This chapter is really pitifully short – just over 1,000 words – and probably not enough to compensate for the wait at all. But I couldn't go any farther without making it too long – there wasn't going to be another place to stop for quite a while. As much as I would like to make up for it by getting the next chapter up in a few days, finals are fast approaching and this will be my last update until next Friday or so. Sorry about that. Thanks to all reviewers! Hopefully you'll enjoy the chapter, short as it is.

Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I own nothing but the plot.

Fake

Chapter 4

Something was hissing and spitting. A green blur moved in and out of focus in front of Ginny, and her head hurt badly every time she tried harder to see what it was. It towered above her, like a thick, green tree trunk, and the hissing filled her ears. She was standing on hard ground, not the carpet of her dorm. She could see white around her, white and grey.

The thing was moving. She kept pace with it, could feel the strain of her muscles as she was carried along, powerless, in the direction of the long, green blur. She felt her tongue move, heard the hiss. Was she doing this? Such an odd dream…

Everything flickered and went out of focus. For a time she knew nothing, but every once in a while she would see the green out of the corner of her eye.

Someone was yelling. There was a bright flash, and a dull thump. And she was hissing again, the thing was surging back in the direction it came. The ache in her skull increased, rising steadily and reaching its peak…

She was back – everything went back into focus so fast she couldn't see right for a moment. Reality rushed in with a feeling of sickening dread, and she looked down slowly, her whole body shaking. She could hear her teeth chattering; the sound filled her ears.

A boy lay on his back on the floor, stiff and pale as though dead. A camera was held in front of his face, from which thin wisps of smoke emerged.

She needed nothing more to identify the person. The camera was famous by now in Hogwarts, carried always by Colin Creevey. Tears sprung to her eyes, and she stumbled backwards, past a window where moonlight cast her shadow on the motionless boy on the stone floor.

She ran again. She'd been doing a lot of running these past few weeks. She flew through the hallways blindly, finally collapsing on her knees in a narrow, deserted corridor. She shook like she would never stop, her teeth rattled in her head. She drew her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs, and she still trembled. Hot tears fell on freezing stone.

This was her fault, it was no dream. She hadn't been sleepwalking, or hallucinating. And she hadn't done it on her own. Something had been there, manipulating her, hurting her whenever she tried to wake. Something that had felt vaguely familiar, and foreign at the same time. She couldn't place it, and didn't try to. She was hurting people.

Oh, no!

What would her family think if they found out? What would they do? They would be so disappointed in her. She would have to be locked up, kept away from everyone else at all costs. She wouldn't be allowed to sleep, maybe, or to see her family. And Harry…she couldn't be around Harry, what if she hurt him next? She couldn't be around anyone!

With a sob she pulled herself to her feet and ran back to the common room. She would have to hide it, that's all. And she would have to keep herself from sleeping. No one would ever guess, no one would ever know. She wouldn't hurt anyone, and everything would be fine.

She pulled the blanket off her bed and went down to one of the chairs in front of the fire. She sat and pulled the blanket around her, settling in for what would probably be a long night. She stared into the dancing flames and watched them diminish. The hours passed slowly, and she had to continuously jerk herself awake. By the time the flames had died away and left only faintly glowing embers, she had started to cry again from exhaustion.

-

Not sleeping was torturous. At nights she would stare into the fire and drink icy water, occasionally flicking her face with droplets of it to keep herself awake. During the day she could hardly keep her eyes open, and she accidentally dropped off more than a few times in History of Magic, but never long enough to be a threat (in her mind) to anyone else. In the end she had given up trying to take notes; her mind would twist the words and she'd end up writing down nonsense. She didn't write to Tom either. Exhaustion and suspicion prevented her from even trying.

Percy had taken her pale face and sluggish attitude as a sign of a cold, and forced her to go down to Madame Pomfrey. The nurse had looked a little suspicious, especially when she took in the dark circles under Ginny's eyes, but in the end had given her a dose of Pepperup Potion and allowed her to leave.

"Get some rest!" she had called after Ginny, who was all too aware that it looked like her head was on fire. The mediwitch's face was slightly pinched with concern.

On Saturday, she failed to stay awake and fell asleep in the armchair. She woke up at eleven on Sunday with people milling around, and a few asked if she was sick. She had been so relieved to feel alert and rested that she hadn't responded.

Later in the day she had written to Tom.

Good, he had said after she had greeted him, I was starting to get worried about you. It's been days – where have you been?

I've been really tired, she responded truthfully, and told him about what had happened with Colin, tears brimming again at the thought.

It's my fault, Tom! I don't know what I was doing or what that thing was, but I was directing it! Something was there, with me, making me walk. My head hurt so much when I tried to wake up. I tried not to sleep so I wouldn't hurt anyone else, but I couldn't do it.

It's not your fault.

It was a short response and did nothing for her. And it was a lie. It had to be her fault – whatever was controlling her had to be let in somehow. She closed the book slowly and rested her head against the headboard of her bed, thinking hard.

"We have a connection, don't you think?"

"Yes, Tom," she whispered. "We do. How do you always know…?"