you, clearly, cannot. Now, will you come back to Gryffindor Tower willingly or do I need to drag you there?"

"Toad-licking bully," muttered Ginny, but she trailed after Percy rather than let him manhandle her again. Besides, it would be easy enough to distract him and slip out of the common room.

In short order, she clambered back through the portrait hole and returned to the mazy corridors, still trying to avoid people. But Percy had jolted her out of her snarled thoughts; this time she had a destination in mind. Whatever she might or might not have agreed to in her sleep, thought Ginny, if Tom was the one who knew how to Petrify people, then, logically, if she got rid of Tom, everything would go back to normal.

She stopped outside of Myrtle's bathroom to salute Sir Vladislav, and then turned the brass doorknob. The bathroom was as dim and dingy as ever, and Myrtle's sobs echoed damply from one of the toilets. There was something strange about this place, something that called her feet when she wasn't paying attention. Ginny thought that might be Tom's fault. This was the place where she'd worked his Dark ritual to bind them -- it made sense to break that spell here.

Tom lived in the diary. Maybe he could twist her dreams at any time, but he couldn't get out unless it was open. If the book was destroyed, he should fade with it.

She drew her wand, intending to set fire to the diary, but Myrtle's sobs grew louder and Ginny paused. Sir Vladislav was her friend and wouldn't tattle if she asked him not to, but Myrtle enjoyed spoiling people's plans. There was no way Ginny could trust Myrtle to stay quiet about someone burning a book in her bathroom. She'd have to find somewhere else to light the fire...

Wait. Ginny tucked her wand away and hefted the diary in her hands. Fire would be faster, but not even Tom's spell could absorb gallons of water. The paper would turn to pulp soon enough. And then she'd be free.

Ginny ran her hands over the shabby, black book. "Goodbye, Tom," she whispered. "I hope you go to hell." Then she gripped it firmly in her right hand and skimmed it over the top of the stalls, directly toward Myrtle's favorite toilet.

It made a wonderful splash.

---------------------------------------------

End of Chapter 9