Written in Blood
"So I made Ginny write her own farewell on the wall and come down here to wait. She struggled and cried and became very boring. But there isn't much life left in her: she put too much into the diary, into me. Enough to let me leave its pages at last..."
J. K. Rowling – Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
Harry will come, or Ron, or the twins, or even Percy. Someone will rescue her.
Even as she tells herself this, she knows it isn't true. How could anyone find the entrance to the Chamber? She doesn't know how to and she's the one who's been opening it! Well, not exactly, but close enough. No, the only person who can rescue her is herself. She's a Weasley; her parents and her brothers have done all sorts of clever and brave things. Why shouldn't she? If Bill can work as a cursebreaker and Dad can confiscate dangerous artefacts every day for a living and Ron can get through an enchanted obstacle course with his friends, she can fight the compulsion that is driving her to walk, slowly but surely, along the corridor towards the cupboard full of cleaning supplies.
Reaching back in her memories, drawing on deep reserves of bravery she doesn't really understand that she has, Ginny Weasley tries to summon up the feeling of desperate, wild bravado that overcame her when she threw the diary down the loo in Myrtle's bathroom. Her footsteps waver, and for a moment her head feels clear. It's like coming up from underwater and it is an indescribable relief after everything she's been through.
She staggers to one side, banging into the wall, and – gripping onto the cold stonework like it's a lifeline – she turns around and begins to walk in the opposite direction. She doesn't have a choice, she has to go to Professor McGonagall's office. The Professor is her Head of House, she'll help her. But she only gets a few steps before the doubts begin to assail her. She'll be expelled for sure, maybe even sent to Azkaban. Her wand will be snapped in half, her family will disown her, and Harry will never speak to her again. Not that he speaks to you now, says a snide voice in her head. She ignores it – she can't even tell if it's Tom or her own conscience – but another horrifying thought comes to mind: Hermione! Hermione Granger was always nice to her, she is clever and kind – if a bit bossy – and it's rare that one of her brothers' friends would treat her like an equal instead of a dumb little kid tagging along on tolerance. And how did she repay that kindness? By setting Slytherin's monster loose on the girl. Besides, Ginny knows that even if her family are insane enough to take her back, she'll be a danger to them. She can't even be put in St Mungo's in case she attacks the other patients.
Knowledge blossoms inside of her, leaving her feeling sick with fear. She has to run away. She needs to get as far from Hogwarts as possible, maybe then Tom will leave her alone. She won't be useful to him anymore, she won't be able to open the Chamber. Maybe, just maybe, she'll be free. If not, if he tries to make her go back, or if he finds another way to make her hurt Muggle-borns… well, Weasleys are supposed to be brave, and the Hat must have put her in Gryffindor for a reason. She'll already have abandoned her family, so who's going to miss her? She grips her wand tightly under her robes for reassurance. She knows how to cast a Cutting Curse, that would to the trick. Better to die on her own terms and take Tom with her than have him exact pleasure from causing her a painful death or use her as a weapon to hurt others. She speeds up, running headlong down the corridors towards Gryffindor tower. She needs to get her stuff and go now, in case Tom regains control.
Even as she thinks this, she knows it's too late. Her head fills with blinding pain and she falls to her knees, whimpering. It feels as though her skull is about to split in two. Then suddenly she hears his voice in her head. He sounds the same as always; calm, polite, even slightly amused.
Listen, you silly little girl, did you think you could pull the same trick twice? I'm a great deal more in control of your body than I was when you threw my diary away for the first time. It's your own fault, you know – she can hear the chuckle in his voice – if you hadn't stolen the diary back from Potter, you'd be perfectly safe now.
Everything he is saying is perfectly true, that's part of what makes it so hard to fight him. But she couldn't let Harry find out that she'd been opening the Chamber, let alone risk the Boy-Who-Lived getting hurt by Tom. So she had slipped into his dorm and taken the diary, letting herself slip back into the older boy's clutches. If he was even a boy. Struggling to her feet, she hears footsteps up ahead and sees Professor McGonagall striding along the corridor dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief and muttering "Poor Potter, and Weasley too… their concern for her is admirable, but they must be so upset!" For one wild moment, Ginny wonders if Harry and Ron are worried about her, if they've worked out why she was trying to speak to them earlier, but then she realises the cause of their distress must be poor Hermione.
Thinking has become difficult, but she has enough sense to realise that this is her last chance. McGonagall is heading for a turn-off onto another corridor and hasn't seen her yet, so all she needs to do is run over and plead for help. She darts towards her teacher but something lifts her body up and slams it into the wall. She slumps to the ground, defeated, listening to the sound of the Transfiguration Professor's footsteps fades away. Her ribs hurt, there is a metallic taste in her mouth and her lips are wet. She brings her fingers to her face and they come away red. Blood. Her blood. She coughs, causing a spasm of pain to shudder through her torso, and she spits more red onto the floor. Please don't let my ribs be broken, please don't let my ribs be broken, she begs.
Oh dear, Ginevra, says Tom wryly, now do you see what happens when you disobey me? Stand up, you fool, and return to the corridor where you Petrified the Squib's cat. No need to steal his red paint now that we have your blood. Much more dramatic that way, how very Gryffindor of us.
Nothing she can do will prevent Tom from prevailing. She knows that now, so she claws at the wall, dragging herself to her feet, and promptly doubles over. Her chest feels like it is full of splinters. She takes a few trembling steps before falling over. She can feel his frustration, but there's nothing she can do. The pain is too great for her to go on.
Well, well, Ginevra. What would you do without me?
In the same moment as the words appear in her mind, her hand inches towards her wand. She panics, knowing that it's Tom, not her, that wants the wand. What will he do? Torture her for her incompetence? The wand is in her hand, and she hears herself muttering an incantation she doesn't recognise. She braces herself for more pain, but instead the agony in her upper body subsides. He has mended her broken ribs. She stammers out a quick thanks. That was unexpectedly kind of him.
Like he really cared. He needed her to be able to walk. But he could have tortured her until she agreed to power through the pain in her ribs.
Learning that Tom wasn't her friend, didn't care about her, had been one of the worst things that had happened all year. She had trusted him and cared for him and poured her heart out to him, and he had used her.
Letting him into her head had been a mistake, but she hadn't meant for it to happen.
It was surprising that he hadn't said anything since mending her ribs, perhaps he was tired from the exertion?
Even evil memory-ghost-book things have limits, it seems.
Instantly, she flinchs, awaiting the punishment for her cheek.
Nothing to it, came the airy reply, healing spells tend to be remarkably easy. Even a dunderhead like you should be capable of learning them, not that you're going to have many opportunities for that. Now get up and proceed to your destination, Ms Weasley. We have work to do and I need you to be fit and capable of carrying out the orders I give you.
That does it. It's over. Tom has control and he will brook no argument. She is already dead. Shoulders hunched, she turns around and heads for Myrtle's bathroom. Her bloody lip hurts, but she barely registers the pain. It doesn't matter anymore. He has won.
He has won, and it's all her fault. She doesn't deserve to be a Gryffindor, or a Weasley. She certainly doesn't deserve Harry's attention. All her earlier bravery has deserted her, and she feels like the frightened child she is. A sob escapes her lips, and she flinches, expecting Tom to punish her for crying. No punishment comes.
Emboldened, she allows the tears that have been building up since he flung her into the wall to flow freely. Maybe she can't be brave like a Gryffindor, but she has had the Heir of Slytherin inside her head for most of the school year and she might as well try emulating his house's cunning. If there's one thing she has learned from being the youngest of seven, it's that nobody wants a pathetic little crybaby hanging out of them when they're trying to do something. She learned that quickly as a child, and toughened up accordingly, but now is as good a time as any to see if she can take advantage of it. She shuffles along the corridor, sniffling and sobbing, and it takes little effort given the fear she is feeling.
Cheer up, you pathetic urchin, sneers Tom, you should be proud of assisting in Salazar's great work, in my great work. You are of old pureblood stock, but your family are blood traitors and fools. Your sacrifice will atone for their desertion of the old ways.
He seems to be buying it. That makes her feel a little braver. She begins mentally pleading, cajoling, trying to convince him that he doesn't really need her anymore, he can just wipe her mind and leave her here. He could find a better body to inhabit, or maybe there's some magic that can give him a body of his own. She is weak, and tired. Perhaps if she went back to her dorm and slept until she regained her strength, they could work out some spell that would bring him out of the diary and her head.
Are you really that stupid, Ginevra? I will make this simple for you. I. Can. See. Your. Thoughts. Any notion that passes through your empty skull also crosses my mind. You hope that in the morning, when you are stronger, you will able to resist me for long enough to seek assistance from your betters. Drop the act, and comport yourself with a modicum of dignity.
Maybe he's bluffing. She can't tell. She might as well keep crying and pleading in the hope he decides she really isn't able to do what he needs of her. But after another minute or two of begging, a sharp pain pierces her forehead.
Better witches and wizards than you – and believe me, that's most of the population of Wizarding Britain, including the Mudbloods – have tried and failed to outwit me. Are you really so moronic as to think you stand a chance?
Even in her terrified state, Ginny bristles at the insults to her intelligence and the magical prowess of Muggleborns. Suddenly, the voice in her head gets louder.
Running away will not help you, and nor will lying or pleading. YOU ARE MINE. YOU WILL DO AS YOU ARE INSTRUCTED, YOU MEWLING QUIM. YOU ARE THE TALENTLESS, WEAK RUNT OF AN IMPOVERISHED LITTER, AND YOUR GREATEST CONTRIBUTION TO MAGICAL SOCIETY WILL BE YOUR DEATH. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?
For the first time since they met, Tom's composure has cracked. Gone is the laidback, friendly tone. He sounds like the monster he is, and somehow that makes him easier to deal with. She has been kidnapped by a monster, and somebody will save her, just like in the storybooks. She nods wordlessly.
Ok then. Proceed to the corridor. I have a message that I need you to write in your own blood. Hurry, the cut in your lip is healing and the blood will clot and dry soon, so unless you want me to injure you again…
Remarkably, the casual tone has returned. But now that she has seen behind the façade, it no longer holds the same hypnotic charm as it used to. Nonetheless, she runs the rest of the way to the scene of her first crime, unwilling to take him up on the offer of more pain.
Everything is growing faint again, like it does when he takes over to open the Chamber. She does not know if she will ever see things clearly again. If he kills her… but will he kill her? Doesn't he need her body? Can he drive her soul from her body and take up residence himself, is that what he means by killing her? She notices detachedly that her hand is daubing something on the wall, but she cannot read the words.
Very little time… she has very little time… she doesn't know where she is but she is sliding down some kind of tunnel… she is going to die soon, and maybe death will be a release… everything that has happened this year has demonstrated her worthlessness and isolation. Maybe she deserves death.
Even now – where is she, is this the Chamber? It is big and dark and cold and damp, not at all impressive – there is still a glimmer of hope in her. Hogwarts is supposed to be a safe place. Then she hears him laughing. She has never heard him laughing before. It is strangely high and cold.
Ronald the ambulatory stomach will not rescue you. That pompous buffoon of a Prefect will not rescue you. Those lazy twins will not rescue you. Your teachers do not care enough to rescue you. Dumbledore has been driven away from this school by the mere memory of me. And Harry Potter most certainly will not rescue you. Goodnight, Ginevra.
A/N: This was written for Salivour's 60 Prompts competition, specifically for prompt 13: "Ginny. The sequence of being taken into the Chamber from her perspective." I don't tend to write dark fics, and this is probably the darkest thing I've ever written. *shrugs* I hope it works!