Ginny Weasley is 11 years old when she realizes she's on the path to death. It was not a sudden realization, it was not akin to a lightbulb going off in her head. It was like a viscous acid that ate and chewed at the shield surrounding the concept of her own mortality, cleaving away bronze and steel to reveal the dreaded truth.
She's going to die. And if she's being honest, it's her fault.
She should've never brought her quill to the parchment of Tom Riddle's diary. She should've listened to her father's advice throughout her childhood, taken heed to never interact with something she couldn't see the brain of. But she hadn't, she'd shrugged it off and gone back to obsessing over Hogwarts and magic and Harry Potter. She should have listened.
But it's all "should've" now. She lays upon a slimy cold floor in the depth of Hogwarts Castle, mind numb in a vegetative state. She can't see, it's like she has gone fully blind. She can feel her eyes forced open, unable to blink. She can feel the humidity of The Chamber press into her tear ducts, stony dust floating down to settle against her eyes. Ginny desperately wants to blink, to displace all this and free her eyes from the pain. But she can't. No tears even well up to sweep away the debris. She can't move at all.
She lays on the Chamber floor for what seems like an eternity. Disturbingly, the only thing that seems to change about her situation is that she grows more and more numb as time passes. The cold and wet from the floor seeps into her frame, pulsing and slithering around her bones and muscles, like serpents constricting around her, dragging her deeper into the floor, beckoning to her voicelessly.
'Come to death Ginny, come down to us.'
She doesn't want to. She wants to fight and scream and use her supposed Gryffindor bravery to cast off the serpents and run to her freedom. She does none of that, she can't after all. All she can do is think and wait and sink. Sink into the floor. Let them claim her.
The stones of the floor have almost claimed her entirely now, her body all pulled underneath except for parts of her head. It is a horrific simile to a child left to play in a bathtub, her ears are beneath the ground like the child's beneath the water, the stone comes up to her temples and laps at her brows. Soon it will spill into her eyes, flooding into her mouth.
But then, something changes. She can barely hear, her ears buried, only seeming to communicate a long, stretched out groan, like the earth beneath her is opening its jaws, ready to swallow her.
There's a tickle of vibrations upon her face, like someone was desperately shouting at her. She is divorced from sensation, but gets a vague impression of someone cupping her face, cupping what remains above the stone. She wants to rise into that, to reach out and grasp that ghostly touch, she yearns to return. Instead, she just sinks deeper into the stone. It crests over her brow and spills down onto her open eyes, pressure seeming to stab straight into her brain, solid stone turned bubbling liquid.
She zones out, waiting for the inevitable to come. There is no use in crying now, there is no use in delaying the inevitable. Ginny Weasley is going to die.
A massive thud and a shrieking roar pierces her being, seeming so close to her and yet increasingly far. It's like she is using a pair of omniculars to understand the information her body is sending her. She shrugs it off. It doesn't matter now.
But suddenly everything is changing. It's almost like a massive, godly hand seems to descend down and grip her tightly, lifting her out of the stone. The hand fumbles, and she wants to gasp, mind overwhelmed by start and suddenly omnipresent sensation. The hands grasp at her form, one around her shoulders, one around her legs. The touch burns, frying her skin like a sunny day on the beach, intensified by a factor of ten. Ginny wants to scream, but even as she roasts she cannot breathe.
The hand around her shoulders let go, granting momentary relief, but she can sense it come back, just above her instead. She becomes aware of a massive, sharp presence above her. It is a wretched fang, ivory white and dripping. A droplet falls from it and lands on her chest, and it is like someone has poured molten steel on top of her.
The wretched fang comes down and impales itself into her. She feels like time has slowed down even more. The tip first pushes against her ribcage with more and more pressure. Ribs crack, her blood escapes her body in massive bursts. The fang continues out, severing tissue and tendons and bone. The tip seeks her heart, and in a mighty thrust stabs straight through it. There's an awful moment where Ginny hears nothing. It's the quietest moment of her life.
But then her heart, beating and impaled, follows the fang as it sinks deeper. The fang cleaves apart her back and her spine and begins to drill into the floor, her heart sinks out of her body with it, still throbbing, alive and thundering, but undoubtedly separate from her. She wants it back. She wants it back now.
The fang doesn't care what she wants. It buries her heart deep into the earth, and then halts for an aching moment. In a great terrifying lurch, time speeds up and the fang jumps from her body in a horrifying jolt. It doesn't bring her heart back. Her chest is empty.
She tumbles through the air for a moment before she slams back into the cold, slimy ground. There is an aching period where she is dazed, but then it seems that every sensation flows back into her. She can feel her clothes, she can feel the light draft of air in The Chamber, she can feel each slab of the stone beneath her, each sodden strand of bright ginger hair clinging to her face. She has a moment to process all of it before she is lurching, gasping forward. Her lungs finally are rewarded with air, and she blinks debris and dust out of her eyes, flooding with tears. Her blindness fades away and she is granted a view of her surroundings, which are disheveled with stone dust. Several pillars in the Chamber have crumbled away. The massive stature to her right has been half-destroyed.
All throughout her appraisal, she realizes something is wrong. Her heart. Where is her heart? The great, wretched fang had took it, but surely that was just a dream, right?
Her arms leap to her ribs and she desperately feels around her side for that familiar sensation of thud thud, thud thud. The more she presses into her chest, the more desperate she gets.
"No!" she sobs, "Where is it!?"
She strains herself and throws her weakened body to her side, rolling until she is face-down against the ground. She raises herself up from the ground, huffing in exertion as her atrophied muscles protest and her bones groan.
"Please!" she yells at the ground. "Give it back to me!"
Ginny begins desperately clawing at the stones, like she can dig through them to get back what the fang stole. Her fingernails come down heavily on the slabs, nerves screaming in protest as her skin is scratched off, opening small wounds in her finger tips.
She's distantly aware of someone desperately calling her name, of loud footsteps clattering towards her, but she can't spare her attention, she needs her heart back now, it has to come back to her now.
Something slams into her shoulder and she falls on her side, moaning in pain as her body clashes against the floor. Whatever slammed into her grabs hold of her shoulders and shakes her incessantly.
"Ginny? Ginny, oh my god." Harry Potter is slouched over her crumbled form, eyes worried. She forces herself to look at him, even though she desperately wants to search for her heart again.
"H-harry?" she croaks out. What is Harry Potter doing down in The Chamber of Secrets?
"Oh no, Harry," she begs, "You've got to leave now, T-Tom wants you here. You have to go. Harry, g-go!" She lifts her hand up to push him away, desperately wanting him to flee. Instead, her hand, skin torn open and rough, nails chipped and broke away from their beds, simply thuds into him. It leaves a disturbing trail of crimson blood across his collarbone.
Ginny's exhaustion finally catches up with her, and Harry's lips move soundlessly, his response lost to her as she sways and eventually drops down to the ground again, the ceiling of The Chamber spinning above her as she succumbs to unconsciousness.
Ginny awakens in the Hospital Wing. She's never been here before, but she can tell she's still in Hogwarts from the brickwork. It's late at night, and dark indigo light spills in from the tall windows that line both of the walls, casting deep shadows and playing against the vaulted ceiling.
She simply stills in the bed, and gazes unblinkingly at the ceiling. Shouldn't she be thinking about something right now? Shouldn't she go and grab someone and confess to what she's done? All the people she harmed?
She lifts her head and glances down. Her hands are above the blanket and covered in thick bandages, so thick that she can't even move her fingers. Her breath hitches as she's hit with the reminder of being paralyzed, sinking down into the stone of The Chamber. Being buried alive.
She doesn't even realize she's hyperventilating until Madam Pomfrey is there, beside her bed. She can't breathe- the stone is pouring into her mouth again, suffocating her, flowing into her lungs. She can't feel her heartbeat even as she panics and desperately lurches forward, trying to escape, trying not to drown.
Pomfrey grips her shoulder tightly and brings a draught to her mouth. She resists drinking it at first, closing her mouth in protest. She needs to breathe, so doesn't want to drown- but Pomfrey is insistent, roughly opening her mouth and pouring some of the potion in.
The moment it hits her tongue, part of her panic drains away, and she's reminded just how thirsty she is. It's probably the most thirsty she's been in her life, she always had as much water as she pleased at The Burrow. She begins to drink the potion greedily, detecting hints of lavender and spice. It travels down her throat, assuaging her thirst, burning away her cold panic with a gentle warmth. She collapses back into her hospital bed. Madam Pomfrey tuts and asesses her with clinical eyes.
"Ms. Weasley, I need you to stay calm," she utters in a quiet voice, "Everything is fine. You don't have to worry. Everyone is safe."
Ginny doesn't quite believe her, but the warmth of the potion has spread from her chest to her arms and legs, and she can't really muster the energy to ask Madam Pomfrey anything. She sinks deeper into her exhaustion like the bed is the stone floor of The Chamber, but she can't really will herself to be panicked about it anymore. She sighs and closes her eyes, falling into a restful sleep.
Ginny stirs in the bed and cracks open her eyes. It is daytime now, gentle golden light streaming into the hospital wing and blasting shadows away with the bright noon. The Hospital Wing is empty, beds devoid of occupants as she glances around. She glances around in mild confusion, her head throbbing as she scoot into a sitting position.
She makes to get up out of the bed to find someone, but just as she's about to grab for the post and attempt to lift herself up, bandaged hands be damned, the door to what is assumedly Madam Pomfrey's office opens up.
Madam Pomfrey bustles out, several potions and medical apparatus trailing behind her in a Levitation Charm as she hurries over to Ginny's side.
"Stay in bed now, dear." She tuts, lifting Ginny's hand away from the bedpost. Ginny grimaces at the small throb of pain her bandaged fingers give, beginning to understand she might not be able to use her hands for much, right now. She almost questions why they're bandaged before she remembers, remembers that it's her doing, remembers the way her skin tore and fingernails broke as she desperately clawed at the floor, trying to recover what was taken from her. The way Harry Potter peered down at her, shocked and worried at her hysteria, gazing at her frightened, like she was a cornered animal.
"M-madam Pomfrey," Ginny croaks, throat dry. "Harry, he was down there in the Chamber with me, is he- is he-"
"Yes, dear." Pomfrey interrupts, anticipating her question. "Mr. Potter is fine, he left my infirmary spick and span after a quick check-up, day before yesterday." She pats at Ginny's shoulder, seeking to assuage her fears.
"Oh Merlin, what have I done?" Ginny mumbles, tears welling up in her eyes. She'd failed to stop Tom. She'd gotten so many people hurt. Even Harry's best friend Hermione, she can remember petrifying now. He'd hate her, loathe her forever now. What would Ron say when he found out it was her doing?
Ginny lets out a choked sob, completely lost on what to do. Madam Pomfrey simply tuts, turning to grab an unfamiliar potion smoking with fumes of peppermint oil, which in the golden light of noon she can see is coloured a deep, mysterious blue. Pomfrey brings it up to her face.
"Calming draught." She explains. Ginny gladly takes it, eyes scrunched up and reddened by her crying. The potion stings as she swallows, but settles down almost instantly, and she can feel her sadness almost shift aside, still there but not so quite overwhelming.
"Now then, sit tight, I am just going to perform some diagnostic charms on you." Pomfrey instructs. Ginny is in no position to argue and just nods, vaguely listening to Madam Pomfrey's muttered spells, the acute sound of her wand swishing through the air. Every now and then, a brightly coloured fairy mote drips from her wand and causes the mediwitch to 'hmm' and 'hah', like Ginny is some confusing specimen.
It doesn't reassure her, and she's still confused why someone hasn't come to arrest her yet. Hadn't she petrified five other students? Hadn't she gripped the necks of Hagrid's roosters and snapped them like twigs beneath her hands, holding on tight as their dying bodies twitched and tightened.
She wants to ask Pomfrey when they'll bring the Aurors in, but the question catches in her throat and she just can't speak it, like even acknowledging it would be an admission of guilt, the only evidence they'd need to cart her off to Azkaban. That's what they did to Hagrid, after all.
Ginny shivers. She can remember the way her Mum described the horrifying prison to her and Ron, a warning to never commit crime. Cold, icier than any Christmas at The Burrow. Home to terrifying wraiths: Dementors. She can see it in her mind, being sat in a small square cell for the rest of her life out on an island fortress in the middle of the North Sea.
Ginny doesn't want that. She doesn't want to feel cold anymore. So she swallows her question down, and tells herself to stay quiet.
Madam Pomfrey continues casting spells on her for a while, and then moves on to administering potions. She has Ginny swallow four of them, and by the last one, Ginny is really starting to get annoyed. But she says nothing and dutifully continues following the mediwitch's instructions.
"Done. Headmaster Dumbledore will be here to see you later, he wishes to speak with you." Pomfrey then bustles away, a look on her face like she's quite sour about Dumbledore wanting to speak with her.
And why does Dumbledore want to speak with her? Is he here to tell her off before the aurors arrive? Is he going to take her to Azkaban, like she's a mastermind criminal? She's just an eleven year-old girl.
An eleven year-old girl who got five people petrified, a person put in Azkaban, and nearly got one of the greatest Wizarding schools in the world to close down. Blimey, maybe they do need Dumbledore.
She huffs out a choked, ironic laugh that just ends up making her feel worse, and throws her head back into the pillow, counting the bricks that lead up to the ceiling as a way to pass the time.
Albus Dumbledore, the busy wizard he is, arrives in the Hospital Wing nearly an hour later. It's been long enough for Ginny to get bored several times over, then filled with anticipation and dread several times over, and then back to boredom again. It's annoying and dreadful and she both wants him to not arrive and for him to arrive faster.
Headmaster Dumbledore opens the door with a swish of his arms, walking in almost jauntily, beard tucked into his belt. He's clad in ridiculous robes as always, bright cheery yellow fabric with animate pink frogs sewed on top, which jump and visually ribbit with each swishing step he takes. Ginny wants to laugh, as she always does when Dumbledore choses to put on a particularly silly robe, but it gets caught in her throat as she's reminded of his purpose here.
He makes his way directly over to her bed, footsteps light and spry as if he is on a morning walk in the Forest and enjoying the simpler things in life. As he draws closer, she can actually hear a catchy pop-like tune being hummed by him, similar to ones her Dad would show to Ginny and her brothers as he had the entire family gather around the Muggle version of the Wireless that he'd gotten to work inside The Burrow.
"Ah, Ms. Weasley," he states from the end of her bed. "Do you mind if I take a seat?" Dumbledore asks, gesturing a hand in question.
There aren't any chairs around the hospital bed, but Ginny shrugs and shakes her head no, like she's allowed to determine where Albus Dumbledore sits. He beams at her and raises his sleeve, the tip of a wand poking out just enough. A cushioned, ritzy armchair comes into existence with a loud pop. Dumbledore falls into it with a grateful sigh, like as soon as he sits down all his age comes back to him. Ginny just watches, not saying anything.
"How are you, Ms. Weasley?" Dumbledore asks. She's thrown for a bit of a loop, the first words she'd have imagined would have come out his mouth were 'Why did you do it?' or 'The Aurors will be here in a moment.'
Ginny drags her gaze from him and his outrageous robes, and looks down at her bandaged hands, wishing she could move her fingers and fidget. Eventually she mumbles out an "I'm fine, Headmaster." vaguely in Dumbledore's direction. Her head springs up as Dumbledore claps his hands together, and she appraises him to find his gaze oddly jovial despite the circumstances.
Dumbledore leans forward, peering over top of his half-moon glasses, eyes shining. His silver brows are furrowed, and his entire countenance seems to say he's about to tell her a secret.
"Did you know, Ms. Weasley, that in all my eleventy-two years, I have never encountered someone who was okay and happy when they said 'I'm fine'?" He peers at her like he's just conferred one of the great secrets of the universe, and she can't help but quirk her lips a bit in amusement, even as her cheeks warm slightly, chided.
"Now," he leans back in his armchair, bringing a thin and weathered hand up to his beard, smoothing it down as he looks at her. "How are you, Ms. Weasley?"
She sighs and searches her feelings, trying to sift out the dominant one above the rest. She's scared. She's also sad. She's angry at herself. But mostly, she's confused. She turns to Dumbledore, not looking him in the eye, instead concentrating on a specifically fat pink frog that leaps slow circles around his raised wrist.
"I'm… confused, sir." Ginny admits.
He beams at that, like a teacher delighted at a student admitting their limits of knowledge.
"Confused on what, if I may ask?"
It all seems to come out of her in a rush. "What happened? Down in the Chamber? Is everyone okay? Why aren't there Aurors here to take me away? Shouldn't I be in Azkaban? Aren't I-"
Dumbledore interrupts, holding up a wrinkled hand clad with rings of bright metal, a pillar of calm despite her wave of questions. He scoots his armchair closer to her bed.
"Ms. Weasley, I assure you, there is no reason for an eleven year old girl to be sent to Azkaban Prison. I would certainly never let such an injustice happen under my watch." he says gently. Before she can butt in, he continues.
"Additionally, I would question why you would think you deserve to be in Azkaban Prison, in the first place." Dumbledore looks at her like she's the confusing one, and it blows her top off.
"But I-I petrified those students!" Ginny insists. "And I opened the Chamber, and- and, the chickens, and-"
Dumbledore snaps his fingers, as if he's suddenly remembered an important task to be done, releasing a soft "Ah". He reaches into his robes.
Pulling his arm away, it comes free with a black leather diary. Ginny leaps to knock it out of his hands, he can't, him of all people can't be deceived by Tom Riddle. But just as she's nearly over the edge of the bed and reaching for it, she notices something has changed about the Diary. Mainly, it has a massive, gaping hole in it.
But it doesn't stir up feelings of happiness, or relief, or upset. Instead, her mind flashes back to when she had been lifted out of the stone, how the wretched fang hovered menacingly above her, acid dripping onto her chest. How it came down agonizingly slow and pierced her ribcage.
She knows with utter certainty that the hole in the diary is exactly similar to the one the fang made in her own chest, when it stole her heart and buried it in the depths of the earth. It's a startling connection and seems to physically rattle her. She draws back, as if the sight of the hole in the Diary burns her, tentatively sitting back on the bed.
"Yes, regretfully, you are no doubt familiar with this book." He frowns. "The Diary of one Tom Marvolo Riddle. Mysteriously present among your possessions at the start of your year." Dumbledore's face seems to age, wrinkles becoming more pronounced as he deepens in thought.
He glances up, reminded of her presence, and seems to take note of her staring at the book.
"I assure you, Ms. Weasley. Every bit of Tom Riddle was purged from this book by young Mr. Potter three days ago, down in The Chamber of Secrets." He strokes his beard, thoughtfully looking down at the book, before holding it out to her. "See for yourself, if you please."
Ginny balks, overwhelmed by the flood of information. Tom was gone? Just like that? And- that's what Harry Potter did down in the Chamber?
She's also surprised by the fact that Dumbledore would so willingly let her hold what must be a dangerous artifact. She hesitantly reaches out her bandaged hand, fumbling a bit, and accepts the outstretched Diary.
The parts of her hands free of bandages meet familiar black leather, and as she brings the book closer to appraise it, familiar hints of parchment and ink meet her senses. There's something different about how the book feels though. She can't place it, but in the past, it always felt full of potential, she could flip it open and talk to Tom about her day and there was always depth to it.
Now it just seems empty. A destroyed schoolboy Diary, absent of anything but leather, paper, ink, and glue.
"Ms. Weasley." Dumbledore speaks up. She looks back to him, and he is gazing very intently at her.
"What happened this year at Hogwarts was not your fault." Ginny moves to interrupt, because that's just wrong, all of this was due to her- but Dumbledore raises a single finger.
"Indeed, if anyone is to blame for the events of this year, you are looking right at him." Dumbledore turns his raised finger towards himself. "Me." he says simply.
For the third or fourth time since the conversation began, Dumbledore has thrown Ginny for a loop.
"But sir, you aren't to blame!" she protests. "I did it! I wrote to Tom Riddle, I let him in, and I couldn't fight him when the time came!" She lowers her gaze. "I just… gave up."
Her mind flashes back to her fresh and blinding memory of laying still, sinking into the Chamber floor, resigned to her death. She thinks of all the times she gave up on fighting for control, all the times she could've gone for help but was scared of Tom. Scared of what he'd do to her. What he had already done.
"Ms. Weasley, the fact is," he pauses, "It was not your fight to begin with. I am the Headmaster of this school. I am entrusted to monitoring the safety and wellbeing of all the students of Hogwarts." he raises a hand, making a sweeping gesture to indicate Hogwarts in its entirety.
"However, I failed to notice the presence of such a horrible magical artifact on the grounds. I failed to prevent Tom Riddle from harming several students, including yourself. I failed to protect my students." Dumbledore examines her.
"It is not your fault that you lost the fight against Riddle, Ms. Weasley. Indeed, Tom Riddle has deceived and dominated minds far more experienced and mature than your own." He glances off, as if seeing such people appear before him.
He turns back to her. "Thus, you will receive no punishment for the happenings of this year."
Ginny sags in relief, but isn't entirely convinced Dumbledore has it all correct. Still, at least she won't be going to Azkaban.
They sit quietly for a few moments, both deep in thought. Ginny worries at her lip, still scared and confused on several fronts. So much else happened in the Chamber, and she doesn't even know what questions to start asking. She drops her gaze back down to the gaping hole in the Diary, still eerily similar to what she can recall of the wound the fang gave her. Dumbledore seems to notice where her attention has gone.
"Ah, yet another matter we must cover." He leans forward. "May I?" he asks, gesturing to her.
Ginny lifts the Diary to hand it to him. He accepts the book, but unexpectedly, tosses it aside, onto her bed. His other hand comes up to gently grasp her wrist before she can pull back, and then he is intently peering at her wrist, as if he can divine some sort of information from it.
"Headmaster?" she questions, a bit unnerved.
His shining blue eyes lift up to meet hers. "Ms. Weasley, do you know that you have no pulse?"
Ginny swallows. "No, sir."
He turns her wrist down, before releasing her grasp, and leaning back into the chair, releasing a sigh as his back meets it.
"In my many years spent in this world, I have seen feats of magic great and terrible, magic unheard of. I have seen things no one else has. The thing that astounds me most about magic, Ms. Weasley, is its spontaneity, how new things arise from mishaps and accidents. It seems something definitively odd happens every day, and that each miraculous achievement is one-upped with time." Dumbledore paws at his silver beard, twisting the thin threads as he reflects.
"I do not pretend like I am a man who has even begun to understand the depths of magic present in the world." He continues. Ginny wants to interrupt him, to dispute that he knows more about magic than anyone else in Wizarding Britain, maybe even the entire world. But she doesn't, understanding that this is the time to listen.
"When Harry Potter came down to the Chamber that night," Dumbledore muses, "He stepped into the bounds of a… ritual unknown to me, involved with a magical artifact I was not aware could ever exist." Dumbledore's eyes travel to the Diary, discarded on top of her blanket.
"Magic unknown to me was at play that night. And Harry walked right into it, bringing his own intentions and his own artifacts." he murmurs. His eyes flick back to Ginny.
"Tell me, my dear, do you know what put that hole in Tom Riddle's Diary, that night?" He points at the Diary, and Ginny's gaze follows.
Ginny contemplates for a moment. A hole so similar to the one put through her own chest, made by a wretched fang, dripping with acidity.
"A fang, sir." she answers.
"Do you know what type of fang, Ms. Weasley?" he asks. It's almost like they are teacher and student then, and this is some disturbing parody of a classroom setting.
"I don't know, sir." she mumbles.
Dumbledore nods, turning to regard the hole in the Diary. "It is the fang of a Basilisk," He seems to take on the role of an instructor, "Basilisks are a massive, serpentine creature, with eyes that turn people to stone, and fangs dripping venom, venom which is so powerful it is known to be able to pierce nearly every object, melt through any container. Only Goblin-made steel has proved able at stopping it. In fact, goblin-made artifacts absorb its properties and go on to be able to copy its abilities." Ginny listens intently, nodding slightly, biting her lip when she realizes the role of a Basilisk in all of this.
Dumbledore regards her, and does not pester her with simple questions about whether or not she understands.
"Rarely known, however, is that Basilisks are as much spiritually dangerous creatures as they are physically dangerous." He pauses, bringing up a hand to tap against his chin. "A basilisk's gaze is not a physical attack, it is an attack on someone's spirit." He turns to her, gaze sharp. "But the power of a Basilisk is not concentrated only in its eyes, indeed every part of it is imbued with some property that can interact and damage the spirits of its victims."
"Ms. Weasley, I may not speak of what happened to you that night in the Chamber with exact certainty," He begins. "But I believe that when Harry Potter stabbed that Diary with a Basilisk fang in order to defeat Tom Riddle, he interfered with the… esoteric ritual Riddle was conducting on your body in order to create his own." Dumbledore finishes.
Ginny swallows, throat dry. It's not good news. She doesn't know anything about rituals, except how illegal they are. But interfering with one, it seems to her that she's lucky to still be alive.
"Sir," Ginny asks, "When… it all happened, I could feel the fang come down through my body, and go straight through my heart." Ginny grimaces. It's fresh in her mind and gory and she doesn't want to think about it, but she has to ask. Dumbledore nods, listening with a grave expression on his face.
"But- the fang, it took my heart," she raises her wrapped hands to her side, hoping to find the familiar beat of her heart. "And, it… didn't give it back."
Dumbledore hmms, and leans deeply into the soft fabric of his ritzy armchair. He is quiet for several moments, seemingly consulting with himself and his knowledge, before he turns to her.
"I might infer that what you experienced occurred on a spiritual level," he explains, "and that it is tied to the fact that you have no pulse, and that Madam Pomfrey's spells seem to have difficulty discerning what exactly is going on inside your chest." Well, that's a concerning piece of information if Ginny's ever heard one.
Ginny gulps, not at all assuaged by the inference. Dumbledore appears to read into her discomfort, and begins talking again.
"Madam Pomfrey was able to glean very little information about what exactly is happening to your body right now. However, spells of my own design that I have conducted on you in your sleep, indicate that your magic is in a very… complicated state. It is in flux, and it behaves differently to anything I have ever seen." He sits back and ponders for a moment.
"I do not have many answers for you, my dear. However, in my experience with magic unknown such as this, they are often tied to the phases of the Moon." He huffs as if it displeases him. "Our only option is to wait until the next New Moon, and perhaps then we may glean more information on what is going on."
"Are you saying I'm going to turn into a bloody werewolf?" Ginny blurts out before she can stop herself. Her mouth snaps close as soon as she realizes what she said, mortified.
Dumbledore just smiles at her.