Tom! It's Christmas!
I know! Happy Christmas! What did you get?
Nothing very good. A jumper as usual from Mum, a Muggle book from Dad--
What's the title?
Emma, I think. It looks boring. I've stuffed it in my trunk. I don't know why Dad keeps getting me books like that. Oh, and Fred and George gave me Cockroach Clusters--eurrrrgh.
Anything else?
Well--Percy gave me a nice new bundle of quills, and Ron gave me a couple of Chocolate Frogs. One of the cards is Morgan le Fay--listen to this. She copied the card down. "Morgan le Fay is known in Muggle legend as a evil sorceress, twisting good Arthur to her own wicked ends. However, she is credited with numerous magical discoveries, not the least of which is the Bubble-head Charm which, enlarged, enabled her to build a castle under a lake, and much of her bad press seems to have originated with Merlin, with whom she had a number of disagreements of philosophy. This proves yet again that nothing is what it seems." Isn't that brilliant, Tom? I'd love to live under a lake!
But then you wouldn't be able to see Harry every day . . .
Oh, don't tease, she ordered lightly. What did you used to do for Christmas?
It was a moment before he wrote back. It wasn't celebrated very much at the orphanage. We got . . . things from the parish. Usually clothes.
Ginny didn't even need to be told that the clothes had been ill-fitting and badly made, the kind of things one donated to an orphanage because nobody else could want them. There was something about his handwriting that told her. I'm sorry, Tom.
It's long gone, anyway. Water under the bridge. And Christmas was much nicer when I got to Hogwarts. I always liked the feasts.
The feast!
Are you late?
No, but I will be in a moment--I'll talk to you later!
Have a good time!
She shut the diary up and slipped it in her pocket. Footsteps thudded on the stairs, and Harry came into the dormitory.
"'Lo, Ginny," he said.
Her mouth fell open. "Hngh?"
"Merry Christmas," he added.
"Hrnk," she squeaked.
More footsteps, and Hermione came into the room, just slipping something into her pocket. "Where's Ron?" she asked Harry.
"Right here," came Ron's irritated voice. "Had to put on my stupid Weasley jumper, didn't I." He made a face, yanking at the cuffs of his new maroon jumper.
"I like your mum's jumpers," Harry said peaceably. He was wearing his, green with festive red around the collar and cuffs. It was loads better than hers, which was just plain white.
"Yeah, Ronniekins, listen to the Heir of Slytherin."
"Many a fanged servant would be grateful for such a warm jumper, I'll tell you."
Would the twins never leave off? Nobody would ever forget about this Heir of Slytherin business if they kept yelling around like that. "Stop talking such rubbish," Ginny snapped. "He's no such thing!"
That was a mistake--it only brought the twins' attention to bear on her. "What's the matter, Wee One?"
"Don't fancy being a Queen of Evil?"
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harry's face go a little red. Ron said loudly, "Shut up, Miss Mouthy. Come on, Harry, everything's going to be eaten already!" He tugged Harry toward the portrait hole that Hermione had standing open.
The twins followed, calling out, "Merry Christmas, King of Evil!" and other such witticisms.
Ginny grabbed up a pillow from her armchair and screamed into it. Her brothers ruined everything!
She went so far as to ask Percy to get Ron to stop making fun of her, with his stupid little "Miss" names, and he told her loftily, "If you're going to be a Weasley, Ginny, you'll have to take some of this teasing."
"That's not what you said when Fred and George were jumping out at me," she pouted, poking at her Christmas pudding.
"That was completely inappropriate, of course, but really, there's no way I can stop any of them doing what comes naturally."
"It doesn't come naturally to you."
"I'm much more mature than they are," he said, with an expression of almost constipated self-importance. "I can try to stop them, but I can't follow you around. You'll just have to develop a tough skin for this kind of thing, Ginny."
"Fine kind of brother you are," she muttered, taking herself and all the contents of her Christmas crackers away.
It was evening before she saw Harry and Ron again. She was curled up in her favorite chair, telling Tom about her wretched Christmas, when they climbed in through the portrait hole--alone.
Fred and George glanced up from their Exploding Snap game. They'd tried to trick Ginny into playing, but she knew how outrageously they cheated, and had refused. "Hey, where you been?" Fred called out.
"Around," Ron said vaguely.
"Where's Hermione?" George asked.
"Infirmary," Harry said shortly, and ran up the stairs to the dormitory with Ron right behind him.
Ginny snatched up her diary. Tom! she scribbled with a shaking hand. Hermione Granger is in the infirmary! She must have gotten Petrified!
That Mud--sorry--Muggle-born friend of your brother's?
Yes, but--I know exactly where I was! The whole day, I didn't have any blackouts! I feel bad of course, because she IS Harry's friend and all even though I don't like her much--but oh! if you only knew what I was starting to wonder!
I am your diary--tell me!
I can't just at this moment--I've GOT to run up and see if it's really true--talk to you later!
Her mood had shifted one hundred and eighty degrees half an hour later. She flopped stomach down on her bed and dragged the diary out of her pocket, blindly reaching for the inkwell that sat on her bedside table.
Tom?
I'm here.
I was wrong! Hermione didn't get attacked at all!
But I thought you said she was in the hospital wing?
She is, but she's not Petrified. She just almost turned herself into a cat, that's all.
Oh--how did she do that?
I don't know--I don't care! This is horrid! I thought I'd proven myself wrong and then--
But proven yourself wrong about what?
Ginny put her free hand to her mouth as she wrote. I think I'm the one attacking everyone, Tom!
You're what?
It's awful--but I really think I am! Honestly! I can never remember where I was, and I've been having all these funny dreams--
Now look, being rather absent-minded and having odd dreams doesn't automatically mean you're opening the Chamber of Secrets! I think you're blowing this out of proportion.
No, I really think I am! I don't know how and I don't know why--but it's just been since I came HERE that I've been like this! And the snake that I understood . . . am I becoming a Dark witch?
No, no, no, of course you're not! You can't possibly--
She began to cry in earnest. Why are you dismissing me like this?
I'm not dismissing you, I promise I'm not!
I thought you were my friend--
And I'm being a friend by being a voice of reason! You're a first-year witch! How could you possibly find and operate the Chamber of Secrets--especially when you're sleepwalking?
I don't know--but how could I possibly become a Parseltongue? There's such a lot of impossible things happening around here, and I don't know anything for sure anymore!
I don't think becoming a Dark witch is something you do involuntarily--
How do YOU know? You were never Dark, were you? There might be Dark witches and wizards all over the place in my family, only they never talk about them. Mum's second cousin--
What, the accountant? The one you've never--
That's what they SAY. What if the real reason is because he was a Parseltongue? What if he turned DARK?? Her quill pressed deeper and deeper into the page with every word she wrote. What if he did HORRIBLE things right there next to YOU-KNOW-WHO??? What if he's in AZKABAN???? What if he's stark raving MAD????? WHAT IF I'M JUST LIKE HIM??????
GINNY! You're being overly melodramatic! Calm down, you're not doing yourself any good with screaming!
She slapped her quill down and took several deep breaths. The soft in-out whoosh of air had a calming effect, and after a moment, she was able to write back, in meek copperplate very unlike the former agitated scrawl, I'm sorry, really I am. But I honestly do think--
Couldn't there be another explanation?
But I've tried! I've tried and tried and tried--
Why didn't you tell me about this before? I could have helped you out . . .
I didn't WANT to, don't you see? If I write it down, that makes it real!
What are you going to do?
I don't know. I've got to watch myself like a hawk, because I couldn't live with myself if I ever did this again . . . I can barely live with myself now.
You aren't going to do anything foolish, are you? Like telling anyone besides me?
I couldn't tell anyone besides you! I might get kicked out of school! What would Mum and Dad say then?
I just wanted to make sure.
Ginny felt her throat close up. He was so sweet, worrying about her. How can I make this go away?
I don't know. It's quite serious. At least you haven't killed anyone yet . . .
Ginny's mouth sprang open. Do you think I could?
No! No, no, of course not, he wrote quickly.
Then why did you say it?
I was just pointing out that it could be worse. You're just turning people to stone, and they'll be revived eventually. It's not near as bad as if you'd killed them.
Ginny cheered up a little. I suppose you're right there. Will you help me guard myself?
Of course. What are friends for?
I am going to have to be VERY careful, she wrote with a sigh. Percy keeps telling me I'm pale and not myself--I think he suspects me.
For two weeks, Ginny existed in a kind of coiled-spring state of guardedness. She set up stacks of books and loud clattery things by her bed, on both sides and on the end, so she couldn't climb out in the night without waking herself or somebody else. When she ran out of noise-makers, she put down things that would be extremely painful to step on. There was one memorable occasion, early on in the two weeks, when she was half-asleep and wanted to go to the loo, that she woke the entire tower up.
When the other Gryffindor girls, crabby and incredulous, asked her what in blazes she was doing, she told them she was trying to stop herself sleepwalking. It didn't do anything for her popularity among the other girls, but she was in no shape to care about that.
There were great circles under her eyes, and she was paler every time she looked into the mirror. She had almost entirely stopped eating, which didn't do a thing for her oft-bemoaned lack of curves.
When he saw her lack of appetite, Percy hustled her to Madam Pomfrey for another humiliating dose of Pepper-Up Potion, which she took without complaint (forgetting that this was much more likely to arouse Percy's suspicions than anything else).
She managed to be civil to the teachers, but only just. Her classmates stopped talking to her completely. All her brothers, even Fred and George, started to avoid her for fear of having their nose bitten off if they so much as said "Hello."
Her grades dove like Harry on the Quidditch field. Her nails were chewed down to the quick, and she was starting in on the hangnails. Her nerves could have strung an entire violin section.
But there were no more attacks.
Charms class was one that she was still managing to keep her head above water, although not by much. Ever since the incident of the purple hair, Professor Flitwick had been very kind and encouraging.
"You're quite good at Charms, you know," he told her after class one day. "You've got a knack for them."
Any other time, she would have brightened under the praise, but now she just said, rather dully, "Thank you."
"You just need to concentrate," he added. "I really don't want to have to fail such a talented student, but I mayn't have a choice."
"I know," she said.
He patted her hand. "All right then. Off to lunch with you."
She started gathering up her things, then paused as something occurred to her. It wasn't all that important, but she was suddenly curious. "Professor Flitwick, what's the Cruciatus curse?"
The effect on him was electric. He went as white as his hair and actually tottered a few steps backward before squeaking, "Miss Weasley! Where did you hear of that?"
She'd automatically reached out to steady him. "From a--someone mentioned it, I suppose--"
He mopped his brow with a shaking hand. "I should seriously reconsider associating with anyone who would just mention the Cruciatus curse, Miss Weasley," he said, his normally squeaky voice higher than ever.
"But--but what does it do that's so bad?" Ginny wanted to believe it had been some sort of mistake on Tom's part or that, like the Mudblood issue, ideas had changed since he'd been in school.
The professor leaned against one of the desks for a moment, then mopped his brow again. In the same voice he used for his classroom lectures, he informed her, "It is one of the three curses known as the Unforgiveables. They were much favored by You-Know-Who and his followers and used extensively during their rise to power. Just using one of them against another person is enough to land one in Azkaban for life." In spite of his detached words, he was still very white. "The Cruciatus is, relatively speaking, the mildest of them. It causes the victim to suffer the most excruciating pain imaginable until such time as their--torturer chooses to release them."
Ginny felt all the blood drain out of her own face. Tom had mentioned it so casually, almost jokingly-- "It sounds terrible," she said faintly.
"It has been known to drive victims mad." His voice lost its lecturing tone and sank to a near-whisper. "Death is a mercy, when one is in its grips." Professor Flitwick mopped his brow again. "And now, Miss Weasley, I think you'd better get to lunch--dear me--" He tottered away, still white as parchment.
Ginny had to sit down at her desk again. Her legs were shaking.
She looked down at her bag, with the diary resting in the front pocket. She started to reach for it, to ask, and then hesitated. I should seriously reconsider associating with anyone who would just mention the Cruciatus Curse.
Maybe, like her, he didn't really know what it was or what it did, and had only heard of it in passing . . .
Her hand hovered uncertainly over the front pocket for several seconds before she shifted direction and clasped the strap instead. She could always talk to him about it later, anyway.
"Hey, what are you doing in here?"
Ginny looked up. Jeremy Markham, another first-year Gryffindor she rarely had much to do with, stood scowling at her in the doorway. "You're supposed to be at lunch," he told her.
"So are you," she snapped, and he stepped back, blinking. Like a lot of Gryffindors, he'd long ago dismissed her as a ghostly figure attached to her diary, and it was like having a beetle bite off one's toe to hear her talking back.
"I left my quills here," he said, going to his desk and retrieving them. "What's your excuse?"
"I was asking Professor Flitwick about something." She marched past him, and he ran to catch up.
"You shouldn't walk about alone. There's so much funny stuff going on--"
Ginny thought, I'm not in any danger, now am I? and wanted to cry again. Her voice was more acidic than she'd meant it to be when she snapped, "Neither should you."
He made a face at her. "I can take care of myself."
"And I can't?" she asked. Her voice would have made any big brother worth his salt cringe and deny it until he was blue in the face, but Jeremy had no sisters, and not much of a danger instinct.
"You're just a girl, and--"
"And?"
"And you can't--" Jeremy's instincts kicked in belatedly, and he trailed off. "Er--uh--I mean. . . ."
"Can't what?"
"Uh--I'll walk back with you, shall I?"
She rolled her eyes. "Thanks ever so much, but no."
He stiffened, insulted. "Fine--see if I care when you get Petrified--" and he marched off towards the Great Hall.
Fat chance, Ginny thought darkly. Her appetite was now completely gone, but she made her way to the Great Hall anyway. The last thing she needed was for a teacher to come around asking questions.
As she mooched along, gently kicking at the stones of the floor, she wondered for the thousandth time how she was doing it.
And why.
I mean, the first time it was Mrs. Norris, she told Tom as she sat at the Gryffindor table, nibbling halfheartedly on a bun, and she was so unpleasant--she'd scratched me and everything--I suppose I might've WANTED her to turn to stone . . .
I suppose that's true . . .
And that Hufflepuff boy--I was mad at him for yelling at Harry, and maybe Nearly Headless Nick was just sort of . . . in the way . . .
Considering what he'd done, I'd say the Hufflepuff deserved it . . . go on.
But Colin! Why would I have ever--?
He was annoying, remember? He was taking pictures of Harry--
But we were getting to be friends--
Were you? Or was he just the only one that ever sat with you?
Ginny hesitated, horribly unsure. It had only been a few days of tentative friendship, when all was said and done. Maybe she had been more annoyed with him than she thought. Maybe she'd decided to get rid of him, somewhere in that part of her that knew how to do . . . what she did . . .
She buried her face in her arms for a moment, then lifted her head to write, Oh, why can't I go back to the beginning of the year and start all over again?
It was Percy's birthday, and Ginny was very, very confused.
Except for yelling at the twins for giving him a quill that squirted ink in his face, Percy looked perfectly happy and cheerful, which she couldn't understand. He hadn't got his cake yet! Just like her! Was something the matter with Mum this year?
After he'd left the common room on some mysterious errand of his own, Ginny sidled over to Ron. Harry had just left for practice, so Ginny's tongue was actually working. "I don't understand Percy at all. Mum forgot again, didn't she?"
Ron looked up from his Chocolate Frog cards. "Again? What are you on about?"
"His cake!" Ginny said, plopping down on an armchair.
"Percy's--what, his birthday cake?"
Fred, dressed for practice, poked his head over the top of her chair. "You're not thinking we actually get our cakes on the precise day of our birthday when we're here, do you?"
She looked up at him. "Um--well, I--"
"Oh, you prat," George said, sitting on the arm of her squashy chair. "You did."
She burrowed herself deeper into the armchair. "I--"
Fred sat on the other arm. "It's a flaming day's journey from here to home, Wee One, even for a train."
George picked up. "And we know Mum gets up at the crack of dawn to bake it and send it off--"
"Don't forget, we watched her do it every year for Bill and Charlie and Percy before we ever came."
"But it's still an awful long way. Plus there's weather and all that."
Ron added, "And well--Errol, you know."
"Yeah. Errol," George said, sighing and shaking his head.
"Anyway," Fred continued, "we've never got our birthday cakes on our birthdays since we've been here."
"What--never?" she asked faintly.
All three brothers shook their heads. "No, wait," Fred said. "Charlie told me once that his cake did come on his birthday back in his third year. Errol was younger then, and the weather was really good--but it was still almost midnight when he got here."
George asked, "How long did you wait last year, Ron?"
"A week," Ron said. "But it was still good when it got here. Mum's Preservative Charms are almost as good as her baking," he added proudly.
Fred leaned forward. "It's the Great Weasley Secret, y'see," he imparted solemnly. "Started with Bill--"
"Down through Charlie--"
"To Perce--"
"And then you and me--"
"And they told me last year," Ron finished. "We never tell Mum. You know how she is about birthday cakes--"
The twins quoted in unison, "'A cake's just a cake unless it's made on your birthday.'"
"And--well--nobody ever wanted to hurt her feelings."
"Ooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," Ginny wailed, covering her face.
Fred said, "Is this why you didn't want any of your cake in November, Wee One?"
She nodded, feeling her skin heat.
"Ron! Didn't you tell her?"
"She wasn't talking to me!" Ron defended himself. "I thought Percy would--"
"I am in the room, you know," Ginny said from behind her hands, "and it's you who weren't talking to me--"
"Never mind that," George said. "You really thought she'd forgotten your birthday?"
Another nod.
"Virginia! Don't you have any more faith in Mum than that?"
A hand clamped around her knee, and she peeked through her fingers. Ron was giving her a ferocious look. "You didn't write a nasty letter about this to Mum, did you?"
"No," she whispered. She'd been too hurt and furious to write Mum at all.
All three of her brothers relaxed. "The Secret's safe, then," Fred said, wiping his brow in an imaginary ecstasy of relief.
Ron was still tetchy. "How could you think that? You know how Mum is!"
"You were the one who didn't say anything about it to me!"
"I'm not your nanny!" Ron yelled. "I don't have to wait on you hand and foot--"
"I don't want waiting on hand and foot, I'd settle for a kind word every now and then--"
"Why should I? You can't even open your mouth anymore!"
"Well, whenever you do, it's to make fun of me and scold me and--and--" She burst into tears, grabbed her schoolbag, and raced out of the common room.
After a moment of shocked silence in the little family circle, Fred turned to Ron and said, "You know, for a moment there, I thought she was going to haul off and hit you, the way she used to."
Ron slid down the couch cushions until he was practically sitting on his neck. "Wish she would," he muttered. "She's such a girl lately. Cries at the drop of a hat, goes sulking all around instead of just kicking me in the shins and getting it over with--"
Fred put his hand over his heart. "Our Wee One is growing up, Ronniekins. She's learning the fine and feminine arts of really making us suffer."
"Shuturrrrrrrrp."
George looked at the portrait hole. "You don't reckon something's really wrong, do you?"
"What, with her? Nah," Fred said, picking up his practice gloves. "She's just being moody. Come on, Wood'll have our heads if we're any later."