I waited for Harry and Ron to return to the common room for about two hours. After ninety minutes or so had passed, I was starting to become worried—there was no telling how deeply those spiders were fleeing into the forest or what they were running towards… and it was hard to forget all of the dangers that lurked within those shadowy trees. It was entirely possible that wherever Harry and Ron were, they were in big trouble…

But, uncertain yet and knowing that it would be a bad idea to go alone and without an Invisibility Cloak, I sat on my couch and tried not to bite my fingernails.

Right when I was contemplating looking for Professor McGonagall for help, detentions be damned, they returned, looking haggard and weary. Ron's sweater had been torn, and Harry had dust lining his face and a small cut on his forehead trailing blood—but when they caught sight of me, they each managed a shaky grin. There was great terror plastered upon Ron's face, however.

"Ron…" I murmured, waving him over. He followed, eyes wide, and sat next to me on the couch. As I seized one of the homemade quilts and draped it around his shoulders, I whispered, "What happened to you two?"

Harry took the seat on the other side of me and began explaining how they had to walk incredibly far to reach a clearing in which a giant spider named Aragog lived. Apparently, Aragog had been Hagrid's pet, and had been the monster accused of killing the girl fifty years ago—but this was wrong.

Hagrid didn't open the Chamber of Secrets; the monster wasn't a spider.

"I suspected as much," I sighed at the end of the tale. "I think I found something you might be interested in, Harry."

My friends listened intently as I told them about my venture through the library, and the revelation that someone had taken the page describing a basilisk out of the book I needed.

"Do you think someone did that on purpose?" sighed Harry, flopping against the back of the couch. "If the Heir of Slytherin took it out…"

"It's one of two possibilities," I replied, "the other being that Hermione has the page with her right now and no one saw it. Fortunately, Angelina also has a copy of the book. I'm going to ask to borrow it at breakfast tomorrow."

The boys sighed but nodded. It was a decent plan, after all; if I was right, we'd have an avenue into what the monster could possibly be. That basilisk… there was a reason that particular page had been ripped out of the book. It had to be that, or one hell of an unfortunate coincidence.

"What happens if we're wrong?"

Ron's voice was wary, and full of uncertainty. Harry and I met eyes briefly before looking back to him again.

"Madam Pomfrey said that the mandrakes are close to full maturation. If we don't figure out what the monster is, then… we keep looking. We make sure all of the petrified people come back. And then we ask Hermione what the hell she was going to tell us before rushing off," said Harry, with a nod so crisp and confident that I couldn't help believing it really could be that simple.

I sighed and rubbed my hands on my arms. "I wish Hermione was here with us… chances are we'd be a hell of a lot closer to answers than we are now with her help."

Ron nodded pensively, but Harry's face went hard, the way it had done a lot ever since she had been petrified.

I blinked and bit the inside of my lip, knowing that if I was ever to know why Harry was so closed-off from me, I had to ask now. "What's wrong, Harry?"

He sighed and glanced up at me. It was surprising, how expressionless he seemed, how very empty he was without our full group together. "I just… can't help feeling like we could've found Hermione before the attack somehow. That there's something we could've done."

A shard of ice pierced my chest. Harry hadn't said as much, but I knew well what he was really thinking: that if I hadn't fought against him and had just followed him into the castle, maybe we could've reached the library in time. We could've found Hermione, and something would've changed.

"Or maybe we'd be just as petrified," suggested Ron with a shrug. He sighed and looked down at his hands, which were clasped in his lap. "We still don't know what the monster is, even if we have a hunch."

The only sound between us was the crackling of the dying fire in the hearth. It wasn't hard to see the shadows that had fallen upon Harry's face with this change in topic. He glanced up at us again, looking nothing short of tormented. "We defeated that troll last year. We might've done it again, with whatever this thing is."

Something bitter had infested his voice; something that I didn't overlook. The shard of ice melted in my chest, spreading its chill throughout the rest of my body—without looking up from where my gaze had been fastened to the floor, I asked, "Harry. Do you blame me?"

I could feel rather than see the shock from Ron's person. "What? There's no one to blame here, it's the Heir of Slytherin's fault! How is it your fault, Belle?"

"I argued with Harry on whether or not to get a professor," I said dully. "I could've just gone straight inside the castle with him to try and find Hermione. I could've also stopped her from running off on her own, knowing that she was a Muggle-born. Tell me how I forgot she was a Muggle-born considering everything going on, Ron."

"Belle, I forgot that she was Muggle-born," exclaimed Ron. He reached out and slapped a hand upon my arm, squeezing it tight. "It's not your fault."

His words were comforting, surprising though I was to feel as such. But while I was grateful for his intervention, my eyes locked upon Harry, who hadn't said a word since I had asked the question. "Maybe you're right, Ron. But it's certainly hard to feel that way, and it's been obvious over the last few days that Harry has been distancing himself from me. So I ask again: do you blame me, Harry?"

Harry looked up and stared at me through burdened eyes, but he said nothing at all.

The silence was answer enough. I sighed and rose to my feet, feeling just as defeated as I had upon first seeing Hermione lying in that bed, waxy-skinned, pale-lipped: not breathing.

And then I simply said, "Okay," and began walking towards the spiral staircases, ignoring the way that Ron was calling after me, asking me to come back—incessantly saying that it wasn't my fault.

But what he didn't realize was: if it wasn't my fault, then there wouldn't be so much guilt still swirling around in my stomach.


The next morning at breakfast, I took a seat away from where Harry was already sitting. Despite the conversation we'd had the previous night, I couldn't help noticing and feeling concerned over how he looked; the dark circles under his eyes were even worse than usual, he was pale, he wasn't eating.

But I didn't want to check on him, because I was hurt. It was as simple as that; the non-answer that Harry had given to me last night had been painful. Of course I blamed myself. Of course I did.

Knowing that he blamed me too was even worse.

Breakfast was a dreary affair, just as it had been for the last couple of weeks. There wasn't much in the way of conversation, and the weather outside was a horrid grey with little to no sunlight accompanying it. I barely even picked at my food even though I knew I should eat, since I had a double Potions period to start off the day…

Before I could really figure out what I could stomach, however, the clear ringing of a spoon against glass transcended through the Great Hall. Everyone looked over to the High Table to see Professor McGonagall standing, the wine glass daintily in her hand. Silence enveloped the room.

"I have good news," she said, but she could get no further than that before students began shouting out hopeful responses.

"Professor Dumbledore's coming back!" exclaimed a few voices.

"You've got the Heir of Slytherin!" said someone from the Hufflepuff table.

"Quidditch matches are back on!" shouted Oliver.

Professor McGonagall smiled at all of these suggestions; truly the most joy I'd seen from her in weeks. "Professor Sprout has informed me that the Mandrakes are ready for cutting at last. Tonight, we will be able to revive those people who have been petrified. I need hardly remind you all that one of them may well be able to tell us who, or what, attacked them. I am hopeful that this dreadful year will end with our catching the culprit."

An explosion of applause and cheerful screaming filled the hall, so heartwarming and overwhelming that tears sparked the sides of my eyes. This meant that Hermione would be back by tomorrow, she would be back—and if I knew Hermione, she had information that would get us to capture the Heir of Slytherin right after.

I gazed towards Harry and Ron to see how they were taking the news; Ron was throwing an arm around Seamus's and Neville's shoulders, ruffling their hair… but Harry was approaching me.

"Belle—" he started to say, but he could get no further before Ginny Weasley sprinted up to us, looking pale and sweaty, and generally like she had seen a ghost.

My attention turned to Ginny, who was obviously frightened. Her hands were clasped behind her back, she was shifting back and forth—I shot Harry a knowing look and turned towards her, asking, "Ginny? What's wrong? Are you all right?"

"I've… I've got to tell you something," she whispered, her voice so hoarse I almost missed what she said completely.

Not wanting to scare her away, I nodded and replied, "Sure thing. How about we take a walk and you can tell me what you want to say? Anything you need, remember?"

A tiny smile came upon Ginny's face with this last. She nodded and opened her mouth to speak—

"If you've finished eating, I'll take that seat, Ginny. I'm starving, I've only just come off of patrol duty."

Ginny jumped a number of centimeters in the air at the sound of Percy's voice and, after shooting me a frightened glance, began skittering out of the Great Hall.

"Wait!" I cried, holding out a hand. "Ginny!"

I turned towards Harry, who had been standing sheepishy by my side for the last number of moments, and said, "I'll talk to you later, Harry. I've got to see what's bothering Ginny so much and help her out first."

He nodded; and so I ran off, following after Ginny's footsteps. I could feel Harry's eyes trailing after me as we went, but I didn't want to think about that. I had no clue what he wanted to talk about, if he wanted to resurface the topic from the previous night—and if that was the case, I didn't have the strength to deal with it at the moment.

So instead, I turned my attention to Ginny's retreating silhouette. She was fast, much faster than I had expected her to be—but as I was still just a little taller than she was, I was able to gain on her within a few seconds. As I got closer, I realized that her hands hadn't been empty… she had been carrying something in them. A notebook.

And then I realized that I'd seen that notebook before.

Tom Riddle's notebook.

She turned around the corridor, though her pace had lessened a little bit upon hearing my footsteps. Tired and frustrated of playing catch-up, I inhaled deeply and shouted at the top of my lungs, "Ginny, stop!"

When I followed her around the corner, I noted that she had frozen in place. She was still shaking from head to toe, clearly frightened; as I stepped towards where she was standing, rigid as a board, she turned around and met my eyes. "Belle, I'm s-sorry… so… sorry."

"For what?" I asked. I reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, gently trying to guide her towards one of the benches on the side of the hallways. "Why don't we sit down and talk? You wanted to tell me something, didn't you? Like why you have the diary that Harry had found?"

Ginny closed her eyes and stopped shaking. She took one deep breath, then two… and then she opened her eyes again and said, in a perfectly calm and composed tone of voice, "I would like to tell you something, but I'd rather not sit down. Let's keep walking."

I blinked at the sudden change of demeanor, but nodded all the same. "All right. Let's keep walking."

She smiled at this and proceeded leisurely down the hallway, leaving me to follow after her. I had no idea where she intended to go, but that wasn't an issue; I still had at least a half-hour before Potions was going to start, and it was only a six-minute walk to the dungeons from the Great Hall.

Our footsteps echoed across the marble floor, bouncing off of the walls and crashing back into my eardrums. There was no reason for it, but I was nervous… very nervous. Ginny hadn't said what she'd wanted to talk about—it was entirely possible she knew something about the Chamber of Secrets.

Then again… what sort of chance was that? That a first-year student, Ginny Weasley no less, knew anything about such dark magic?

"So… what's going on?" I asked at last. It had been almost two to three minutes of walking, and the way my heartbeat was escalating told me that there was something very strange happening. "What did you want to tell me?"

At long last, Ginny stopped walking. I looked about to see where we had ended up and immediately recognized that we were in the hallway in which Mrs. Norris had been attacked; the same hallway that the first words from the Heir of Slytherin were written.

"Look," she whispered, pointing towards the corridor just beyond.

My lips twisted in confusion, but I followed the place where she had pointed towards. When I crossed the threshold of the next corridor, I gasped.

Written in blood-red letters upon the wall were the words, Their skeletons will lie in the Chamber forever.

"Ginny," I gasped, staggering backwards, "we need to get back to the Great Hall. To Professor McGonagall—we need to—"

"Imperio!"

A wave of pleasant numbness washed over my entire body, enveloping me like a blanket's warmth in the thick of winter. I stopped straight in my tracks, unable to move—unwilling to move.

"You're Belle Skylar, aren't you? Speak."

I nodded once, though a tiny voice, a submerged consciousness, told me that it wasn't entirely my own decision. "Yes."

She smiled, a pretty smile that would've charmed anyone right out of their wits. "That's what I thought. Ginny so loved to tell me about you, you know. It was one of the few things I was interested in; the way she liked you, but was so very jealous of you: of your hair, of your skills on a broom, of your… friendship with Harry Potter."

My limbs wouldn't move, no matter how hard I tried to do so. The only part of my own body that I still had control over were my eyes; they looked Ginny up and down, noted the sinister leer upon her face that was most unlike her, the diary in her hands…

And how her hands were coated in red paint.

"I can see you have a question," she said. "Ask it."

The hinges of my jaws were freed with these last words. With a sharp gasp for breath, I asked, "Did you paint those words on the wall?"

Ginny smiled sweetly once again. "Of course I did. But I know what it is you're really asking: was it Ginny herself or I that painted the words on the wall?" She chuckled to herself with this last, and then cocked her head sideways. "Well, Miss Skylar… I've longed to speak with you for quite some time. Follow me, and we'll have a proper conversation."

With a simple wave of her hand, we were off again. It had become obvious even in this short amount of time that whoever was speaking to me, whoever was walking along my other side at this moment, was not Ginny Weasley. It was someone else—something else—far more powerful.

It was not a long walk to our final destination, which I was actually quite grateful for considering my legs were about as easy to move as blocks of lead. We ended up walking into the girls' lavatory, the one that Moaning Myrtle haunted—

Moaning Myrtle. She had died in that very stall… but how long ago?

I wanted to shout to her, to cry out for help, to ask if she was the one who had been killed by the Chamber of Secret's monster fifty years ago, but my mouth just… wouldn't… open. All I could do was stand in front of the sinks as Ginny approached them and began to speak Parseltongue.

The sinks ahead of her began to part, making a large ring around the bathroom: a deep, dark hole opened up in the middle of the floor. Based on the way that Ginny stared down into the abyss, it was obvious that she was going to make me jump.

I fought—I fought so hard to be free, but each time I struggled, little knives of pain buried into my skin. My teeth clenched with each movement I made, because I didn't even have the liberty of screaming.

"Oh. Your wand," said Ginny. Her eyes had lowered to my hands, within which my wand was still gripped, tight as a vice. "You won't need that. Drop it."

And I did. The sound of my wand hitting the floor clattered loudly in my ears; a death sentence as sure as any other. Without my wand, I was defenseless.

Ginny smiled prettily at me and gestured to the hole that had opened up in the floor. "Please. Be my guest."

And left with no choice except to obey, I jumped.