The news didn't truly break until Monday morning, hitting the Great Hall like a physical chill.
Colin Creevey had been attacked. He lay in the hospital wing now, rigid as a marble statue, his eyes fixed in a perpetual, sightless stare.
Once the rumor was confirmed, the atmosphere among the younger students curdled overnight.
No one walked the corridors alone anymore; they moved in tight-knit clusters, first-years clutching their bags and glancing over their shoulders with thinly disguised terror.
Then came the talismans.
Behind the professors' backs, a frantic black market of "protection" emerged. Students exchanged amulets and "blessed" trinkets, most of which were useless but provided a desperate sort of comfort.
Neville Longbottom had taken it to a pungent extreme. In the Gryffindor common room, he sat surrounded by a large, stinking green onion, a jagged chunk of amethyst, and the shriveled, rotting tail of a newt.
The smell was aggressive.
"Neville, you don't need those," Ginny (Elijah) said, fanning the air in front of Ginny's nose. The scent of decaying amphibian was making her eyes water. "You're a pureblood. You aren't on the list."
Neville shrank into his robes, looking smaller than ever. "But Filch was first," he whispered, his voice trembling. "And everyone knows I'm... well, I'm basically a Squib."
Elijah sighed, realizing logic was a blunt instrument against such deep-seated fear.
...
Ginny's body felt heavy—sluggish in a way he could no longer ignore. He retreated, relinquishing the reins and slipping back into the ink-washed silence of the diary.
"Hmm—" A few minutes later, Ginny's consciousness flickered to life.
"Hello, Mr. Riddle," she wrote groggily, her hand unsteady. "Is the Quidditch match over?"
Elijah paused. He hadn't realized just how long he'd held the helm.
"It ended two days ago," he replied. "Today is Monday."
"Monday?" The ink splattered as her panic spiked. "Has something happened?"
"Colin Creevey was attacked."
The response was immediate. "Colin?" Ginny had sat next to him in Charms. He was loud, excitable, and constantly blinding people with his camera flash—he was a nuisance, but he was her classmate.
The image of him lying frozen in the hospital wing clearly shook her.
Elijah smoothed his words, shaping them into a comforting lie. "When Mrs. Norris was attacked, I assumed it was a prank. I didn't pursue it. And I suggested Colin sneak out to see Harry. If I hadn't—"
"That's not your fault!" Ginny's writing was sharp, defensive. "Who could predict how insane the Heir is? Even if it wasn't Colin, it would have been someone else. He wants to hurt Muggle-borns."
Good. Anger was far easier to direct than guilt. It was a cleaner fuel.
Elijah explained the situation with the trio, omitting the more dangerous nuances of their Polyjuice plan. He spoke only enough to ensure she wouldn't be surprised by any sudden shifts in her social circle.
"I'll need to borrow your body more often," he added, a subtle hook. "At least for a while. To keep an eye on things."
"That's fine," Ginny replied without a second thought. "If it helps stop this sooner."
...
As December arrived, Ginny's awareness became a rare occurrence. She was drifting, a passenger in her own skin, as Hogwarts disappeared beneath a heavy shroud of snow.
In the back of the library, the trio sat huddled together. Professor McGonagall had just distributed the Christmas stay forms.
"Malfoy's staying for Christmas," Harry said, his voice low and bitter.
"Yeah, that's suspicious," Ron muttered. "He usually can't wait to get back to his manor and brag about his presents."
"But the Polyjuice Potion isn't ready yet," Hermione whispered urgently. "We have to steal the ingredients this Thursday, or we miss the window entirely. We need a massive distraction."
Harry's face darkened, looking toward the staff table. Snape was watching them like a hawk.
"I'll do it," Elijah said calmly through Ginny's lips.
Ron stared at her as if she'd suggested wrestling a mountain troll. Hermione started to object, but Elijah cut her off with a cool, sharp logic. "Snape expects one of you to cause trouble. He'll be watching for it. He won't notice me. I'm just a first-year girl."
He turned his gaze to Harry. "Lend me your Invisibility Cloak."
Harry blinked, his expression blank. "Right. I... I forgot I even had that."
That evening, Elijah stood in the corridor, the Cloak of Invisibility draped over Ginny's shoulders. He tested the magic with a detached, clinical curiosity. The effect was clean—absolute, even—but he felt a strange sense of underwhelming.
Compared to the legends of the Elder Wand or the Resurrection Stone, this felt... ordinary. If it could not hide a man from the magical eye of an Auror, how could it truly hide him from Death?
Perhaps the Peverell brothers were just talented craftsmen whose work had been inflated by centuries of storytelling.
Still, the cloak had its uses.
Elijah reached the 7th floor and stopped before the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. I need a room where I can study magical artifacts, he thought, pacing three times.
The door materialized. Inside, the room was a hybrid of a laboratory and an ancient forge. Cauldrons bubbled beside alchemical constructs that looked like clockwork nightmares.
Elijah laid the cloak out and examined the weave. It wasn't Demiguise hair. It was colder. Denser. Under a localized Lumos, the structure revealed itself: a complex lattice of runes woven into the very fabric.
Teiwaz. Algiz. Immortality and Protection.
Most modern wizards treated runes as dead history, but Elijah knew better. This was a perfected Disillusionment Charm bound to a material that refused to decay. It was magnificent engineering, nothing more.
He set it aside and turned to the real task. Nicolas Flamel's notes lay open on the workbench.
Mercury. Sulfur. Salt. He worked methodically, his movements precise and rhythmic. He channeled magic into the mixture as instructed, watching the sludge darken into a deep violet before flushing a violent, promising red. For a heartbeat, it looked like the legends.
Then, it separated.
When the heat died down, only a dusting of dull, crimson powder remained at the bottom of the cauldron. Elijah rubbed a pinch of it between his fingers. It was inert. Dead.
"It failed."
He felt no despair—only a cold, sharp irritation. Even Flamel had likely struggled to replicate his own miracle. Magical Alchemy was a chaotic variable; a change in the moonlight or a tremor in the caster's hand could ruin the balance.
Time was pressing. Without the Philosopher's Stone, a full resurrection was still possible, but it would require more life force than Ginny had left to give. If he stayed too long, he would hollow her out until there was nothing left but a husk.
If the Stone remained out of reach by spring, he would have to abandon her. He would have to find a host with more resilience.
I need a new host.
Elijah began to clean the cauldron.