Ginny was feeling more than slightly out of sorts. Walking up from the Great Hall alone after dinner, she found that somehow she could no longer simply accept the things that had been happening of late. Her memory lapses, waking up in suspicious places in questionable situations, and now Harry's near death... The only element that these things all shared was the diary. Tom Riddle's little black book had been in her hand every time she awakened. And she had found it on Harry's bedside table after the... incident.

At the time, she had not questioned it. What on earth could Tom have to do with any of those occurrences? However, he was a mind inside of a book. Perhaps borne of his position of responsibility dealing with cursed and enchanted items let loose among Muggles, one of the oldest lessons her father had taught her had been never to trust anything if she couldn't see where it kept its brain. He certainly would not have trusted the diary, and would have been most disappointed in Ginny for doing so.

Her stomach tied itself into an uncomfortable knot. For all the times she had deceived and defied her mother, Ginny almost never went against her father's wishes. And yet she didn't want to distrust the boy in the black book. He was her solace and her sanctuary, and since Harry...

But that wasn't true. She'd been ignoring him, spurning him to spend time with Tom. And that made her feel dirty, cutting deeper even than anxiety over her father. Harry hadn't meant those things to her for a long time now. Was that why he had stolen the diary? The thought made her feel even worse about herself, and as she trudged up the stairs to her dormitory, she felt something tickle her cheek. She'd reached the top floor by the time she realised it was a tear.

The book was exactly where she had left it this time. Her breathing aggravated and her hand unsteady, Ginny lifted the cover.

"Hello again, Ginny. How are you holding up?"

"Not great."

"I am sorry, truly. How it must feel... If you want to talk I am always here."

"You haven't let me down before."

"I am glad. But I feel you do have something to say."

And there it was. Here was her opening, to challenge Tom and have the truth from him.

"Tom, I don't know what to do! I've had memory loss every time there's been an attack! And..."

"And?"

"And you're always right there in my hand when I wake up."

"You think I have had something to do with it?"

"Please, Tom, I need to believe..."

"When have I ever done anything to hurt you?"

"I'm sorry, I..."

"Fool girl! I do all I can to help you and this is how you repay me?"

"I won't do it again, Tom, I'm sorry!"

"Thank you."

Ginny took a deep breath. A bead of sweat rolled slowly down her temple. Though her questions remained unanswered, she realised how ungrateful she was being in accusing him even tacitly. But there was still a niggling feeling in the back of her head that she had misplayed the conversation in a far worse way than just being rude. 'What am I missing?'

"You know I would never do anything to harm you, don't you?"

Ginny shivered, and she wasn't sure whether it was a pleasant one or not. Tom began writing again before she could put quill to parchment.

"You are my only link to the outside world. It is not an enjoyable experience to spend fifty years with only your own thoughts for company."

"I know, Tom. Please forgive me."

"Come now, Ginny. You need not ask for my forgiveness. Tell me of your day."

All of a sudden, Ginny realised that she had forgotten quite why she had been so rude. She knew only that it had been wrong of her. Why on earth would she question Tom?

Neville cracked his knuckles, fidgeting uncomfortably with his fingers as he walked up to the common room from the library. Now that he was preparing for what would likely be his first proper tutorial in wizarding combat, he felt a nervousness that he had not known for a while. In Harry's presence, he remembered feeling like problems were less oppressively formidable. Neville had been too busy since his best friend's demise to notice how anxious he should possibly be about everything that was happening. Now, though… Now his unconscious was free to torture him as it pleased. Waiting, it seemed, was the worst part.

On entering the common room, he was confronted with the sight of Ginny arriving from the other side — descending from her dormitory. And she was carrying a small, black book. Neville frowned, trying to remember why that was significant. He remembered halfway across the room, and the realisation almost decked him. Clamping down on his instinctive urge to tear the thing from her fingers and toss it into the fire, Neville took a breath and schooled his features, hoping he had not given himself away.

He was loathe to suspect her, but Ginny had been acting strangely all year. So had Harry, to be true, but that had been limited to his interactions with Ginny herself. Could Ginny have been responsible for Harry…

No.

If there was one thing Neville knew for certain, it was that Ginny would never willingly harm Harry.

But what if it wasn't of her own free will? What if there was more to this inconspicuous book than an uncanny ability to survive whatever had torn the boys' dormitory, and Harry Potter himself, to pieces?

She was at a conversational distance now, and Neville noted the strange expression on her face. It was not hostile — far from it, it was outwardly rather passive. And yet, there was a coldness in her eyes that was so very unlike Ginny that it made Neville pause.

"You want to head down for the Duelling Club meeting, I presume?"

Even her speech patterns were slightly changed. Unless her parents had been tutoring her in formal conduct over the summer, something Neville had entirely missed in her usual bubbly manner at the birthday parties and their other meet-ups, something was very different about Ginny Weasley. At last, Neville had found something to investigate. And he rather wished that he hadn't.

"Yeah," he said. "Have you seen Hermione?"

"I thought she was in the library, as usual," said Ginny.

"Huh," Neville frowned. "I was just there."

"I am sure we'll find her on the way down," Ginny said.

"We can leave in a few minutes," said Neville. "Ron will be up soon, he just wanted to go to the toilet."

Neville stood for a moment, his brain searching frantically for a natural progression to the conversation that didn't include the phrase 'is it you' or 'what's with the book'. He had decided that considering Harry and Ginny's general proficiency with making sure their enemies came out worse than they did, he didn't particularly want to get anywhere near the little fiend he suspected of defeating Harry so utterly.

Luckily for him, Ginny seemed lost in her own thoughts as well. Before the silence could get any more awkward, Hermione and Ron clambered in through the portrait hole, talking easily. It gladdened Neville that at least Hermione seemed to have recovered this much.

"They wanted to see some snow," Hermione shrugged. "I would have asked them to come to Scotland so we could see each other, but with everything going on…"

"Better that your parents are safe," said Ron.

"What about us?" said Hermione, sniffling slightly.

"We're handling that," said Neville. "Let's go."

The walk down to the Great Hall went by markedly faster when they were joined by the twins, who wasted no time in derailing their conversation with a series of Flitwick impressions. Hermione's indignation was just reaching breaking point when they reached the vast double doors. Within was Professor Flitwick, with a growing group of students waiting. Neville noted Percy standing with a blonde Ravenclaw prefect he didn't recognise, though Fred and George's eyes lit up with glee.

Also present was Luna, which gladdened Neville. He hadn't been sure how to go about inviting her, especially with the strange way Ginny was behaving, but she had come along with two of the Ravenclaw girls in their year — Su and Padma. Though he didn't know her well, and her father had something of a reputation, a friend of Ginny's was a friend of his.

Hufflepuff had only a small denomination of older years Neville didn't recognise. The attack upon Justin had apparently scared the younger students enough that they had all run to safety. Not that Neville could really blame them — the idea of hearing that Hogwarts was being closed for investigation from the comfort of the family home sounded a lot more attractive than playing sleuth within its walls.

And so it was that even with all the other houses combined, Slytherin were not quite outnumbered. Malfoy and friends were conspicuously absent in the little sea of green at the far side of the crowd, most of whom were older students. It seemed as though the majority of those who had stayed over the holiday had come, either to get some actual tuition for a change from Lockhart's fumbling efforts, or to see Flitwick's reported skill as a duelist. Neville wouldn't complain about either.

"Order yourselves into lines of five," said Professor Flitwick. "And be sure to leave plenty of room between the rows."

Falling into the second row, Neville stood ready and at attention. Flitwick was making up for his diminutive size by standing atop a simple-looking platform which appeared to be a less dressy version of the duelling stage Professor Lockhart had erected. Further distinguishing him was his choice of clothing. Rather than his usual dark green robes, the professor was wearing black robes cut to never impede movement, secured in place with leather and steel armour. The garment ended at the knee, with sharp detailing and a minimalist approach to the armour plating that made it look more stylish than a lot of dress robes Neville had seen people wear. It would certainly be more practical in a fight.

"The duelling arena is the home of civilised combat amongst wizards," Professor Flitwick squeaked. "For hundreds of years the best men and women of our country and countless others have tested their skill against one another on platforms such as these. But do not step into the arena lightly! You are training for combat! And should you need to use these skills out in the world, there will be no Containment charms or suppression fields to keep you from harm."

Many of the students, particularly the younger ones, were looking at each other with varying degrees of alarm. This was nothing like Professor Lockhart's 'sessions', but neither was this the Flitwick they knew.

"As such," the professor went on, "what is the first rule of combat?"

For once in her life, Hermione looked utterly lost. Neville was among the few to raise his hand.

Professor Flitwick looked at him. The professor was holding himself straight and stern, but there was a familiar warmth in his eyes. "Mr. Longbottom?"

"Don't get hit."

Neville felt all his nerves being washed away as Flitwick took them through repeated footwork exercises, trying to make them more agile. The patterns were strange, almost alien in their nature, but Flitwick demonstrated them with an ease and grace that would turn a dancer green.

However, not everybody shared his enthusiasm. He could hear the muttering getting slowly louder as Flitwick continued to drill them on footwork, until finally…

"A moment, children," said Professor Flitwick amenably. "I believe I hear a problem?"

Silence fell. Flitwick was far too well liked for anyone to openly speak their minds, but even Ron looked a little miffed.

"I take it this lesson has rather fewer loud bangs and dramatic happenings than some of you were hoping for," Flitwick said, sounding increasingly amused. "Rosier!"

A tall seventh year boy with dark eyes and hair stepped forward. "Professor?"

"Join me on the platform, if you please," said the tiny professor. "I understand that you do not appreciate the relevance of what it is I am teaching you."

"I didn't say that, sir…" Rosier said uncomfortably.

"No, I believe your exact words were 'what in aether is this nonsense'," Flitwick smiled, his eyes dancing.

Rosier's cheeks pinked slightly, but he was not cowed by the sniggers from his peers.

"I believe a demonstration is in order," said Professor Flitwick. "You are well versed in numerous offensive charms, Rosier. Use them."

"I'm sorry, professor?" the boy frowned.

"I will not retaliate," the charms professor sighed. "Try to hit me, child."

Rosier took a few seconds, as if unsure he had heard the professor correctly, before slowly raising his wand. The assembled students breathed in as one.

"Stupefy!"

Neville smirked. Flitwick had sidestepped so smoothly, it was as if he hadn't even moved.

The seventh year stared for a moment down the length of his wand. His brow furrowed. "Stupefy! Stupefy! Flipendo! Expelliarmus!"

Each spell cleanly missed its target, and class was growing more and more enthralled with every cast. Irritated and ashamed, the Slytherin drew back his wand.

"Ventus!" Rosier incanted.

A concentrated jet of air blasted across the platform. Professor Flitwick did not dodge this time, merely raising his wand and letting the wind pass harmlessly around him.

"As Mr. Rosier just demonstrated," said Flitwick, still seeming utterly amused, "not every spell can be dodged. However, being able to maintain balance and control without straining yourself with unnecessary defensive magic will put the pressure back on your opponent!"

"I am sorry, professor," said Rosier.

"Whatever for?" Professor Flitwick chuckled. "I did ask you to attack me, did I not? Thank you for your help, Icanas."

Icanas Rosier left the platform to laughter and back-slapping from his friends.

"Now, again," said Flitwick. "Ensure that your feet always return to the same position, so you are always ready to move instantaneously."

After a clear hour of footwork, most of the group were clearly flagging, but nobody was complaining anymore. And when Flitwick started them in on the correct stances with which to hold their wands, nobody said a word to the contrary.

"Thank you all for coming," said Professor Flitwick. The tired, but happily chattering students were slowly filtering out after the two hour session, leaving only Neville and his Gryffindor friends behind. "Have a good night's sleep now."

"We'll see you guys later," said Fred.

"Yeah," George grinned. "A certain prefect…"

"Needs some attention from his brothers," Fred finished.

Ron groaned. "Those two almost make me wish I never have a girlfriend."

"Buuuuut…" Neville teased.

Ron laughed, shoving his shoulder.

"Neville," said Hermione.

Ron waved two fingers at Neville in a kind of mocking salute, turning to follow Ginny back to the common room.

"I wanted to thank you, Neville," the brunette said softly. "For convincing me to come along."

"I'm your friend, Hermione," said Neville. "I won't abandon you."

A small, grateful smile showed Neville some peace and happiness in the girl for the first time since the attack.

"You were right about this," she said. "It helps, distracts you…"

"I'm hoping for a hell of a lot more than a distraction," said Neville, smiling slightly.

"Yes..." Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes. Neville snorted. "But I feel better after that, you know?"

"Lighter," said Neville.

"Yeah…"

"Mr. Longbottom, Miss Granger, could you kindly leave the hall?" said Professor Flitwick. "I need to restore it to its normal layout."

"Sorry, professor," said Neville.

They were the only ones left. Taking a seat on the stairs up towards the Grand Staircase, Neville patted the stone next to him.

"You're doing this so you can hunt down the attacker," said Hermione.

"No," said Neville. "I'm doing it so that if whoever is doing this comes after someone else I care about, I'll be ready for them."

Hermione sniffed, brushing her bushy brown hair out of her face. "You've changed, you know."

"Maybe," said Neville, a smile pulling at his eyes. "I think Harry just taught me that I didn't need to be afraid."

"Are you not?" she said.

Neville looked at her strangely. She was incredulous. "I'm terrified. But if I want to do my part, I can't curl into a ball."

Hermione chewed delicately at her lower lip. "You're right. I know you are. But I just…"

"We are all taking this at our own pace," said Neville.

"I haven't given up," said Hermione firmly.

"I never thought you would," the young wizard grinned, gently shoving her shoulder.

"Oh put a sock in it," Hermione smiled. "I'm trying to say that I kept working on the potion."

The Polyjuice Potion. Their one way of proving that Draco Malfoy was the culprit. The one thing that Neville no longer thought was necessary to their quest.

"I'm glad," said Neville.

Hermione was not fooled. "You have another lead, don't you?"

Neville gritted his teeth. "Maybe. I don't have a whole lot to go on, but…"

"Sounds like more than we already have," Hermione said urgently.

"Hermione…" said Neville. "Have you seen Ginny with a little black book?"

Her eyes widened momentarily. "Yes! I… that was really strange."

"What was?" Neville frowned.

"It's as though I… Never mind," she said. "Must be my mind playing tricks on me. What about the book?"

Unconvinced, Neville had to restrain from pushing her on the subject. He didn't need to make Hermione uncomfortable now. "Would you do me a favour and ask Ginny about it?"

"What do we need to know?" she said.

"Anything," Neville shrugged. "Just go for small stuff like where she got it and what she's using it for. Things that seem like normal conversation."

His bushy-haired friend turned to him with a small, determined smile. "I'll do my part."

Hermione and Ginny were the only girls left in their dormitory. As such, Hermione would have been surprised to find Ginny already up there, even disregarding her usual propensity to wander. This was not the Ginny she knew.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she was furiously scribbling in her little black book. In spite of Hermione's best efforts, and many other of Ginny's friends besides, the redhead's only major social interaction recently appeared to have the been the little leather-backed volume. Hermione felt a terrible sadness as she watched her friend, who had not so long ago been the bright centre of the year group. For not only was she entirely engrossed in this book that had stolen her attentions, but the expression on Ginny's face — that unbridled happiness — was something that had been reserved for Harry alone. And Hermione couldn't help but feel a little betrayed.

"Hey Ginny," Hermione said.

Her friend looked up suddenly, as if she had not realised that Hermione had entered the room. Perhaps she truly hadn't.

"Hermione!" said Ginny. "Um… what's up?"

Hermione shrugged. "I'm quite content really. That was a good lesson."

"Yeah," Ginny said, returning to the book.

Hermione shook her head slightly, still unused to this new, introverted Ginny. "You're always writing in that. Is it a journal?"

"Yes, it's my diary," Ginny nodded. "I got it over the summer."

"We do have plenty to write about," Hermione snickered. It didn't get a reaction. Hurt and confused, Hermione exhaled forcefully. "Ginny, you're spending all your time with that dratted thing! You've stopped talking to your friends!"

Finally, she looked back up at Hermione. And the bushy-haired witch froze. For in Ginny's eyes was not sorrow or surprise or contrition. In fact, there was no emotion whatsoever — just a little smile that did nothing to engender happiness in Hermione. The smile terrified her, as in that moment she realised that she was more than simply shocked. Ginny had Immobilised her.

'What are you DOING?'

Hermione couldn't scream. She could not so much as whimper.

"You are so very troublesome, Miss Granger," said Ginny. "I modify your memory again and again and yet you keep coming back. I must say I admire your perseverance, but I cannot be envious of your luck."

Panic had begun to set in. Whoever she was talking to, it clearly wasn't Ginny. She needed to get away somehow — tell Neville and the headmaster. If Ginny was being possessed…

And then, in Hermione's fear-driven mind, everything clicked into place. Ginny spending all her time with the book, disappearing whenever there was an attack, being possessed — it was her. And just like that, the fight went straight out of her.

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

And just like that, everything went black.

Harry might have been floating for hours or years. Time had been immaterial for him while that whisper, that feeling, had reached out to draw him across the cosmos. Alas, the more he chased it the further it faded — an oasis in the desolation of space. Harry now felt the true burden of his loneliness as time stretched infinitely before him.

"Where am I?" Harry called. "What's happening to me?"

Again, his voice merely echoed within his skull, escaping no further than the tip of his tongue. At this point, he could barely hear it over the sound of souls long gone. He could feel their grief now, a weight upon his mind that he could not overcome. Why had he followed that feeling here? Looking around him, he could not even see the stars. And that was when terror gripped him. When had he left his own reality for this bleak darkness?

It was difficult, as though he were being swept along a raging current, but Harry turned to look back the way he came. A bright light, small and distant, was shining behind him. And as he looked, it brought with it more than just that sense of his destiny calling to him. He felt hope. The moment he willed it, he was rushing backwards. The universe, a strange, distinct ball of lights and vague shapes, was swelling to consume him once more, surrounding him with the light of the stars and returning him to the familiarity of Earth.

Harry sighed in inaudible relief. He had forgotten how much he wanted to return to his own body. However, looking down upon himself, just healed to the point of being barely recognisable as human, he decided that he wasn't ready just yet. Instead he looked back out across the cosmos. That sense of destiny was still calling to him. If only he could separate it from that seductive feeling that had drawn him… wherever it had been taking him. Harry couldn't imagine that he'd been headed anywhere good.

"Hey, wait for me!"

This voice was new. A young boy. Was he somehow a witness to a conversation between people he could not see?

Listening carefully, Harry tried to detect anything besides the background noise of the dead. They were far quieter here, floating above that strange, detached portion of the hospital wing that seemed to have followed him up among the stars. And in this more peaceful environment, he did hear something. Harry could not follow what he heard, though. For the voice came from within his own mind. With a terrified start, he realised what exactly it was that he was listening to.

'You are so very troublesome, Miss Granger. I modify your memory again and again and yet you keep coming back. I must say I admire your perseverance, but I cannot be envious of your luck.'

It was Ginny's voice, but Harry could hear Riddle within it. And he heard Riddle's thoughts as the boy exulted in Harry's defeat, gloating internally as he prepared to crush another of Harry's friends under his boot heel. Every ounce of his being screamed in protest, and he wanted nothing more than to wake up and pummel the diary-spirit until he left Harry's friends alone. But as he looked down upon his own body, The Boy Who Barely Lived despaired. If he were to return now, he wouldn't be capable of standing, or even twiddling his fingers. So he listened. Harry listened as Riddle sifted through Hermione's memories, laughing at her as he changed her thoughts and feelings to suit his whim. And for the first time at Hogwarts, Harry felt powerless.

Gritting his teeth against his anger and grief, Harry turned back to the stars. He could not help his friends in his state. But if he fulfilled whatever purpose was calling him, perhaps he might have the strength to face Riddle when he did return.

Reaching out with his unconscious, Harry somehow knew instinctively where he needed to go. And this time, he kept an eye on home. But just as he began racing away from Earth, that extraordinary echoing began again, like he was hearing voices in a sewer pipe.

"Anakin, stay where you are."

Nobody Smurf: They will indeed, sir. And an Architect Dumbledore may be, but that's not the crossover you're looking for :)

Luminatrix: Again, appreciated :)

stars90: Cheers!