"ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ, ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜɴ ᴡᴇ ɢᴏ:
ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴏɴ ɢᴏᴇꜱ ʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴀʀᴛʜ.
ᴡᴇ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴅɪᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ:
ᴡᴇ ᴅɪᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴠᴇʀᴛɪɢᴏ."
― ᴀʀᴄʜɪʙᴀʟᴅ ᴍᴀᴄʟᴇɪꜱʜ, ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ᴘᴏᴇᴍꜱ, 1917-1982
Chapter Six: World, Stay Still
"Professor Flitwick, do they make charmed diaries?" asked Ruby after a particularly gruelling Charms class.
"Of course, Miss Potter," said Flitwick, with a laugh. "Anything can be charmed."
Ruby paused, unwilling to show Flitwick the diary.
"But could you make a diary that writes back? Like, has a conversation with you?"
"I've got one, Ruby," Lavender piped up. "Can I show her, Professor Flitwick?"
"Certainly, Miss Brown. Nothing quite like a hands-on learning experience."
Lavender grinned, pulling a sparkly, pink book from the depths of her bag and opening it on the desk to the first page.
"You have to use special ink," she said, taking out a matching bottle of ink and a new quill.
Do you think the next Potions exam will go well for me? Lavender wrote, and Ruby leaned over to watch the answer appear in the same sparkly pink ink.
Reply hazy, try again.
"Oh, come on!" said Lavender, pouting.
Does my hair look better parted on this side?
Don't count on it.
"It's just like a Magic 8-Ball!" Ruby protested, disappointed. Both Lavender and Flitwick looked at her, confused.
"It's a Muggle toy," she explained. "You think of a question while holding it upside-down, then turn it right side up to see which of the answers inside the ball float to the top; that's why I was disappointed; I thought they'd be more than stock responses."
Tee is much more interesting than that toy, she thought. And confusing.
"Some wizards and witches of the Islamic world are known to consult with djinn from time to time for advice through various mediums, books included, although the practice is dangerous, best left to the extremely skilled," Flitwick supplied. "But otherwise, I am afraid charmed diaries are quite like your Magic 7-Ball."
"Magic 8-Ball, sir," Ruby corrected. "Thanks, anyway."
"Oh, of course," said Flitwick with a laugh. "Habits die hard; seven is the most magically powerful number, you know, because — well — wouldn't want to ruin Arithmancy should either of you decide to take it next year, would we?"
"No, Professor Flitwick," they both answered, Ruby a bit slow on the response.
But she was already thinking about djinn. Well, then, to the library.
But to Transfiguration, first.
By the time she and Lavender were seated, and Professor McGonagall was halfway through attendance, it was clear that something was off. Parvati twitched nervously when Harry's name was called (normal), but Harry was sitting by himself, and Ron was next to Seamus Finnegan (not normal). Even McGonagall herself raised an eyebrow, looking between the two, surprised.
"I think they've been fighting," said Hermione, leaning over her desk. She sat up straight when McGonagall came by and pretended to be hard at work on transfiguring her teacup into a dove. Lavender had managed to vanish the patterns off of her teacup, and Ruby's looked somewhat feathery in texture — Hermione's already had two wings and attempted to flap around the room.
"Reparifarge!"
Hermione caught the falling, repaired teacup out of midair, then replaced it on her desk.
"Not that either of them will tell me," she said, "but I think it's got to do with Ginny."
"You mean, with Ginny fancying the 'Boy-Who-Lived'?" asked Ruby. "Honestly, boys are so petty."
"I don't think it's got to do with that," said Hermione. The Transfigured teacup made to flutter off again.
"Then what?"
"I saw Ginny coming out of Potions. She looked very... well... frightened."
"Professor Snape's frightening, don't you think, 'Mione?" asked Lavender, giggling.
Hermione rolled her eyes, though Ruby couldn't tell if it was directed at the giggling or the nickname.
"I asked if she'd seen Harry, and she looked even more frightened—"
"Miss Brown, Miss Potter, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall reprimanded. "Concentrate on the task at hand, if you please. There will be plenty of time for chittering outside of my class."
"Sorry, Professor McGonagall," all three chorused.
The library was not helpful in the least; Ruby returned to the Slytherin common room with minutes to spare before curfew, head full of useless facts about djinn. She narrowly avoided Theodore, feigned exhaustion, and was the first to get ready for bed.
Not at all tired and loathe to do homework that wasn't due for days, she opened the diary.
It won't leave me alone.
Who?
My other companion.
It won't leave me alone unless I do something.
Surprisingly, I want to be left alone.
It keeps demanding things from me.
Things I can't provide.
Whatever you say.
Good night.
Like he can do anything in there, she scoffed, still not convinced that djinn or no djinn, the diary was nothing more than a book cursed by an exceptionally skilled witch or wizard with too much time on their hands.
Ruby decided the diary definitely wasn't normal when she woke up to it hovering above her bookbag, emitting an eerie green light. Much less when it began to glide out of the dormitory, like an unmanned magic carpet.
"Wait!"
This is not on, she thought, as she hurried after the floating diary, wand in hand to light her way so that she didn't trip over her own feet on the way out of the common room. It's freezing, and this is absolutely not on.
The diary did not stop, continuing at top speed as it glided out of the common room.
What is Tee playing at?
As she reached the second floor, the diary flew ahead to the girls' toilet and began throwing itself repeatedly against the door; frightened nearly out of her wits, Ruby opened it lest it attract the attention of any professors on patrol.
"Myrtle?" she called as the diary floated inside, hovering over one of the sinks. But the ghost didn't answer, and nor was she to be seen.
Ruby turned around, holding her wand aloft to illuminate the empty room.
"Myr-tle, are you there?"
All of a sudden, the room filled with a sharp, hissing sound that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
Parseltongue? thought Ruby, shivering as she watched the book flip open, an inky mark in definitely-not-English (nor any other script that she recognised) scrawling itself across the page. Then, with a loud sshhhrrr, the little metal snake on the tap opened its mouth wide, and the sink slowly sunk down, revealing a hole easily big enough for a grown man.
I'm seeing things, she thought. Must've had some funny cheese. That's the only plausible explanation for the floating diary and this giant hole in the toilet floor that's definitely not supposed to be here.
She stepped as close as she dared to the chasm, her heart beating out of her chest, but couldn't bear to look down into the abyss below.
How far down does it go?
She leaned towards it, and felt the terrifying whoosh of vertigo.
The diary stopped floating and promptly fell to the floor with an unceremonious thump.
What was that about?
What was what?
Oh. That.
It's nothing.
Making sure I won't be bothered anymore.
Don't worry about it.
Miffed, Ruby picked up the book and walked out into the hallway, hoping to return as quickly as she came.
"Enjoying your evening walk, Potter?"
She turned around very slowly.
There stood Snape, black robes, sneer, and all.
"Points from Slytherin, sir?" she asked, tucking the diary under her arm and safely out of sight, slowly beginning to back away.
"Not so fast, Potter. Detention tomorrow."
Ruby didn't think she'd ever heard Snape quite so gleeful.
"Yes, sir," she said and hurried off, lest her presence invoke yet more vitriol.
"You're more trouble than you're worth, you know," whispered Ruby.
As if the diary could hear her. But soon, she was safe back in bed and far below ground in the dormitory, emerald curtains drawn tight.
Can't you just explain what's going on?
I don't understand myself, completely.
However, if you want to know the twelve uses of dragon blood, I can provide you with that.
Funnily enough, I don't want to know the twelve uses of dragon blood.
Then how do I know that I'm not supposed to worry about it?
Tee paused.
I know very little. I don't think I'm a very nice person, you know. It doesn't bother me terribly, not knowing why, but all this time, it makes you think what I did to get stuck here, doesn't it?
But I'm trapped inside a book, after all.
What can I possibly do?
After the events of tonight, it was not so reassuring as Tee thought it might have been.
The diary was not so helpless as it looked.
One thing was for certain. No more Theodore.
The next day, after lessons, she asked Anthony to come to the Clock Tower courtyard so she could show him the diary, and, as usual, he was trailing far behind, muttering about the work he had to catch up on in Potions.
Ruby had just turned the corner when she heard it.
Perhaps it was all at the same time.
The castle shook. Someone screamed.
Then came a horrible crunching sound.
For a full minute, she couldn't find her voice, fighting between the impulse to run back or to run away.
When she finally mastered her fear and stepped into the hallway, in terror of what must lay there, there was blood, so much blood... there was a stump where Anthony's forearm had been and a bloody trail leading away from where he had fallen.
The corridor was empty.
"Anthony?" she said, stepping towards him. Ruby took her wand out (And what a lot of good that will do, she thought, me being a second-year and whatever attacked Anthony being some kind of horrible, carnivorous monster).
"Can you hear me?"
His head was towards her, and she could tell that he was still breathing, but shallowly. His eyes were glassy and half-closed.
"Anthony, please wake up!"
The harder she shook him, the less he seemed to respond. Ruby wasn't sure if seconds or hours had passed; she couldn't breathe through the mounting fear.
The blood, the wound... she had to stop him from bleeding out, but the harder she pressed, the more he bled.
"Potter, what is going on?" came a snappish, familiar voice.
Snape, who had clearly followed the trail of blood, knelt down beside her.
"Clammy," he muttered, pressing the back of his hand to Anthony's face. "Clammy, but warm... impaired breathing... strange... Potter, tell me what happened."
"I was walking ahead of him," said Ruby, still horrified. "I turned around the corner, and then everything shook... I heard him scream, and then he must have fallen unconscious... He is going to be alright, Professor?"
Snape did not answer, his expression frantic as he alternated between searching for a cause and rummaging through the vials in his robes' pocket.
"What's that?" asked Ruby shakily, pointing at the sticky black puncture mark on the mangled remains of Anthony's elbow, and Snape followed her gaze.
"Venom."
Snape forced a potion down Anthony's throat as he slumped against the ground, his head lolling with sleep.
"Don't just stand there gawking!" snapped Snape. "Get Dumbledore immediately!"
There was not a moment to lose; she sprinted off towards the Headmaster's Office, stopping in front of the gargoyle and rattling off the names of all the sweets she could think of until the staircase was revealed.
"Professor Dumbledore—" she shouted. "PROFESSOR DUMBLEDORE!"
"Ruby—" he began. There were other people in the office, but she barely noticed them.
"You have to come quick, please! Anthony's been bitten by something — it took his arm — the bleeding won't stop — Professor Snape said he's been poisoned!"
"Where is he?" asked Dumbledore, standing up.
"Third floor," she managed to get out. "By the stairs."
"Stay here," Dumbledore ordered.
And then he left; the other people, too, some of them ushering her out with them as well.
"Where's Harry?" she asked, as Ron and Hermione came into the hall outside of the Hospital Wing, and the shock began to subside.
"Haven't seen him all day," said Ron absentmindedly. "We thought he might be sleeping; Wood has been training the Quidditch team for the game with Slytherin like there's no tomorrow. We came as soon as we heard — look, is Anthony alright?"
"No one's said anything," said Ruby grimly, glancing back at the closed door. "They've been arguing about the Draught of Living Death, whatever that is, then Snape came and shut the door, and I haven't heard anything since."
Hermione looked like she wanted to say something, but she didn't divulge whatever it was.
"We'll go find Harry," she said instead. "Let us know if they say anything about Anthony, alright?"
"I will," said Ruby, slumping against the wall as she watched them leave.
About half an hour later, a fourth-year Hufflepuff discovered a spot of carpet in the corridor that had turned black. They called the two friends who they were walking with to watch as the black spot ate away at the carpet slowly, turning the entire thing black, and everyone who came into the corridor stopped to watch as well.
Eventually, some of the older students put some wards around the carpet, surmising that it was an extracurricular experiment gone wrong. However, the crowd that had gathered did not disperse.
Harry paused.
"Ruby," he began, but stopped.
"What?"
"Where have I been?"
"I don't know," said Ruby, wishing they could get out of the crowd. "Don't you?"
"No."
"Maybe you saw something you shouldn't've," she said. "Like Anthony last year — oh, why is it always Anthony?"
Harry had gone very pale.
"What if it is me?" he insisted.
"It can't be," Ruby scoffed, but the crowd was already whispering.
"Potter and Goldstein must've had a disagreement; Potter always had a nasty temper on him, even before the incident."
"It must be why the other boy went away, hoping Potter would cool off."
"You're right! And instead, he came back with a vengeance."
"But it's the sister who found Goldstein. If Potter really had done it, she would have kept her mouth shut."
"The sister covered it up! You know what Slytherins are like!"
"He really must be the Dark Lord!" said another. "Come on, you saw Quirrell's body. And he's a Parselmouth. There's not one that's been decent — there's Slytherin himself for a start."
"Harry?" she heard Hermione say behind them.
He was bent over, his arms wrapped around his stomach, and it looked like he was choking... or trying to keep something down.
"MOVE, ALL OF YOU! HE NEEDS AIR!"
Mafalda's magically-magnified voice seemed to soar over the din of the crowd, and Ruby saw Percy helping her to direct students towards the stairs.
The sight of the two Prewett cousins who harboured the most hatred working together told her just how dire the situation was.
"PROFESSOR!" screamed Ruby, hoping someone, anyone, would hear. "PROFESSOR!"
"Run for Madam Pomfrey, Hermione," Ron was saying. "Go! Go, go, go!"
"Is he breathing?" That was Mafalda. "Ron, quick, check if he's breathing."
Then it came. A horrible, low, wheezing, choking sound. A wisp of oily black smoke rising. A hand clasped tight around a mouth.
Dread was a physical feeling, and Ruby wasn't sure whether it belonged to her chest or her stomach; whether the rushing heartbeat, leaden weight, and vertigo had always been there.
Why won't everything just stop spinning?
Just fall, and she wasn't sure if it was Harry or her. Just fall back into my body, please.
World, stay still.
It was hysterically funny that the laws of the universe did not bend to her — their — whose? — whims.
"Someone needs to get her to the infirmary as well, I think she's going to faint — Perce, take Harry, I've got her — God, she's light."
Mafalda's carrying me. What's happened?
"Draught of Peace — get that down her, Miss Prewett — big swallow, there you go, I'll take Mr. Potter, thank you Mr. Weasley."
"What's happened?" asked Ruby as soon as everything cleared.
"Just lie back down, dear; you've had a nasty fright," said Madam Pomfrey, patting her on the head in what was supposed to be a comforting gesture.
"Where's Harry—"
Mafalda, who was sitting on the bed opposite, sandwiched between Ron and Percy, with Hermione sitting at her feet, pointed towards a bed with the curtains drawn tight.
"Flamel and Dumbledore are working on something. Don't want to be disturbed. But he's okay, for now."
"You need to tell us what happened," said Percy sharply.
"Well," said Ruby, "I don't really know. We were all worried about Anthony and Harry, he seemed to..." She paused. "He seemed to think he — well — he couldn't remember where he'd been, and he saw the black venom mark, and with everyone whispering about him behind us, he just, he... he just freaked out."
"Professor Flamel did say guilt was one of his emotional triggers," said Hermione quietly.
"We need to see him," said Ron, standing up, "we need to see if he's alright—"
"He is fine," Madam Pomfrey assured him. "I suppose you can all stay for the time being; Mr. Goldstein's parents will be arriving later after all."
With that, Madam Pomfrey went over to Anthony's bedside — how could I have forgotten about Anthony, Ruby thought with a pang of guilt.
Ron stood up and followed Madam Pomfrey to where Anthony lay, pale, much smaller than he usually looked, and unmoving.
"Professor Dumbledore has put him into a coma to slow the effects of the venom until he and Mr. Flamel can determine the cause and what to treat him with," she explained, measuring something out into a crucible. "He barely breathes."
"Why can't they just give him all the antidotes they can think of?" asked Ron. "One of them has got to work."
"A cure can also be a poison." That was Mafalda. "They have to know what they're fighting against. Or whether they can even fight against it."
"Well, I don't know what took Anthony's arm, but it's not Harry," Ron insisted, picking up on the insinuation, and, at the same time, Hermione looked up, and said:
"Of course it's not Harry!"
"Don't be blind, you two; a werewolf doesn't mean to hurt anyone either—" Mafalda began.
"They're right!" Ruby snapped. "Harry wouldn't do this. Quirrell deserved it!"
"Miss Potter," Madam Pomfrey chastised.
She refused to apologize.
"Harry didn't do this," said Ruby. "Look, Voldemort invaded Hogwarts before; who's to say a Death Eater wouldn't try again?"
"The Death Eaters are all in Azkaban—" Percy started.
"Come on," said Mafalda, "even you can't believe that!"
"Innocent until proven guilty," he said stonily.
"There is no need to become hysterical!" said Madam Pomfrey.
"Oh, so you don't think Voldemort can break into Azkaban, Madam Pomfrey?" asked Mafalda.
The school nurse went red in the face as she fiddled with some potions.
"Well— he'd be recognized, for one!"
"Right," said Mafalda, hands on her hips, her long ponytail swinging as she shook her head. "And do you know what he looks like?"
"Of course not!" said Madam Pomfrey, although there was something unconvincing about it."Few have set eyes on He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and lived to tell the story!"
"And do you think the Dementors know who he is?"
"Well, perhaps not. I don't suppose it makes any difference to — to them," said Madam Pomfrey, shuddering at the thought of whatever Dementors were.
Just then, the curtains around Harry's bed were flung aside, and both Flamel and Dumbledore stepped out, each looking grim and anxious. Flamel went up to Madam Pomfrey and whispered something that made her gasp, dropping the vial she was holding.
Ruby slid off the bed, gingerly stepped over the broken glass, summoned the dregs of courage, looked up at Flamel, and demanded:
"Tell me what you told Madam Pomfrey."
"Oh, Mr. Flamel, you mustn't," said Madam Pomfrey, wringing her hands.
"She has a right to know. With your blessing as her guardian, Albus?"
Dumbledore nodded, his expression solemn.
"Perhaps alone, Nicholas."
He nodded at the others sitting on the bed, and, ever-sensitive to the whims of authority, Percy rushed them out of the room, Hermione leading, of course, Mafalda in the middle, and Ron lingering by the door before someone pulled him away. Likewise, both Dumbledore and Pomfrey disappeared into the back-room of the Hospital Wing.
The air was silent. The curtains did not move, though the windows were open, and the autumn breeze should have been blowing.
World, stay still.
She heard a half-wheeze, half-cough come from the direction of Harry's bed, obscured by the curtain.
"Harry is very ill," said Flamel in a soft voice. "I am afraid that his magic has finally begun to stabilize, and though he forced the Obscurus not to escape with the force of his will, the fact remains that... that he will not recover..."
"Mr. Flamel," said Ruby, fighting off tears. Not real, not real. Please don't be real. "I need to make sure I heard you right. Is Harry going to die?"
"I will try everything in my power to save him."
"What about the Philosopher's Stone, the Elixir of Life, I mean? Doesn't that cure all illnesses?"
"I will try," said Flamel. "But I fear the damage even holding the Obscurus back has caused will be irreparable."
"But how can it be irreparable?" asked Ruby. "You have to fix him, you've got to—"
"Ruby," said Flamel, placing an ancient hand on her shoulder. "This is no wound of the flesh Harry suffers."
"Then what?"
"I am afraid the answer lies out of reach of the mortal realm. One might call it... a wound of the soul. An injury only the foulest and Darkest of magic can touch."
"And who knows about healing this... wound of the soul, Mr. Flamel?" Ruby demanded.
Flamel was silent for a while.
"Those who have suffered."
More to himself than Ruby, he added, "Perhaps an extraction of true nigredo, a drop of purest abyss would do... it is best to proceed with caution."
"Nigredo? And where is that found, sir?"
Flamel frowned at the sugar in her tone. "It is not found, but made, should I be able to re-create my experiment and exact mental state from more than six hundred years prior... Listen, Ruby. Your brother knew his time was running out; he knew that sooner rather than later, he would die—"
"He's just a kid!" cried Ruby. "We're all just kids, don't you see?"
"I do see," said Flamel impassively. "The cycle of life is inexorable and completely un-empathetic to human concerns."
"And so are you."
"Miss Potter," said Flamel, his voice and gaze sharp.
For a few terrible seconds, she felt the excruciating weight of what she would come to know as something like Legilimency; except instead of a subtle and undetectable probe, Flamel's magic was massively complicated, miles of Renaissance architecture that seemed to stretch as far as the known world was wide.
It was almost crushing, forcing the breath from her lungs and out her nose, and leaving her gasping for the next one. She shoved back; it was something like pushing atoms, things that were definitely everywhere, but too tiny and ubiquitous to really sense, but it was as effective as if she were shoving against a stone wall.
Flamel let go; she could breathe.
"Sorry," muttered Ruby, glaring at the floor. "Life is cruel, I guess."
She couldn't help but think of the nature documentaries that Aunt Petunia hated and how they usually depicted some type of mean-looking predator (for example, a jackal) going after a cute-looking baby animal (for example, a seal), killing it, and feasting on the carcass. Ten times out of ten, you felt bad for the baby seal, but in the background was Uncle Vernon telling Dudley that that was the way of the world, strong beating weak, followed by a nasty glance at Harry if he was visible.
"How many Obscurials have you known?" she asked.
Flamel shook his head. "This is a story I know, and time and time again, it ends sadly. Forgive me for my callousness... Words cannot express how my heart goes out to both your plights. You are right. You are children. This—" He waved a hand as if to encompass the entire nightmare situation in a hand gesture "—should not be happening. Whatever happened to Harry should not have happened."
Empty words. You know it, I know it, Flamel.
How dare you.
But, wary this time, Ruby did not allow her frustration to bubble over.
He cleared his throat. "Go in and see him now. You should talk; I myself have much to discuss with your headmaster."
Then, Flamel turned and left, heels clicking methodically across the tiles.
"I never knew him to be so callous, dear," said Madam Pomfrey, appearing from nowhere and making Ruby jump in surprise. "The war changed everyone, I suppose... even him, such a shame. He was such a kind man. Here, you take Harry his potions," she added sternly, placing a few vials into Ruby's hands. "Purple, then yellow, then blue. He'll be drowsy after that last one, so ask your questions when you give him the yellow, but don't tire him out, mind, or you'll have to go."
"Thanks, Madam Pomfrey."
The matron smiled, her rosy cheeks dimpling.
"Did the war change you too?" asked Ruby.
"Oh, yes," said Pomfrey, her usually-lively eyes darkening. "It's been difficult to trust people as you once did. Acquaintance becomes foe, and friends do the unthinkable." She sighed. "It seems just a minute ago that your father was in here every moment, falling off his broom trying to impress your mother."
Her mother.
Her mind instantly went to the false Time-Turner. Why had it not spun as it had when Harry was last in mortal peril when he faced Voldemort in the Underground Chamber a few months ago.
Was it only meant to work once?
Where had he been?
"Dumbledore's found what happened to Harry; he fell down some stairs by accident between the second and first floors and hit his head. Poor thing lost his memory, I'm afraid," said Madam Pomfrey, as if she could read the thoughts on Ruby's face.
"Who pushed him?"
"No one, dear. It must have been an accident."
Ruby snorted. Honestly, Madam Pomfrey couldn't possibly think Harry would fall down the stairs on accident. He was a Seeker, for crying out loud! If anyone could fall down the stairs, it would be Neville. Not Harry.
And how accurately placed would that fall have to have been to erase Harry's memory of the previous few hours without seriously injuring him?
But that was not the issue at hand. Ruby thanked Madam Pomfrey again, pushed the curtains away, and ducked inside, clutching the vials.
There was Harry, alive, but not gloriously so. There was something bleak and ill-looking about his face, something cloudy about his eyes; he was propped up against the pillows, hands folded, the emerald eyes of the ouroboros ring glinting. Ruby glared at the carved snake, set the vials on the bedside table, and uncorked the purple one, drawing Harry's attention towards her.
He looked at her, but all the same did not seem to be looking at her.
"Drink this. It's from Madam Pomfrey," said Ruby, unnerved. She held out the purple vial, and, like an automaton, he obeyed, as with the yellow one.
"You've heard?" he asked, sitting up straight. His gaze had cleared, but his voice was raspy.
Ruby said nothing, fidgeting with the cork, scraping at it with her fingernails. She shrugged.
The temperature was icy, and now dread was not a stone but a monster that lived at the bottom of her stomach, clawing and groaning.
"Maybe Dumbledore could get your ring to work again?"
Harry sighed, and she was struck with the horrible realization that she hadn't seen him so miserable-looking since they left the Dursleys.
"I already asked. He said the only person who could fix it was the person who made it if it were broken. And besides, it's not the ring, we've decided. It's me."
"How?"
"It's my magic, Ruby. It's finally settled. I guess I ran as far as I could from it, and now it's all catching up to me."
"Is that what Flamel said?"
He winced. "More or less."
"And Dumbledore?"
"He's not so sure yet," said Harry. "They've been arguing, about complicated maths, mostly. I don't understand. Something about Lyapunov functions, I'm not sure what difference it makes."
"Nigredo. That's what Flamel said could help."
"Dumbledore said he'd never be able to replicate it," Harry said quickly.
"And what did Flamel say?"
"He got pretty angry. Something about progressing past it already. I don't know," he finished, looking faint.
It was probably time for the last potion.
"You're going to be fine," said Ruby, reaching for his hand, cold and somewhat limp, but he squeezed back. "We're going to find a way to save you, alright?"
Neither of them believed it.
Soon, Harry was asleep, anyway.
Lying in the bed opposite, thanks to an uncharacteristic concession by Madam Pomfrey, Ruby watched silver-white moonlight, sliced by window and wall, slant across the room, creating patches of illumination and darkness as she listened to Harry's rattling breaths, watching Anthony lying motionless five beds down, the Goldsteins speaking to Madam Pomfrey in hushed tones.
Ensconced in her patch of comfortable, sleepy darkness, she slid the diary out from her bookbag, which was under the bed.
Who are you?
The question itched, like a tiny particle of dust, floating around in the ether of existential dread.
T.M. Riddle. The pencilled inscription stared back at her, taunting her. Like it was something she should know. A riddle should have an answer.
A riddle has a veiled meaning.
But never look a gift-horse in the mouth.
With shaking hands, she wrote:
Tee?
Are you there?
I really, really need your help.
If one of the twelve uses of dragon blood is healing Obscurials, that'd be really helpful.
Please?
The answer took a long time to come, but she could almost certainly hear the accompanying whisper.
I can help you, Ruby.
And perhaps... you can help me too.
Her heart fluttered treacherously against her ribcage.
What do you want?
Set me free. Then I'll help.