Ginny arrived at the Great Hall the next morning in a state of soft-focus delirium. Her thoughts felt like they were wading through deep water, trailing several paces behind her actual steps.
What had happened the night before felt like a dream she couldn't quite wake from. She had given her consent—she had let Mr. Riddle "borrow" her—and he had returned her safely.
Aside from a dull ache in her joints and a heaviness in her eyelids, she felt fine.
So, he really won't hurt me, she reasoned, a dangerous seed of trust taking root in her chest. She spread jam on her toast with robotic precision, eating without tasting a single bite.
The morning peace didn't last. A shrill, echoing roar detonated across the Hall, vibrating the very plates on the table.
"RONALD WEASLEY!"
The Hall went silent as a scarlet envelope unfolded itself in midair, twisting into a jagged, parchment mouth.
"How dare you cast a spell on another student! And you led your sister astray—school has barely begun! And you two—Fred! George!"
Ginny went rigid, the toast turning to ash in her mouth. She had forgotten. Professor McGonagall had written home.
The Howler drifted toward her like a heat-seeking missile; nearby students scrambled away. Ginny's face drained of color, bracing for the scream that would surely shatter her.
Then, the voice softened. The transition was almost more jarring than the shouting.
"I've heard everything, Ginny dear. You did well. No one is troubling your father. If a sixth-year was cursed by a first-year, it says enough about his character. Still—don't be so impulsive next time. Tell a professor if there's trouble. We'll see you at Christmas."
With a final, satisfied puff of smoke, the letter burst into flames and vanished.
Ron sat in the aftermath, mouth agape. "That's it? That's all she gets?"
Fred and George exchanged a knowing look and shrugged. "Face it, Ron," George said, reaching for the bangers. "Ginny was brilliant yesterday. You were just... messy."
By lunchtime, the legend of the "Weasley Hex" had saturated Gryffindor Tower. Ginny found herself the quiet, uncomfortable center of attention, while Ron spent his afternoon sulking over a wand held together by nothing but Spellotape and prayers.
"At least you're not still vomiting slugs," Hermione offered kindly, though she looked worriedly at Ginny's pale complexion.
Harry sat nearby, his expression distant. He mentioned the strange, cold voice he'd heard echoing in the walls the night before. Ron and Hermione listened, puzzled, but the mystery remained a shadow they couldn't quite grasp.
Ginny just gripped her quill tighter, feeling the weight of the diary in her bag.
Over the following days, Elijah—the shadow within the ink—began to settle into Ginny's skin.
He was patient. He did not yet act openly; the Basilisk remained coiled and dreaming in the dark. Instead, he practiced. He found that the Room of Requirement provided the perfect sanctuary: a place of silence, space, and living resistance.
Riddle's memories provided the map, but Elijah needed to build the muscle memory. He drew carefully on Ginny's life force—never enough to cause an alarm, just enough to leave her looking as though she were fighting off a persistent head cold.
As Halloween approached and the castle grew drafty, Percy became an insufferable shadow, forcing Pepperup Potions down Ginny's throat until actual steam whistled from her ears. But at night, she was a warrior.
Inside the Room, wooden dummies lunged through the gloom.
Elijah moved Ginny's small frame with a lethal, unnatural grace.
The yew wand snapped up. A dummy disintegrated into fine sawdust before it could swing.
He rolled aside, rising in one fluid motion to shatter two more. With a flick of his wrist, the floorboards surged upward like grasping hands, pinning the remaining targets to the stone.
Silence returned. No incantations. No wasted breath. Just the cold, precise application of will.
He raised the wand once more for the ultimate test: the Patronus Charm.
He closed his eyes, digging past Riddle's darkness into his own original memories. Childhood. A time before the numbness. A world that felt clean.
"Expecto Patronum," he whispered.
Silver threads spilled from the tip, delicate and fraying. They twisted in the air but refused to coalesce.
Not enough. He pushed harder. The magic surged, a brilliant, blinding mist, but it remained a ghost—shapeless and fleeting.
Ginny's magic was spent. The tank was empty. Elijah withdrew.
As he slipped through the darkened corridors, Disillusioned and silent, a barked command cut through the air. "Stop!"
Argus Filch.
Elijah froze. He wasn't worried about the man, but Mrs. Norris was prowling nearby, her nose twitching. That cat was too perceptive for its own good.
Filch waved his lantern at the empty air, swearing at ghosts. When Peeves' cackle echoed from the floor above, the caretaker took the bait and stomped away.
Elijah watched them go. The time was close now.
...
Hogwarts transformed for Halloween. Pumpkins the size of garden sheds lined the Hall, and the air smelled of roasted meats and enchantment.
At the feast, Percy's brow furrowed as he scanned the table. "Where's Ron? And Potter and Granger?"
"Ghost party," George said, mouth full of pie. "Sir Nicholas's Deathday. Sounds a bit dead, if you ask me."
"Ginny's not here either," Percy sighed, his appetite vanishing. "She's been so ill lately. I told her to stay in bed."
Filch was at the high table, but his cat was not. Mrs. Norris was currently stalking a familiar, metallic scent through the 2nd-floor corridor. Her irritation had peaked; she had been chasing this phantom for weeks.
She followed the scent into a patch of flooded floor near the girl's bathroom.
The pipes groaned. A massive, rhythmic sliding sound echoed from the dark.
Elijah rode the King of Serpents out of the abyss. Moaning Myrtle was nowhere to be found, and the corridor was deserted—save for the cat. Mrs. Norris stood her ground, fur bristling, as yellow eyes reflected in the standing water.
The Basilisk looked up. The cat froze, her heart stopping mid-beat as she turned to stone.
Elijah dismounted. He lifted the petrified weight of the animal and fixed it to the torch bracket. With a steady hand, he dipped his fingers into the water and blood, scrawling the warning across the stone. Then, he sent the Basilisk back to its cradle and returned Ginny to herself.
Ginny blinked. She was sitting at the Gryffindor table, a half-eaten pumpkin tart in front of her. She felt dizzy, but a small smile touched her lips.
Mr. Riddle must have wanted to see the decorations, she thought. He hasn't seen a Halloween in fifty years.
She ate hungrily, her body craving the fuel.
When dinner ended, the student body surged toward the towers, a laughing, boisterous tide. They reached the 2nd-floor corridor and the laughter died.
The message blazed crimson in the torchlight: THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.
Draco Malfoy stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with a nasty sort of triumph. He looked at the rigid cat, then at the huddle of students. "Next," he whispered, his gaze landing on Hermione, "it's you, Mudbloods."
The night dissolved into chaos. Filch's screams, Dumbledore's grave commands, and the pale, frightened faces of Harry, Ron, and Hermione being led away for questioning.
Later, in the safety of the common room, the rumors were wildfire.
Ginny sat in the corner, her heart hammering against her ribs. Colin Creevey mentioned she'd arrived late to the scene. Too late.
She retreated to her dormitory and yanked the curtains shut. With trembling fingers, she opened the diary.
"Mr. Riddle, do you know about Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets?"
The ink bled onto the page, forming a slow, thoughtful response.
"Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets? Why do you ask, Ginny?"
She wrote everything—the cat, the blood, the warning.
There was a long pause. The diary seemed to pulse under her hand.
Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets, huh… Elijah mused.
Elijah considered his answer.
Truth—or concealment...?
The choice would shape everything that followed.