EDITED: July 10th, 2020

14 — Can You See Me?

Despite what many believed, Hermione Granger didn't know her best friend as well as she wished. Anya Barton wasn't as easy to read as Ron Weasley or as predictable as Harry Potter, and it had intrigued Hermione at first. She'd always been good at solving mysteries.

She hadn't counted on the fact Anya was, first and foremost, stubborn. Her secrets were the living embodiment of the meaning. It frustrated Hermione to no end but she let it be.

Recently, however, she couldn't help but acknowledge the change in the air. It wasn't just that Hogwarts was being stalked by a ghost story – it was also that her friend was beginning to look like one.

Quiet, less animated. If there was one thing Hermione was positive of, it was that none of these adjectives fit Anya Barton. The girl was supposed to be brazen – and violent, to an extent. Impulsive, but calculating.

She wasn't supposed to hesitate. She wasn't supposed to look – be – afraid.

Anya was also supposed to have morals.

Hermione wouldn't have believed it if she hadn't seen it with her own eyes. She would have scoffed at them and ignored them happily for the rest of her time at Hogwarts, maybe even told Anya sometime in the future and both girls would have laughed together.

But Hermione had seen Anya stealing, of all things, makeup. Disbelieving of this little detail, she'd unconsciously ignored Anya for two whole days while she debated whether to tell Professor McGonagall or not. And it was with heavy scepticism she approached the woman, only for McGonagall to hardly react at the news.

"Sit down, Miss Granger," she'd said, and Hermione followed the order. "You may be wondering why I've hardly reacted to this information – the answer is, I already knew. Both Anya and Miss Ginny Weasley approached me to tell me of the matter.

"Following the incident with Mr. Marcus Flint, Madam Pomfrey worried there may be some other side-effects to the nosebleeds. According to Miss Barton, she has been sleep-walking – and while she does, she has taken to stealing from other people. Yes, Miss Granger – Miss Brown has not been the only victim. The three of us came to the unanimous decision that Miss Barton must be watched diligently – without Miss Barton's awareness, of course. Miss Ginny Weasley, who'd witnessed something of the sort during their summer, offered her assistance."

Shocked didn't cover what Hermione Granger had felt in that moment. If anything, she felt hurt.

It must have showed on her face, for Professor McGonagall then had said, "Considering your close relationship, we discouraged Miss Barton from informing you of the circumstance. With what has been happening at the moment, we did not wish to burden you further."

Burdens were what had brought them – Harry, Ron, Anya, and Hermione – together. Had it not been them whom had tried to stop Professor Quirrell from stealing the stone, when no one had listened to their warnings? And was it not them whom were now trying to find this supposed Heir of Slytherin?

Part of Hermione was aware of Anya's bloody noble intentions. Harry kept hearing voices no one else could and was a Parselmouth; Ron was trying to keep his brother Percy from dogging their steps; and Hermione was essentially preventing herself from becoming another petrified victim.

So Anya keeping this to herself wasn't surprising. But it still hurt, and the silence annoyed Hermione to no end. She could've kept up with Anya. Compartmentalizing was something both were good at.

Hermione Granger loved mysteries, but when the mystery refused to be solved, she ignored them. And that's what she did. If Anya wanted her to know, she would come forward and say it.

Up to the day after the Duelling club incident, she still hadn't. Waking from a dream in which snakes surrounded her friends and books failed them, Hermione moved reluctantly. She twisted her arms above her head, and a satisfying pop rang in the silent dormitory. As always, she was the first to rise.

Or not.

Anya's curtains were open today. They were always open, but the girl had taken to closing them nowadays. If she hadn't forgotten that morning, Hermione wouldn't have seen the large crimson puddle at the girl's feet.

For a heart-breaking second, Hermione thought Anya was dead. Her friend was so still you couldn't tell if she was alive. But then her chest rose, and Hermione relaxed again.

Her mind whirling, the brightest witch of her age stood and went to Anya's cabinets. She took some clothes, as well as new – and certainly not white – underwear, and joined the girl.

"Anya?"

The girl didn't respond, but at this distance, Hermione noticed Anya was actually awake, if only unresponsive.

"Anya?" Hermione asked again. "You... you have to wash."

Anya looked slowly at her, unstaring. Then she blinked, and she was frowning.

"Wash?" she said, slowly. "Why?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes." She gestured at the girl's bed and bottoms. "You're – err..."

Anya glanced, and did a double take. She paled, and very slowly, stood.

"Blood," she whispered. "Why's there a lot of blood?"

Hermione blinked at the way her friend's voice quivered. She looked like she was about to have a panic attack.

Hermione took her hands and placed her clothes on them. "Isn't it obvious?" she said gently. "You're menstruating."

There was a pause. Then, Anya said, "Yes, I am. I am, aren't I?"

Without waiting for a response, she ran toward the bathroom and locked herself.

•••◘◘◘•••

The first thing I did was to cast a silencing spell around the room. And then, desperate and terrified, I took off my clothes and threw them to the floor. I raised my hand, wanting to burn them – but there was no wand. My wand was back on my bed, next to what probably was a pair of muddy shoes.

I opened the shower. When the water hit my back, I began to cry.

It had to be a dream. It had to. But the blood that went down the drain wasn't mine. It wasn't mine.

There was a lot of blood, Tom. Lots of it, and it smelt awful. Something is not right, something –

Anya. The blood was yours. You're sick, remember? You're awfully sick.

I am not. I am fine. Something is wrong – something isn't right.

Anya –

You're lying to me. You're lying through your teeth. What is happening? What am I doing?

What are you doing?

Nothing we did not agree on, Anya. You promised me, remember? You will do as I ask, as long as I follow our deal. And I have, Anya. I am close – so very close. Do you wish me to stop? Do you wish to remain ignorant?

... No? Very well. Listen carefully...

Sir Nicholas, frozen in the air; Justin, looking horrified when the realization hit him; and green – gleaming green scales that never ended.

I blinked.

I looked around. I was a corridor away from the Great Hall. I was holding Tom's diary, too.

I started to cough. Blood spurted from my nose, falling on Tom's diary. To my surprise, the red stains were eagerly absorbed by the pages. There was no trace left.

(Blood. So much blood. It's not mine, it's –)

My head pounded. My chest ached.

(There's always water, why can't we just clean –)

But my legs, my legs could –

(Brown hair. Wide eyes. The boy whose name I couldn't bother with. Take him – he's not important, he's just as dirty as the others –)

– They could move. I sucked in the air greedily. Then I began to laugh.

I laughed and laughed, even when my chest began to ache, even when my head began to pound, even when my legs buckled under me and I fell, scratching my knees. I laughed until I began to cry, and I cried until a shadow fell over me. I cried into that person's chest when they offered their arms, and I babbled incoherently, cutting off the person's voice.

"Anya!" the person snapped. I stopped. Through the haze, I saw red hair. Ron? No, it couldn't be. Ron wasn't this touchy. "Anya, we need to go. People are coming – if they see you –"

"Ginny, I –"

"Shut up. Just – shut up and move."

I stood up with her help. And looking like she was doing the greatest of sacrifices, Ginny tucked Tom's diary in her robes. Half-carrying me, half-dragging me, Ginny led me to another corridor; at the same time, I could hear footsteps growing closer.

Harry Potter was none the wiser of the mess that he would walk into in a few moments. But Ginny and I fled before we could see it happen.

•••◘◘◘•••

I took off my clothes. While I showered, Ginny cleaned them in the shower next to mine. She didn't seem to mind that I was naked next to her, but then again, she had hugged me when I'd been covered in mud and blood.

"Where do you keep going that you always get mud on your robes?" she complained at some point. "Anya, what is the last thing you can remember?"

"I –"

(Blood. There's blood in my hands. I am at Hagrid's.

The corridor is damp but we're underground so –)

I gasped. The pain in my head was swift; it ended just as quickly as it began.

"What was that?"

"There was –"

("Barton!" It was Justin Finch-Fletchey. "What are you doing here?" His eyes widened. "Potter's not around, is he?")

I cried. I fell on my knees.

"Anya!"

The curtain opened. I gripped my head, trying to keep my eyes open. But when I spotted Ginny staring at me, I closed them.

"My head – it's killing me," I gasped out.

Hands gripped my wrists. "Anya, tell me about the Transylvanian Tackle."

I was confused. "What?"

"Why it's your favourite? You told me if you played Quidditch, you'd use it as many times as you could, but why?"

"Because – because I like punching."

"What else?"

"Because it feels like I can be myself. When I fight, I don't have to hold back – and to not touch them, it would mean that... that..."

"That?" Ginny prompted.

"That I can't control myself," I whispered. I lowered my hands. "But I can't. I can't, Ginny. I don't have control anymore! I'm always bleeding, my head always hurts when I try to remember little things, and my shoes are always muddy! I feel like I'm going mad!"

I wept silently. When I finally felt like I had a hold of myself, I dried myself and put in the clothes Ginny handed over.

"Anya, when did this start?" she asked.

"After Flint cursed me." A thought hit me then. "How did you find me?"

Ginny hesitated. "I was following you," she admitted, though it was without shame.

"You what? Why?"

"Why do you think?" She rolled her eyes. "Anya, you've been sick almost since the beginning of the school year – you thought Madam Pomfrey wouldn't worry?"

I should've known. I should've, but I couldn't remember.

"That's not it, is it?" I accused.

Ginny almost smiled. "I'd forgotten how good you're at that," she said. Then she held up Tom's diary. That little ache in my chest started again.

"What would you do if I throw this away?"

"I kill you."

A pause. Nor Ginny nor I had expected that. For the first time, Ginny looked flustered.

"You're joking... right?"

I contemplated her. Her shifting away from me told me there was something in my expression that warned her to keep away, to not underestimate me, to stop fooling around –

I breathed.

"Just because I treated you nicely the last summer does not mean you are my friend," I sneered.

Ginny's blush worsened. But in spite of looking afraid, she still looked me in the eye.

"No," she said boldly. "But so far, I am the only chance you've got at receiving help."

•••◘◘◘•••

Ginny came back with grave news: Justin Finch-Fletchey had been found petrified... as was Sir Nicholas.

How could a ghost be petrified at all, when they were already dead? No one had the answer – not even the great Dumbledore, who acknowledged this tidbit of news during dinner. What he didn't say was that Harry had stumbled into them, nor that he'd called him into his office.

Most of the school was swearing up and down he was the Heir of Slytherin. Rubbish, of course, but the evidence was pretty damning so far.

Ginny joined the Charms club. It was the only time we could talk, less Ron grew suspicious. From my friends, he would realize faster something was wrong with his sister, and eventually, the other two would clue in on me. Fortunately (and to Professor Flitwick's delight), Ginny was a quick learner, and of all the members of the club, was the first to master the Bat-Bogey Hex. According to Flitwick, no one had been able to get the hang of the spell as well as her for the last four or five years.

Well. At least something good would come out of this. Other than that, chances were looking pretty slim. No matter how much we theorized, how much we tested... we always ended back to square one.

The problem was me. It always was me. I shot down Ginny's suggestions, knowing full well some of them could work and dismissed her concerns about the diary. Where did you get it? she would say. Where did it come from? she would gasp after we left the common room.

So when she stated I get rid of Tom, I wasn't surprised to find my hand squeezing her arm hard.

Better that than her neck.

Wincing but holding herself admirably, the girl pulled out one of my biros from her wand pocket and wrote on my hand.

You're doing it again.

Of course I was. I hadn't stopped since the last seven tries –

I held her wrist this time.

She wrote again.

We will lock it tonight

Then she wiped over the ink, and watched as it was absorbed by my skin. Not slow, but faster.

Anything to make Tom stronger. Anything to get my answers quicker.

I conjured the ropes in the club. With the help of a pretty girl with long, dark hair, I made sure they were indestructible. The heavy-padded lock, I admit, was stolen from Hagrid's hut. Both were used to lock the diary inside a wooden box – also enchanted to be impenetrable.

It would be impossible for a twelve-year-old to break it.

•••◘◘◘•••

Next morning, I woke up with my knuckles bleeding and the box burned to a crisp. The diary had returned to my rucksack.

•••◘◘◘•••

The students of Hogwarts looked eager to leave. I did not blame them.

I waited at the balcony that overlooked the courtyard, waiting for Ginny.

(Truthfully, I was also hiding from my friends.)

(What is the use of friends when none of them can see your plight?

Shut up, shut up, shut up)

The uniform had been wet for a while, courtesy of the snow. It reminded me of last year, when I'd tried really hard to not get cold and used all the clothes at my disposal.

This year, my skin was as cold as marble. Impossible, but so far I had yet to feel bothered by the weather. Barely could I feel the slight burn of my fingers when they touched something warm.

(Ephemeral. Like life.)

Nowadays, it stopped me from reaching out and throttling Ginny.

"How long?" I asked.

She peered at her pocket watch. It belonged to her older brother Percy, who didn't have an inkling his watch had disappeared more than six times throughout the month.

"Twelve minutes." The watch's face disappeared with a sharp click. Then she showed me Tom's diary.

I tried. I really did. But my hands acted without my notice, pinching her wrist and taking the diary. Soon, I had it tucked inside my robes.

Ginny's face fell. I felt despondent.

"Anya, we need to tell someone," she said, but I shook my head, thinking of – thinking of what? My friends? They would abandon me the moment they found out the truth – and they would find it, one way or another. The Polyjuice Potion was almost ready, with only one week left. If I sabotaged the potion, Hermione would know; she already suspected that something was going on with me when I excused myself from drinking it, claiming that, due to my health, I was afraid of what would happen. And if she suspected it was me, then it was over.

No. I wouldn't let them know. Over my dead body.

"We need to try harder."

"We've been at this for weeks!"

Fred and George Weasley appeared over our shoulders, screaming.

We screamed too.

"Ginny, Princess, out of the way!" said Fred, trembling. "He's coming!"

"Who?" Ginny squeaked.

"Who do you think?" said George, pointing at the corridor they had come from. His finger landed exactly on the small figure of a skinny boy with messy hair and round glasses. "Slytherin's Heir! He's off to tea with the beast!"

I glared at the arm Fred threw over my shoulders.

"Be careful," he said seriously, his eyes shining with mischief. "He's a really evil wizard."

He and George left.

Ginny took one look at my expression and sighed.

"It was funny."

"Do you see me laughing?"

•••◘◘◘•••

On Christmas day, I woke up feeling weightless. There were no headaches. No nosebleeds.

I knew nothing bad would happen today. At least, not as long as Tom remained wherever Ginny had hid him.

Otto stared at me reproachfully when I dropped back on the mattress.

"Hello there," I muttered. "Fancy seeing you here."

Otto shook his wings ruefully, flying at the top of the bed's canopy, and continued to watch me from there.

"I know. I should talk to you often."

The owl closed his eyes and moved his head from side to side as if he were sighing in disappointment. I sighed and sat up, looking through the window at the snowy grounds. My eyes wandered to Hermione, my only dorm mate at the moment.

Her peaceful face angered me.

I leaped from the bed and ran over at Hermione's, jumping on the mattress. Loudly, I sang.

"Jingle bells, jingle bells,Jingle all the way;Oh! what fun it is to rideIn a one-horse open sleigh!"

Hermione groaned, pulling the blanket closer to her chin. I didn't mind; I kept jumping to my heart's little content. When it got boring, I decided to take the covers away from Hermione.

"Merry Christmas!" I yelled. Hermione did not react until I told her it was eight o' clock in the morning.

"Merlin's beard!" the bushy haired girl exclaimed, almost knocking me when she ran to the bathroom. "Anya, why didn't you wake me up earlier? We need to finish the Polyjuice Potion!"

•••◘◘◘•••

Ginny looked terrible. The lights at the Great Hall accented the bags under her eyes and the sickly pallor her skin had turned. It told me that something had gone wrong.

I had to wait until we were going to Myrtle's bathroom to approach her. I told the guys to go ahead and sat next to her.

"You don't look so good," I commented.

Ginny peered at me beadily.

"I don't feel so good," she muttered. "You want to know why? Because I forgot to hide that stupid and diary and slept next to it."

My eyes widened. "You mean –"

"I think that's why you keep bleeding," said Ginny. "Why you always have headaches." She groaned then. "Come on, Anya, we've known it for a while. The diary is the one causing all of this, but how..."

"You know the how," I interrupted her. I was shaking in anger. "I asked you, and you told me it was completely normal. You told me that diaries that talked back were great. And yet, this one is killing me."

"You were supposed to be smarter than this!" she snapped. "You don't let people talk over you – you make them hear you, whether they like it or not. What changed? What made you confide in a diary instead of your friends?"

I stood up abruptly. "I'll talk to you after Christmas."

•••◘◘◘•••

There was a knock.

"Psst, Hermione! Anya?"

I pushed the door open. The boys stood outside the stall, their triumphant expressions falling at the sight of the bubbling potion.

"Did you get them?" Hermione asked breathlessly.

Because it was so dark, I could barely see Crabbe and Goyle's strands of hair in their hands.

"Here," I held up a sack. "I stole ("Sneaked," hissed Hermione) these Slytherin robes from the laundry. They were the biggest, so they gotta be Crabbe's and Goyle's."

"What are these for?" Ron asked.

"You won't fit in your clothes," said Hermione simply. She stopped stirring the potion.

We stared into the cauldron. Because I was the closest, I could see it looked a lot like mud.

"Are you sure about this?" said Harry.

"Well, it does look like the book said," I said. Hermione peered at the book nervously. I scrunched up my nose. "And it smells just as horrible."

"Yes," she said breathlessly. "Once we've drunk it, we'll have exactly an hour before we change back into ourselves."

"Now what?" Ron whispered.

I pulled out the spoon of the cauldron and ladled large portions of the potion into three different glasses.

I grimaced. "Add your hairs into each glass."

They did. Hermione's turned yellow, Harry's a light brown, and Ron's muddy.

"Ugh – essence of Crabbe," Ron groaned.

"Hang on," said Harry as Hermione and Ron tilted their glasses. "We'd better not all drink them in here... once we turn into Crabbe and Goyle we won't fit. And with Millicent Bulstrode here, we'll crush you," he told me.

"Good thinking," said Ron. "We'll take separate stalls."

I followed them out of the stall where we'd made the potion, and watched as my friends locked their own stalls.

"Ready?" Harry called.

"Ready," said the other two.

I counted with them. "One – two – three –"

Silence. Then, one after one, their glasses broke on the floor.

A beat passed before one of the stalls opened. It wasn't Harry nor Ron nor Hermione, but Gregory Goyle who looked at me.

"Bloody hell," I breathed. I reached to touch him, but another stall opened, and Vincent Crabbe came out.

"Unbelievable," said Ron in Crabbe's voice. Moving to look into his reflection, he prodded his nose. "Unbelievable."

I hugged Moste Potente Potions. "You can say that again."

"We'd better get going," said Goyle – err, Harry. "We've still got to find the Slytherin common room. I only hope there's someone out there to follow..."

He made a weird face. It looked like it hurt.

"You don't know how bizarre it's to see Goyle thinking," said Ron. He banged on Hermione's door. "Hermione, hurry up –"

"I – I don't think I'm going to come after all. You – you go on without me."

I frowned. "Hermione, are you all right? Did something go wrong?"

There was no answer. I looked back at the boys, noticing the confused expression Goyle's face had.

"That looks more like Goyle," said Ron. "That's how he looks when a teacher asks him a question."

"You guys get going," I cut in. "I'll see if Hermione is all right. We'll wait here for you."

"You sure?" said Harry uneasily.

"Yes. Go – you're wasting time –"

I waited until Harry's and Ron's voices were gone. I turned to knock on Hermione's stall.

"Hermione, come out! They are gone!"

Just then, there was a shriek of laughter, combined with Hermione's startled scream. Moaning Myrtle's head appeared through the door, and for once, she wasn't crying for herself.

"Ooh, wait till you see," she cackled. "It's awful!"

"Get out of here!" I snarled, throwing my arm back and punching through her. Myrtle gasped, and new tears poured down her eyes.

"You're such a mean, mean girl!"

Despite this, she floated over my shoulder. I started to grow worried.

"Hermione, tell me you weren't poisoned –"

"Anya, do – do you remember me saying the Polyjuice Potion was only for human transformations...?"

The door creaked, and all I saw was a pair of golden eyes, with two fluffy ears and whiskers, before she closed the door again.

"Oh, dear," I said delicately.

"It was cat hair I plucked off Millicent Bulstrode's robes! I even got a tail!"

"Oh, dear," I repeated faintly, drowned out by Myrtle's new round of laughter.