Title: Belonging
Author: Sonya
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.
Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.
Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.
Summary: Discoveries, kisses, understanding and its lack.
Author's Note: Just a reminder that this story takes place following "Goblet of Fire" - as in, "Order of the Phoenix" never happened. There will be overlaps, but there will also be differences, and there are no intentional spoilers. So, if you've read the book, you'll see some things familiar and some things not. If you haven't read the book and don't want to be spoiled - use your own judgement. If I don't tell you what's my idea and what's from the book, then you're not really being spoiled, right?
And if anyone cares, I have a Livejournal - It occassionally contains fic-related ramblings. I also have a website, at
Pathetic creature that *I* am, I'm gonna have to dedicate this chapter to the mouse known as Pathetic Creature. Good luck out there, hope you find a place that's yours. (If this makes no sense to you whatsoever, read my Livejournal.)
***
Her skeleton will lie in the chamber forever.
Stupid useless thing, couldn't even dispose of a 12-year-old boy.
The skeletal remains of the basilisk lay where it had fallen, shrouded in its own desiccated skin. The stones beneath its gargantuan skull were stained a dull black. Its scales had faded to a paler shade of green, but still glistened faintly in the dim light; the sockets where its deadly eyes had been were empty and staring, a match for the hollow carved eyes of the serpents that marched the length of the Chamber.
Salazar Slytherin's enormous stone mouth hung open, as if in perpetual shock.
Here and there about the Chamber were feathers, dusty and red. She'd picked one up, and it had made her sneeze, so she'd dropped it again. Her footsteps echoed; water dripped from the stalactites that adorned the ceiling, the very tips of them just dipping into the soft gloaming light that suffused the Chamber.
I wonder where the light comes from. It ought to be dark in here. Darker than it is, even.
It was brighter, fifty years ago. It's fading. Dying.
I won't let it fade - the Heir of Slytherin will not allow his will to fade into memory and shadow -
I am not the Heir of Slytherin! I'm Ginny Weasley and my legs ache and my palms sting from the climb down and I don't - I don't know what I'm doing here.
Suddenly exhausted, she sat, just a few feet from the fallen basilisk. Sometime in the last three years its jaw had come unhinged, and it lay at an odd disjointed angle to the top of its skull, giving the appearance that the creature had been deformed. It looked too big to be real.
Ginny rubbed carefully at her aching wrist, shifted carefully so that her bruised and scraped leg wasn't touching the damp stone. About three-quarters of the way down the tunnel, her heavy boots had slid on the damp and slippery metal, and she'd fallen.
A metallic serpent had darted out to catch her, twining about a clutching hand hard enough to grind the bones together, tightening about her wrist. The angle of the tunnel hadn't been so steep at that point that the fall would have killed her, but it would have hurt. Perhaps broken bones.
Perhaps kept me from moving; perhaps my skeleton would have lain here after all.
For long moments after, the tunnel had been all hissing, writhing agitation; she'd let herself fall back against the wall, panting with exertion and the sudden rush of adrenaline. The snake twined about her wrist had loosened its frantic, bruising grip a little as several of its fellows moved to support her. They'd sought out her hands, the ones that could reach, butting their heads against her rather like a cat might, seeking reassurance.
Oh, don't fall, you can't fall, you can't die now, you've only just awoken us and it's been so very long . .
There'd been an irrational, disjointed burst of jealousy along with it; they'd never acted like that before.
They never acted like that for me. Him. They let him - no, me - no, not me, not me - they let him fall.
He didn't die. Didn't break his bones. His bones didn't lie there in the tunnel and rot.
The Chamber is MINE .. the basilisk was mine . . everything coddles you, doesn't it, everything sees how weak and soft you are, even this place -
- or maybe they just *wanted* you to die, hrmm? Maybe they saw what a twisted, wretched thing you were and hoped you'd break your foul neck.
"Where's Riddle? Where's that devil-spawn little bastard?"
Did I deserve it? Were they right, hrmm?
No - no, no one deserves -
Yes, they do! Yes, they do, for being weak, for being just walking mindless corpses, powerlessly, no control, they deserve to be used, they deserve to be stripped of all their lies and shown for what they are, just flesh, just rotting flesh -
- like your basilisk, hrmm?
Just skin over bones. Just flesh.
It should have killed him! It should have won, it was a trick, that phoenix - it was Dumbledore, the interfering old fool, it wasn't the boy, he was *nothing* - it was an error in judgement, thinking I was dealing with the boy alone - I'll know better now -
- but you won't, will you, because you're *dead*.
Of course I am. I'm not here at all. Just you, but you are me, and we . . we could be something great and powerful . .
Ginny leaned forward and knelt carefully, hissing at the sting of the damp stone against her upbraided knee. With one hand she reached out to touch the basilisk's half-collapsed snout. Its skin was cool and, beneath a fine film of mineral-water dew, papery and dry. Just the faintest brush of fingertips left a small indentation; a crinkle that said the whole thing was near to crumbling to dust.
It was MINE.
"I'm sorry," Ginny told the basilisk's vacantly staring skull, pulling her hand back to herself and cradling it against her chest, as if the feel of paper-fine flesh had burned. "This wasn't your fault, was it?"
It's never their fault, the ones you use. They're incapable of fault, they're incapable of *thought*, hateful, pathetic, rotting creatures - no reason not to use them any way you wish, because you can, because that's all there is -
No, there's Myrtle. Draco. Harry who didn't have to come down here after me, though I suppose he did it for Ron's sake . .
. . or maybe he did it because he's Harry Potter, and that's what Harry Potter does. Defeats the monster, saves the day. Maybe he did it because that's all he knows how to be . . and isn't that really the same thing . .
No, it's not. It's not. It can't be. I just - I just know it can't be.
Do you? Do you know anything?
You don't know who you are. You don't know who's whispering in your head, you silly little girl. What do you know about *anything*?
I know about you. I know all about you.
If it was *yours*, you should have protected it. You should have kept it safe.
"No one asked you, did they?" Ginny inquired of the bones. "I don't suppose, when you were just a little basilisk, just hatched, that Slytherin came along and said, 'well, little basilisk, how would you like to go live in a nasty dank pit away from any of your kind and eat nothing but rats and whatever other creatures are stupid enough to wander in from the dark forest, and stay there for centuries and centuries with no company at all, except for the occasional psychotic who'll let you out to kill people?' And you said, 'oh yes, that sounds like a great time.' I don't suppose that's how it happened."
"No, I suppose he probably captured you," Ginny guessed, tilting her head at it. "And locked you up here, and then he went away. I don't suppose you had much choice in it at all."
What drivel - what sentimental, pathetic drivel - it was a tool, a magnificent tool, but just a thing to be used. The embodiment of Salazar Slytherin's power, of his will -
- no, but it wasn't. It spoke. It thought. It had a bloody goddamned will of its own and it's not bloody fair at all that it has to lie here and rot for no good reason other than that someone used it and broke it like a toy!
Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever - well no it bloody well will not! I will not be your tool, your *thing* - not yours -
Something moved, and Ginny froze, mind suddenly emptying of all rational thought. All along the twisted remains of the basilisk, something was moving.
Her heart leapt into her throat, and in the sudden rush of adrenaline there was no second voice in her head, no disparity of thought or memory. Poised and ready to fight of flee, there was a momentary clarity that was neither Tom nor Ginny, but just the determination to survive.
It was a shadow, slowly creeping forward; just the shadow of the skeleton, sliding along the ground as shadows do at dusk, fleeing from the slowly sinking brightness of the sun.
But . . we're underground, the light hasn't changed . .
But it had, she realized half a second later; it had grown brighter in the last few moments. The light seemed warmer, too, not the diffuse underwater glow that had illuminated the chamber in her every memory of it, but something more like the amber light of candles. She looked up, seeking the source of this new brightness.
That soft, welcoming glow was coming from the statue of Slytherin. It filtered dimly down from eyes that, when lit from behind, showed themselves to be carved of some pale translucent stone, different from the rest of the face. Brighter light spilled forth from the ancient Founder's open, astonished-looking mouth. Ginny blinked, her eyes slow to adjust; Salazar's statue looked like some ancient mythical god, spewing the sun forth from his mouth. She crept tentatively forward, along the edge of the skeletal basilisk's shadow.
The distinct feeling of being watched made her cask quick, darting glances over her shoulder as she went; only the stone serpents looked back. Remembering the snakes in the tunnel, the way they'd flicked tongues at her boots, the way they'd rubbed their heads against her hands, she couldn't be entirely sure they *weren't* watching. Waiting. Waiting to wake up . . it's been so long . .
She shook her head free of the thought alien to both selves, and peered up into brightly lit, cavernous space of Salazar Slytherin's mouth. She knew it went somewhere, because the basilisk had come from it, but neither she nor Tom had ever known where.
This had never happened for him.
Mine - the Chamber is MINE - it knew me, the serpent knew me -
But the serpent is rotting bones now, isn't it? Isn't that what you would say?
Feeling a little odd about grabbing the statue's lip, half expecting it to flinch and protest, Ginny hoisted herself into up onto the ledge from whence the light came. The stone was faintly warm.
Wall sconces in the shape of snakes lined the walls, every few feet; the candles were burnt near to stubs, and here and there they were burnt down completely, too far to be lit. The snakes turned their heads to watch her, bobbing in greeting, careful not to spill the candles from the tops of their heads. She had the ridiculous idea that the ones with burnt-out candles looked faintly embarrassed.
"Hello," she blurted, feeling distinctly overwhelmed. Her voice came out hissing.
We've been waiting .. we've been waiting so long .. hissed a whisper that was neither entirely in her head, nor entirely out.
The passage widened and darkened as it went further back, sloping downward into another tunnel that disappeared into the dark earth; she could see a faint mineral-stained trail that must have been left by the basilisk as it returned from its forays into the plumbing. But reaching out over that tunnel was a set of suspended stairs, of the same softly gleaming polished stone as Slytherin's eyes. A second tunnel curved upward, into the giant stone skull of the Founder, and the lights followed that passage up.
Tom, somewhere at the back of her mind, was dumbstruck.
It doesn't look like the home of a monster. It doesn't look like the home of a monster at all.
***
"Weasley?" Draco inquired in a surreptitious hiss, sticking his head into the 3rd floor girls' bathroom quickly, before pulling back to glance up and down the hall again. It was the middle of 2nd period - History of Magic had seemed the easiest prospect for cutting without his absence being noticed. I don't think Binns would notice if his own nose went missing, much less one of his students. There was no particular reason for anyone to be in the hallway,
Except to catch you, sneaking into a girls' loo. Except just because it would fuck up your afternoon, and that seems like it's plenty reason lately.
"Weasel-girl, are you in there?" he called, a little more loudly, and then inhaled a cloud of dust. It tickled the back of his throat. Holding his breath and turning purple with the effort, he stumbled hastily into the bathroom before exploding into a fit of coughing.
Dust motes shimmered in the air, swirling with his movement. He remembered the bathroom being rather grimy and dilapidated, but he didn't remember there being this much dust. But then, you were probably distracted by the Weasel-girl bleeding all over the place and, oh yes, channeling Voldemort. Mustn't forget that part.
Draco crept hesitantly further into the room, out of immediate view of the doorway. His boots slipped a little on something damp and slimy, causing him to stumble, and then to start coughing again. When he could breathe again, he glanced down to see what had tripped him, grimacing in disgust at all the possible things that could be wet and slippery in a bathroom.
All he saw was a thick track of wet mineral residue on the floor. It lead off towards the sinks in glistening lines, as if something old and decaying and metal had been dragged along the floor.
"This place is disgusting," Draco announced, to no one in particular. He jumped and almost fell again when a derisive female voice snapped back, "Well no one *made* you come in here, now did they?"
Draco turned around to find the ghost - Mildred or Millicent or something like that - Myrtle? I think it's Myrtle. Not that I care - glowering down at him, arms folded across her chest. She might have looked more intimidating if her pet rat hadn't been sitting atop her head, busily making a nest of her hair.
"No - unlike some people, I can come and go as I please," Draco retorted, sneering. Myrtle gave an affronted gasp, wide round eyes tearing up behind her thick glasses.
"Well why don't you just get out, then!" she shrieked indignantly, before giving a loud, hiccoughing sob and zooming off towards one of the stalls. The rat fell off of her head with a startled squeak, hanging in mid-air for a moment and giving Draco a look that seemed to say now see what you've done? There was a loud splash, the clank of abused porcelain, and Draco had to back hurriedly away around the sinks to avoid his boots being soaked in the sudden flood.
The rat paddled off after its mistress, moving through the air as if it were swimming; loud, pitiful wailing could be heard echoing up from the pipes.
Weasel-girl is not going to be happy with me for this, Draco realized, shaking a few drops of water from the tip of one boot and scowling in utter revulsion.
"I'm looking for Wease - I mean Ginny," Draco shouted after the ghost. She just sobbed more loudly. "Has she been here?" No response.
Stupid bloody ghosts. Stupid bloody *girls*. Why the hell am I bothering with this, anyway?
Because she was upset at breakfast and Delacroix spilled juice on her, the stupid little bitch.
And how the hell is that my problem?
Because I don't like seeing her bleed.
She's covered in pumpkin juice, not bleeding, you stupid git. She's fine. She's probably just in the bath washing off - his mind immediately flooded with images of Ginny Weasley, bathing. Bet she's got freckles just everywhere -
But it's not like you're ever going to know, you stupid wanking git, because this is Ginny Weasley you're thinking about. The crazy Weasel-girl. The little good-girl Gryffindor with the tomato soup hair and the six sodding brothers, at least two of which are Beaters, who will thrash the living shit out of you if you ever even think of finding out where all their sister has freckles.
Of course, maybe I could thrash the living shit out of them. I'm the crazy bastard who damned near killed Harry Potter, right?
Oh, yes, brilliant plan. Why not just kill off the lot of them, while you're at it. Then you could just kidnap her and rape her, too, and then you could just turn into your bloody fucking father. That's how he'd think, isn't it? You want her, so take her, use her, throw her away when you're done.
Like my mother. He was going to fetch her. Like a cloak, like a pair of gloves -
The ghost was still sobbing and moaning.
"Look, just tell me if she's been here or not!" Draco shouted at the ghost, kicking disconsolately at the base of a sink. It echoed hollowly. Maybe it's better if I don't find her. I feel like breaking things again. Feel like making things bleed - don't want to see her blood, don't like her bleeding - don't know why I fucking care, don't know why I hate everything so fucking much, I hate you Father, I hate you so fucking much.
You're going to bleed for what you did to her. To Weasel girl with her tomato soup hair and her freckled lips and I don't want her . . I don't want her like that. Not to take. Not to use.
I just .. I just want her.
I want my mother to be alive. I want Pansy to be alive, and Weasel-girl to be sane, and I want .. I want to be able to fucking do something for once . .
He kicked the sink hard enough to dislodge the drop of water that had been hanging from the faucet. A tiny piece of varnish cracked and fell away, clinking on the tile.
"Stop *breaking* my *things*," Myrtle scolded, and Draco looked up to see her glowering over the top of her stall.
He kicked the base of the sink again, glaring at her. She made a near-apoplectic little choking sound.
"Why don't you go cry over it some more?" Draco sneered.
"You are the most horrible boy I have ever met!" Myrtle pronounced tearfully, though she sounded closer to furious than hurt.
"I'm wounded," Draco snapped back drily. "Now could you just bloody tell me if Weasel-girl was here and stop wasting my bloody time?"
"I'm going to tell her you called her that," Myrtle said through her tears, sounding nastily triumphant.
"She knows I call her that," Draco retorted, beginning to feel as though he'd spent the last several minutes banging his head against a wall. "I call her that to her face, all the bloody time. She doesn't care."
"Oh," Myrtle sounded disappointed, and didn't bother to hide it. "Well, then I'm going to tell her that you were kicking my sink."
"Good!" said Draco, and kicked the sink again. Another piece of paint fell off and hit the tile with an entirely inappropriate, almost musical-sounding plink.
"She's going to hate you," Myrtle taunted. "She's going to think you're the meanest, most awful boy that ever lived!"
"*Everyone* thinks I'm the meanest, most awful boy that ever lived!" Draco exclaimed. "At least I don't hide in a toilet and cry about it!"
"So then why don't you stop hiding in *my* toilet and get out!" Myrtle shot back.
"Because I need to find Weasel-girl because some stupid bint threw pumpkin juice at her and she was upset!" Draco shouted.
"Oh," Myrtle paused, considering this. "Is she okay?" the ghost asked a moment later.
"Well how should I know," Draco asked, throwing up his hands, "considering I can't bloody find her!"
"Oh," Myrtle said again, floating over towards the sinks, her tears vanishing with suspicious speed. "Well, I've been down to the lake all morning, so I wouldn't know if she's been here. I hope I didn't miss her, if she was upset . . " the ghost let it trail off, perching on the edge of the much-abused sink and chewing on a strand of her hair.
"Well, she seemed mostly okay," Draco said with a shrug. And why in the bloody hell am I reassuring a ghost? A pathetic sobbing ghost who lives in a disgusting run-down old bathroom, and this is wasting my time -
"Who threw the juice at her?" Myrtle asked, a speculative note to her rather nasal, grating voice.
"Delacroix," Draco answered. "Claudette Delacroix. Don't suppose you'd know her."
"I don't think she's been in here," Myrtle mused. I think she'd bloody well rather die than come in here, Draco thought, but didn't say it. "What's she look like?"
"Skinny, bug-eyed, curly blonde hair, decent enough tits - oh, guess you didn't care about that last," Draco smirked as Myrtle glared.
"Well," Myrtle dragged the word out, clearly thinking as she spoke, "I can move things *sometimes*, you know. I can make the toilet splash."
"Good for you," Draco said tonelessly.
"So I think if I concentrated *very* hard, I could probably get some water weeds from the lake," Myrtle pondered aloud. "And put them in one of the taps, when she's using the bath, if I could recognize her." She turned and gave Draco a very nasty, conspiratorial little look; he tried not to show his surprise. And where did the pathetic whimpering little girl of five minutes ago get *that* look from? "It smells absolutely *dreadful* when it's rotted," Myrtle confided.
"Does it now?" Draco asked, finding himself grinning back, and wondering silently if he'd gone officially out of his mind. I'm concocting pranks with a Hufflepuff ghost. Somebody kill me now.
"Absolutely dreadful," Myrtle nodded enthusiastically.
***
A pot of ink, dried to crackling flakes of black at the bottom of the little stone jug, still sat on the bedside table. The quill that lay next to it disintegrated into dust when Ginny touched it, leaving just the ink-stained stub of the shaft intact. Beside that lay a book; unmarked, bound in black leather, still smooth beneath Ginny's shaking fingers.
He preserved this; the charms must have been very good, very strong, to have lasted so long. So many centuries . .
She snatched her hand back to herself, sitting down hard on the narrow bed. The deep green velvet coverlet crinkled and cracked audibly as she sat; it was so plush and thick she felt in danger of drowning in it. Or maybe I just feel in danger of drowning. A black-bound book. A diary, preserved over years and years .. oh Merlin, it looks *just* like it . .
. . it was perfect and I didn't even know it. Just what Slytherin himself would have chosen, the instrument I chose to preserve my will, his will -
- but then why . . . why didn't I find this before?
Why didn't the Chamber show this to *me* - no, not me! You are not - not me - I am not you - I am not -
- it looks *just* like it.
The entire far wall was nothing but bookshelves, lined with tome upon dusty tome. The leather was cracked on all of them; in one corner it appeared that a family of mice had moved in and built a nest. There was a strong smell of mildew to the entire place, and Ginny knew that it would have all been decayed beyond recognition if it hadn't been protected by stronger wards than any she knew. After a thousand years the rooms still looked lived-in. A pair of boots, embroidered and clearly once fine, sat in a corner. A chest sat open, looking thoroughly rummaged-through, full of medieval garments she couldn't begin to identify. There were books stacked on the bed itself, next to the sagging pillow. One of those books was still open, the ink on the pages faded almost into illegibility. The pillow still held the impression of a weary head.
But nothing was preserved so thoroughly, so carefully, as that one book.
I wonder why he left it, if it was so important.
For his heir to find, I suppose.
I should have found it - I am the Heir, I am Slytherin's blood, you are nothing, nothing at all without me, you were just *convenient* -
- but not so convenient after all, was I?
I don't know why I'm here. I don't know why the Chamber should - why it should -
- why it should know me.
She reached again for the book; a serpentine wall-sconce was watching her closely. She traced her fingers over the fine texture of the leather, trembling. It felt warm, almost alive - but then, the whole room did.
This should have been mine. The Chamber is *mine*, Slytherin's blood flowed in *my* veins, this is -
- mine.
Ginny bit her lip, feeling nauseas with the sudden certainty in her gut.
Mine. This is mine.
No, no, no . . not again, not again . . please -
- it's not yours, it can't be, it belongs to *me* -
- but you don't exist, do you? You're not real at all. There's only me, here in my head . . she suddenly realized she was sitting inside the giant carved stone head of Salazar Slytherin, and felt a bubble of hysterical laughter escape her.
I am you . . you are me . .
.. then it's ours, isn't it?
No! No, don't think like that, stop it, not *ours*, there is no *us*, he's not *real* -
- but this is real. This is *mine*.
And why would it be, if not because of me?
She picked up the book; the wood of the table under it was darker, more highly polished than the rest. It was heavy, and the weight of it felt oddly right in her hands.
Don't do this. Leave. Run. Get out of here, don't do this -
- can't leave it, can't just leave it here to rot and die and fade, can't, it's mine - it's mine, and I should protect it - we should have protected it -
- protected what? Protected who?
I don't know who's in my head . .
Ginny set the diary ever so carefully down on her knees, and opened the cover.
***
"Don't you have a class you should be teaching?"
Willow jumped at the deep, silken voice at her shoulder, yelping and nearly dropping her book. She turned to glare at Severus.
"And when did you figure out how to be all quiet-like?" she snipped. In a far, secluded corner of the Restricted Section, she was reasonably sure no students were going to overhear her addressing a fellow faculty member with a distinct lack of proper respect.
"Oh, I'm quite accomplished at skulking about," he returned. "Just ask your students. You haven't misplaced them, have you?"
"No," she retorted sharply. "They're here. Researching. I gave them symptoms and they have to figure out the curse that would cause them and then find the counter-curse and then they have to locate the ingredients and stuff in the castle and - so if you're capable of quietness, what's with slamming my door all the time?"
"Ingredients?" Severus gave her a wary look, folding his arms and leaning back against the library shelves. "I hope you're not expecting me to permit your students to raid my storeroom."
"They don't *actually* need the ingredients," Willow rolled her eyes. "They just need to write down where to find them. It's not like they have to really make the antidote, I didn't curse anybody for real."
"Pity," Severus quipped dryly. "If you ever consider it, would you permit me to suggest -"
"No, I would not," she snapped, crossing her own arms and glaring, though feeling inwardly pleased. I didn't think I'd get to see him again until dinner.
And gee, you might die of that, not seeing him for a whole eight hours. Will you get a freakin' grip?
"And what is this curse they are researching so *diligently*," he inquired with obvious sarcasm.
"I don't think there's an official name for it, 'cause I think it got invented by a bunch of frat boys, but Buffy got hit with it in - what do you mean, 'so diligently', like that? They're researching!" Willow insisted.
"If you say so," he smirked.
"What?" she demanded. "Who'd you catch doing what?"
"I'm afraid I discovered Miss Johnson and Mr. Weasley - one of the older set - in a rather compromising position, over in the herbology section," Severus related with obvious relish.
"Well maybe they were researching . . something .. you are such an ass!" Willow slapped at his arm at his suggestively quirked eyebrow. He caught her hand. "Okay, fine," she glared, as he turned her hand around so that the palm was up. "You can just let go of me and I'll go be all teacherly and discipline them and stuff."
"I've already sent them scurrying off, minus quite a few house points," Severus murmured, studying her palm. "I'm quite curious to know what you think they may have been researching." Willow felt her heart thumping up into her throat. He's *not* coming on to me in the library. No way. Not Mr. Rules and Regulations.
He began tracing idle lines on her palm, with his other hand.
"Well . .herbology stuff," Willow insisted, feeling all the blood rush right out of her head and toward other, more interesting parts of her body. Maybe he couldn't wait eight hours to see me again either. Maybe he felt like . . oh man, like my knees are just gonna fall right out from under me and I'm gonna fall right on my butt in the middle of the library . .
This is not how a responsible adult-type person who should be supervising her students' research should be acting!
Or him either!
Not that I'm planning on stopping him or anything . .
"Herbology," Severus repeated doubtfully, drawing a nail lightly up and down her wrist.
"They were in the herbology section," Willow responded, well aware she was making no sense whatsoever.
"They were," he agreed, and pulled her hand up to his lips. His tongue drew a tiny, hot circle in the center of her palm.
"And what - what were you doing there?" Willow asked, vaguely bewildered at the breathless hitch to her own voice. This is just hands. Totally appropriate-for-public stuff, and I'm about to melt into a puddle.
"I was looking for Mr. Not-Malfoy," Snape responded a little sharply, grimacing and giving her an annoyed look that said he didn't appreciate the change of subject. It must not have upset him too greatly, though, because he proceeded to kiss the pad of her thumb, and then her first finger. "Apparently, he was absent from his History of Magic class."
"I guess you didn't find him," Willow surmised, as he kissed the tip of her middle finger.
"No," Severus agreed, sighing. "Nor am I likely to find the little miscreant until he wants to be found. I thought I might find some peace and quiet here before -" he scowled and grimaced as though he'd bitten something sour "-my fourth period."
"Hufflepuff/Gryffindor?" Willow guessed, wondering if there was something very wrong with her, because the mundane conversation was only increasing her arousal. She put the book she'd been clutching in her free hand carefully back on the shelf, afraid of dropping it.
"First years," Severus said, in a tone that was somewhere between a sigh and a growl. His teeth lightly grazed her littlest finger.
"Poor you," Willow commiserated. "And instead of peace and quiet, you found me."
"So I did," he agreed, looking up, having run out of hand.
"Is that okay?" she asked, shifting closer. We're in the Restricted Section. Way in the back. Lots of tall bookshelves. No one comes back here . . the odds of anyone seeing would be like, one in three bazillion . .
"Tolerable," he said with a smirk that made her insides quiver and jump, and tugged her against him. He released her hand, and she wound her arms around his neck as their lips met.
Willow may have heard shuffling feet, or rustling robes, but she was so caught up in the kiss that she didn't really care. His tongue was doing wonderful things and one of his large, callused hands had found its way to the small of her back and was clenching, digging short nails ever so slightly into her back, pressing her hard against him. There was still something down in the pit of her gut that wasn't sure she should be doing this, but it was definitely smaller than it had been. Much larger was the melting, trembling feeling of rightness; she wanted to crawl inside his warmth, to pull him right through her skin, to just curl together into one being. She could feel -
- someone bumping into her back.
Someone who definitely wasn't her gave a horrified little shriek.
She echoed it, shoving Severus away so hastily she almost tripped herself on her own robes. Willow spun around to find herself faced with a completely mortified Angelina Johnson. Angelina was wearing a shade of dark plum lipstick that Willow thought might have been flattering had it been on her lips; at the moment it was smeared in a vivid streak across the girl's cheek.
A good portion of it also seemed to be adorning Fred Weasley's open-hanging, utterly dumbstruck mouth.
"OhmygodIamsosorry!" Angelina exclaimed in a rush. Fred just stood there. Willow thought she probably could have pushed him right over with one finger.
"FIFTY POINTS FROM GRYFFINDOR!" Severus bellowed, sputtering. Fred swallowed and paled visibly, and finally closed his mouth. Angelina just watched Willow with wide, pleading eyes. "AND DETENTION!" Severus ranted on. "FOR A MONTH! WITH FILCH! AND -"
Willow started giggling; Angelina hiccoughed and snorted, and then slapped a horrified hand over her mouth. Fred turned to look at his girlfriend like she'd lost her mind.
" - SUSPENSION FROM ALL EXTRA-CURRICULAR ACTIVITIES FOR -"
"We'll all discuss this l-later," Willow interrupted, trying hard not to laugh outright. The way Angelina was now stuffing her fist in her mouth in a similar effort was really not helping. "You will both serve your first detention with me, tomorrow night, and we'll .. discuss this," Willow finished, grabbing Severus' arm and dragging him away.
"We will not discuss this!" he objected furiously, stalking after her and letting himself be led along to another secluded - hopefully *more* secluded - corner. Behind them, she heard a virtual explosion of laughter.
***
There were words on the page.
Ginny thought she might collapse with utter relief; as it was, she heard herself giggling senselessly.
I don't giggle; my brothers would never let me hear the end of it if I giggled.
It's not like the other diary. It's not. It's just a plain old ordinary diary like anyone might keep. Just words, and - she turned the page, and a pen-and-ink sketch of a woman turned to look at her.
It didn't speak, but it smiled. Ginny had never seen a sketch that could move like a painting could, but this one seemed quite mobile, for all her incompleteness. Lines of ink shifted as they were needed, and she seemed almost to be standing up out of the page as if it were murky water. The sketch blinked and tilted its head to the side, considering Ginny as Ginny considered her. She looked young, perhaps as few years older than Ginny herself, and very beautiful.
For a moment Ginny was so enraptured with the thoughtful-looking young woman that she just stared; then it occurred to her to wonder who Salazar Slytherin might be sketching.
The words on the page were no help, because on closer inspection she discovered she couldn't read them. Here and there a syllable seemed familiar, but put all together, it might as well have been nonsense.
Of course, it was written a thousand years ago. It's not going to be modern English.
I can't read Old English. She felt a stab of nearly physical disappointment.
I suppose I could cast a translating charm, but . . I've never been very good at charms.
I can't risk ruining it . . this is precious . . the writing of one of the Founders ..
. . of Salazar Slytherin himself, his own words ..
. . I can't possibly take the risk.
But . . then I'll never be able to read it . .
I could take it to someone . . Dumbledore, it should go to Dumbledore, it should belong to the school -
Almost without knowing what she was doing, she was clutching the diary tighter.
It's MINE. My legacy, my right -
- my right for everything that happened for no reason at all - my recompense for everything -
It's just a diary. Just an ordinary diary. It can't be all that.
But it's mine.
I should just . . just leave it here. Where I found it. I should just leave this all be, and go.
Ginny pushed herself off the faintly musty-smelling bed, causing a cloud of dust to rise from the plush duvet. She meant to put the diary back down on the small table, with its dried ink and the dusty residue that had been the quill, but she couldn't quite let it go. When she'd crept back out past the remains of the basilisk, looking behind her to see the candle-glow dying as she moved farther away, back to the tunnel and the patiently waiting ladder of snakes, the diary was hidden in an inside pocket of her robe. It had fit perfectly, and she couldn't even feel its weight.
***
TBC . .