Ginny performed an ineffective drying charm on her cloak. How on earth did her clothes get wet? Something was different but she struggled to identify whatever it was. Uncomfortable and unsettled she threw her wet clothes on her bed. Feeling an urge to escape she redressed, grabbed her diary, and headed to the common room. Before she reached the steps she noticed Fred and George pacing at the base of the stairs talking in low voices. She hid behind the banister to eavesdrop without the twins seeing. The edges of the diary bore into her chest but she was too nervous to loosen her grip.
"She hasn't seemed right in weeks." George ran his hands through red hair that mimicked the dying embers in the nearby fireplace.
"Not since we told her she couldn't try out for Quidditch."
"Were we too harsh?"
"No," Fred sighed into George's guilty face. "She couldn't, Mum would kill us if we had let her."
"Yeah, I guess so. She seems so off. She looks smaller somehow. The only time she talked less than this was when she had dragon pox and slept for a week. Maybe Percy was right and she is sick? That Pepper-Up potion he shoved down her throat didn't seem to fix anything. Does she needs Madam Pomphrey?"
Ginny felt panic gripping her throat. What Pepper-Up potion? Were they noticing she was losing time? Tom was right there was no way her brothers would understand. The smell of disinfectant emanated from the diary. She felt herself shudder as the blood drained away from her face leaving her cheeks pale and numb.
"Nah, she needs some good old fashioned cheering up! We need to break the news to her before Pompous Percy tries too. Did you hear something?" Fred looked around the top of the stairs. She was trapped.
"Gin-Gin, come down here. We need to talk," Fred looked serious. It was disconcerting to see a serious look on a jester's face.
She descended feeling her panic increasing with each step. They knew. They knew she was losing time. They knew she was losing time and they were going to force her to tell Madam Pomphrey who would send her away. She sat on the last step between her brothers resting her head on George's shoulder. She leaned into the familiar comfort of being wedged between two unbreakable bookends.
"It's about your boyfriend," said George.
"My boyfriend?" Ginny looked between the two of them trying to decipher what was coming next. "Did something else happen to Harry?"
"Harry?" Fred now looked at George with a sickening look on his face. "What does this have to do with Harry?"
"Aren't you going out with that Colin kid? Weird ickle-firsty, who is always talking with to you and has that camera around his neck?"
"Colin and I are just mates," Ginny deflected automatically expecting teasing. When nothing followed, she registered something was wrong. "Wait, what happened to Colin?"
"He was petrified." the twins said in unison. Fred continued with a somber voice, "They found him last night. He is in the hospital wing. I am so relieved he isn't your boyfriend! I was questioning your taste."
Fred and George laughed grateful her closeness to the victim was overblown. They teased her about Harry but the words swept past Ginny as she withdrew into herself. Ginny noticed her body trembling when George put a steady arm around her shoulder. He turned a strong hug into a tickle but the attempt to make her laugh failed to penetrate the numbness.
She looked between Fred and George's faces praying this is all a sick joke. Realization slammed into her like a brick wall. This was why she woke up wet this morning. Nausea rippled through her small convulsing body. She did not notice Ron and Hermione arguing their way through the portrait door. She was too distracted leaning over with her head between her legs trying to contain the urge to vomit.
"What's wrong with her?" Ron snapped, his voice thick with confrontation.
"We just found out Colin wasn't her boyfriend, guess I owe you three sickles Ronni-kins. We are celebrating her good sense to still be in love with the Chosen One." George laughed as he playfully smacked Ginny on the back sending her flailing on the floor. "Even though, is that scrawny git with glasses that much better? Ginny, you need to move to a convent until you are 35 maybe 40?"
The air left the room. Ginny gasped as she pushed herself up from the floor onto her hands and knees. She panicked feeling like she was suffocating. She opened her mouth and tried to breathe as deep as possible but her windpipe felt like a straw being crushed between someone's fingers. Sitting on her heels, she waved her hands wildly, desperate to signal the others she couldn't breathe. Hermione rushed over as the room faded to black.
"Shh Shh, it's okay Ginny. It's a bit of a fright. Come on, I will take you to your room." Hermione lifted her out of the seat and helped her walk upstairs. She glowered at Fred and George and sternly explained. "And you two idiots, I have no idea what you said to upset her this much, but I will be talking with you when I get back."
Ginny's body collapsed against Hermione's frame as silent tears saturated her face. She felt herself being led into her darkened room and placed into her bed.
"Ginny, why are your things all wet? Oh never mind, scourgify," Hermione waved her wand and cleaned off a place for Ginny to sleep. "Try to get some sleep or else I will take you to Madam Pomphrey for a calming draught." She could go to Madam Pomphrey. She had to get Hermione out of the room. Ginny straightened her back and controlled the shaking.
Hermione rubbed her back in gentle circles as Ginny pretended to sleep. Hugging her diary too tightly, a red welt formed an indentation against her chest. This could not be from her. The chickens, Mrs. Norris, Colin. She had no memory of any of it. And with Colin, she could have been asleep rather than losing time of memory. Tom. He would help her sort this out. Ginny stayed in bed until she heard Hermione close the door shut was safe to talk to Tom. Scrambling from bed shaking the loose quilt away from her feet she sat at her desk.
"Tom, I need your help. Colin, my friend was hurt. I may have lost time again last night but I am not sure. It felt different than the other times but I woke I was soaking wet and have no idea how it happened. Please, what do I do?"
"I am not sure what to say, Ginny, Colin is your fault."
Ginny's blood ran cold. She rubbed her eyes and re-read the words on the page.
"What do you mean? How is Colin my fault?"
"You spent an entire week without my guidance. You fell into another one of your stupors and I fear you cannot be trusted. Ginny, what were you thinking? Why would you stop writing for an entire week? Of course, you lost more time."
The writing stopped. The harshness of Tom's words hit Ginny like a slap to the face. Without receiving a response Tom continued writing.
"The only reason it wasn't severe this time is because you released so much of your frustration last night. That is why you only lost a night instead of several days. At least you only hurt one student. Could you imagine if you lost control during the day or in the middle of the dining hall?" Tom's words crashed over Ginny like a tidal wave knocking her flat on her back.
Guilt rang true in Ginny's heart. It was her fault. She stopped writing for almost an entire week because she feared the white room. Poor Colin, his obsession with his camera reminded her of Dad and his plugs.
"Look, Ginny, I know you are afraid after your little 'vision', but if you are going crazy you need me. You are nothing without my help; just a vicious little girl who can't control her magic. I am not trying to scare you, but do you want to end up in the white room? Because that is where you are headed if you don't let me help you." Ginny sobbed. She didn't want any of this. She didn't want to be sent away from school or hurt her friends. Everything was so simple when school started. She was going to play Quidditch, learn magic and make cherished friends. Instead, she sat alone in her room, unable to remember half of her classes and possibly hurting people.
"Please Tom, I promise to listen. I will do whatever you say."
"There's the good girl I have grown to love, Ginny. I knew I was right to believe in you. Make sure you keep me as close as possible at all times. Write to me at least once a day to check in and make sure you haven't lost time. I can help you, I promise, but you need to trust me. Or else what is the point of this? Now go to sleep. You had a horrible fright and sleep will ease the shock."
Sleep. Sleeping made all the sense in the world right now. Exhaustion rolled over her as her limbs and eyes felt heavy. Sleep could fix everything. Without feeling, she crawled into bed. She stroked the slick black cover with her fingers. A surge of calming energy flow through her rhythmic ministrations.
It was dark when Ginny awoke from hunger. She walked toward the Great Hall for dinner but nothing felt real. The fear and anxiety she held inside threatened to choke her. Flashes of the white room and a man chasing her repeated like a gramophone stuck on a record scratch. Her heart pummeled her ribs remembering the details of the white room. Memories danced between the suffocating stench of disinfectant and pounding on a locked door. She had to escape. She turned into a corridor away from the Great Hall towards the tall wooden main doors. She felt the straw in her throat tightening in a fist again, she had to get outside in the open night.
She looked out the window. It was dark. Curfew for leaving the castle was in full force. She had less than an hour before she had to be back in the common room. It didn't matter. She had to get away. She looked around and did not see Mrs. Norris or Filch anywhere. Cracking the main door open enough to squeeze her small body through she stepped outside. The wind howled at full force blasting frigid air as light sleet fell to the ground.
Heavy thick clouds blocked the starlight as she walked through the freezing mist. The icy wind cut through her open cloak as the fabric billowed behind her. She should have put on her thick jumper. She should have worn a hat. She should have trusted Tom and written more when she had a chance. Hot tears warmed her cold face as her hands shook from something other than the arctic wind.
She meandered until she found herself in front of the school broom shed. Ginny reached into her long braid and pulled out the pin causing her hair to waterfall down her back. She examined the thick iron lock and found the inner box picking it open.
She walked in and closed the door behind her. The smell of wood, straw, and polish washed over her transporting her back to the safety of the broom shed at the burrow. Her hands stopped shaking allowing her to seize the first broom within reach. Her resolve increased with every step as she left the shed. No one would see her tonight, not with this weather. She was free to fly. She mounted the broom and weightlessly ascended.
She was off. Everything on the ground was still a mess but more manageable with the wind in her hair and ice beating her face. The cold felt like an old friend leading her to safety. She climbed above the trees focusing her attention on her weight to counterbalance the wind. Her cloak fluttered behind causing a slight drag on her momentum. She trundled into a barrel roll twisting and turning in several tight formations. Her hands gripped the wood harder than normal as she fought to control her grip against the ice.
She dove. She didn't slow her ascent. The adrenaline of the dive reignited her senses clearing her mental fog. She accelerated as she watched the ground coming faster into focus. It would be so easy to have an accident on this frozen icy night. People could assume she lost her grip or focus. In the last moment, she instinctively pulled on the broom to avoid a full force collision. She lost control in what surmounted to a failed feint. Rolling off to the side she slammed into the ice-covered ground full force. Her knee rammed into a rock ripping her tights as warm blood trickled down her leg.
Ginny laid back into the hard icy ground and looked towards the black sky laughing. She had no idea why crashing was so funny but it was. She laughed so hard she could feel her sides shaking and her stomach hurt. Tears rolled down her face and she wasn't laughing anymore. Hard sobs convulsed her small body. She released a feral wail into the icy wind containing her fear, guilt, and shame. Panting, her breathing returned to normal and her tears stopped. Water and mud saturated her cloak as the cold spread to her inner layers. She stayed catatonically still in a small ball on the hard frigid wet ground staring into the darkness of the forest.
Snatching the broom she walked back to the broom shed and halfheartedly threw it into the floor. She didn't bother relocking the door. How could anyone care about a stolen broom when an innocent person was hurt? How could anyone care what happened to her when she knew she was no longer innocent.