Okay soooooo...I HAD decided that Hermione will be able to hear what's going on around her while petrified.

But upon research, I found that Hermione didn't hear nor see anything while being petrified. So it's like she was in a deep sleep for weeks. Like Sleeping Beauty

I am supposed to be keeping this story canon, however, if I don't have something interesting, then it's gonna be a huge jump from petrified to unpetrified with nothing happening, and that's so fun, right?

Soooooooo...I'm gonna have her be able to think and hear while she's petrified. That way she can hear Ron and Harry when they come to visit, I may have Ginny pop in, the teachers and her overhearing conversations, whatever pops into my head. Despite her eyes being open, she won't be able to see. It will be like she's in a trance.

I'm also gonna have her be able to feel when she is being interacted with physically. So when she's carried, when the boys touch her hand, when Ron gives her a forehead kiss, whatever, she is gonna feel it. She just can't respond.

Hope this doesn't upset anyone, but I couldn't have my girl go out like that lol

Anyways, on with the fic!

Chapter 42: Puzzle Pieces

The next day, Harry filled me in on everything he had gone through the night before. I made him repeat it again, my mind whirring with questions and disbelief. A magical diary that talks back? Memories preserved like a Pensieve? It was astonishing, even for the wizarding world.

According to Harry, the diary held Tom Riddle's memories, and whenever Harry wrote in it, Riddle would answer. Through the diary, Riddle had shown Harry the night a Muggle-born student had died. The culprit? According to Riddle, it was Hagrid, who had supposedly opened the Chamber of Secrets and unleashed a creature he kept in a box.

Ron and I absolutely refused to believe it.

"Riddle might have got the wrong person," I said, clutching the edge of the table. My voice was firm, though my heart pounded. "Maybe it was some other monster attacking people."

"Could be true," Ron sighed, though he sounded doubtful. "Then again, how many monsters d'you think this place can hold?"

"We always knew Hagrid had been expelled," said Harry miserably. He seemed torn, caught between his faith in Hagrid and the unsettling memories he'd witnessed. "And the attacks must've stopped after Hagrid was kicked out. Otherwise, Riddle wouldn't have got his award."

"Riddle does sound like Percy," Ron muttered, his face curling into a sneer. "Who asked him to squeal on Hagrid, anyway?"

"But the monster had killed someone, Ron," I said, my voice dropping slightly. The thought of a life lost—someone like me, perhaps, just trying to learn magic—sent a chill down my spine.

"And Riddle was going to go back to some Muggle orphanage if they closed Hogwarts," said Harry. "I don't blame him for wanting to stay here."

"You met Hagrid down Knockturn Alley, didn't you, Harry?" I asked, hesitating slightly.

"He was buying Flesh-Eating Slug Repellent," Harry said quickly, almost defensively.

A strange silence fell over us for a moment. The idea that Hagrid might be involved in something so dark felt impossible, but doubt crept at the edges of my thoughts. I tried to push it away.

"Do you think we should go and ask Hagrid about it all?" I asked finally, though the idea made my stomach twist. What if we were wrong? What if we weren't?

"That'd be a cheerful visit," Ron said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "'Hello, Hagrid. Tell us, have you been setting anything mad and hairy loose in the castle lately?'"

I shot Ron a look, though his attempt at humor made the knot in my chest ease slightly.

In the end, we decided not to say anything to Hagrid—at least not yet. Unless there was another attack, it seemed unfair to burden him with suspicions we didn't fully believe ourselves. After all, it had been nearly four months since Justin and Nearly Headless Nick were Petrified, and people were starting to relax. Peeves had finally stopped singing his insufferable "Oh, Potter, you rotter" song, and even Ernie Macmillan had begun speaking politely to Harry again.

By March, there was even good news. Professor Sprout announced that several of the Mandrakes had thrown a raucous party in Greenhouse Three.

"The moment they start trying to move into each other's pots, we'll know they're fully mature," she told Harry cheerfully. "Then we'll be able to revive those poor people in the hospital wing."

Easter holidays arrived, bringing a mix of promise and stress. We were given the opportunity to choose our third-year subjects—a task I couldn't take lightly. I spent hours poring over the lists of new classes, carefully marking them with checks, my quill tapping thoughtfully against my chin.

"This could affect our whole future," I said earnestly, glancing at Harry and Ron, who were both sprawled out in chairs by the common room fire, looking less enthusiastic.

"I just want to give up Potions," Harry muttered, leaning back in frustration.

"We can't, unfortunately," Ron said gloomily, his hand dragging across his list like it weighed a ton. "We keep all our old subjects, or I would've ditched Defense Against the Dark Arts."

My jaw dropped at his statement. "But that's very important!" I exclaimed, appalled. Honestly, how could he even think that?

"Not the way Lockhart teaches it," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "I haven't learned a damn thing from him except not to set pixies loose."

I shook my head in disbelief as Neville and Dean joined us, both holding their own lists. Neville looked pale, as though someone had asked him to solve a life-or-death puzzle. Dean, on the other hand, seemed to have taken a less serious approach, tapping random spots on his parchment with his wand and circling whatever his wand tip touched.

As for me, I signed up for every single subject. There was just so much to learn, I thought, excitement and a little nervousness bubbling in my chest. True, it would make for a heavier workload, but I couldn't pass up the chance to learn Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, and Care of Magical Creatures—among others.

Harry, however, seemed indifferent, lazily copying whatever Ron chose: Divination and Care of Magical Creatures. I tried to encourage him to consider his options more carefully, but he just shrugged, clearly more preoccupied with Quidditch. Oliver Wood had been insisting on nightly practices after dinner, which left Harry with barely any time for anything but homework and sleep.

Later that evening, we sat by the fire, attempting to tackle History of Magic homework. I was halfway through jotting down notes when Neville came barreling over to us, his face as pale as a ghost.

"Harry, I don't know who did it. I just found—" he stammered, his voice shaking.

Before I could even ask what was wrong, Harry leapt to his feet and bolted out of the common room after Neville. Ron followed without a word, leaving me bewildered and staring at their retreating backs.

I sighed, shaking my head, and decided to stay behind. Whatever it was, they'd fill me in. Meanwhile, I opened Ancient Runes Made Easy, immersing myself in the text to stay ahead for next year. It wasn't long before Ron and Harry returned, both out of breath and looking utterly frantic.

"What happened?" I asked, setting my book down and giving them my full attention.

"Someone stole the diary," Harry said, his tone sharp with disbelief.

My eyes widened. "Stole it? But only a Gryffindor could have done it. Nobody else knows our password!"

"Exactly!" Harry snapped, pacing in agitation.

"But who would want to take it?" I asked, my mind racing. "Who else even knows how it works?"

Harry shrugged helplessly, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Dunno."

The next morning, I woke to the kind of weather that seemed to beg you to leave the castle—a brilliant sun shining through the frost-lined windows and a light, crisp breeze filtering in through the cracks. It felt like one of those rare, perfect days at Hogwarts.

"Perfect Quidditch conditions!" Oliver Wood exclaimed with his usual enthusiasm, his voice carrying through the Great Hall. At the Gryffindor table, he hovered over the team like an overzealous parent, piling scrambled eggs onto everyone's plates.

"Harry, buck up there," Wood insisted, nudging Harry's plate toward him. "You need a decent breakfast."

I glanced over at Harry, who looked more interested in staring at the table than eating anything. He barely even acknowledged Wood's enthusiasm. I could tell something was bothering him—something beyond just nerves about Quidditch. The robbery of the diary weighed on him heavily, and while I had been practically begging him to report it, he just didn't seem willing. I understood why he hesitated—after all, it was personal—but I couldn't shake the thought that ignoring it was a mistake.

As we left the Great Hall, Ron and I followed Harry up the grand staircase. The chatter of students and the soft clatter of shoes on stone filled the air, but suddenly Harry froze mid-step. He whipped his head around, his eyes scanning the corridor as if searching for something—or someone.

"What is it?" I asked, startled by the abrupt stop.

Then Harry shouted, causing both Ron and me to flinch in surprise. "The voice!" he said, spinning to look over his shoulder. His expression was wild, and his green eyes darted from wall to wall. "I just heard it again, didn't you?"

Ron and I exchanged a quick, uneasy glance. "No, mate," Ron said, looking around as if expecting the source of Harry's claim to jump out at us. "Didn't hear a thing."

I frowned, biting my lip. I hated this helpless feeling. Why was Harry the only one hearing it? And through walls, no less? It didn't make any sense—unless...

And then it hit me. A realization so blindingly obvious that I wondered how I hadn't pieced it together sooner. I clapped a hand to my forehead, my heart racing with the exhilaration of figuring it out.

"Harry!" I exclaimed, my voice trembling with a mix of excitement and urgency. "I think I've just understood something! I've got to go to the library!"

Before either of them could respond, I took off up the stairs, my bag bouncing against my side. How could I have been so thick? The answers had been staring me in the face all along, and now it was all finally starting to click!

The library was quiet, except for the faint rustle of pages and the occasional soft thud of a book being set down. I felt my heart pounding as I moved through the aisles, scanning the shelves frantically. Something about the clues we'd been piecing together had made my mind race with worry. I needed answers, and I needed them now.

As I rounded a corner, nearly colliding with a tall figure, I looked up to see Penelope Clearwater, a Ravenclaw prefect. She was a lovely girl, with neatly tied blonde hair and a demeanor that always seemed composed.

"Hermione? You seem like you're in a hurry," she said, a curious smile forming as she adjusted the books she was shelving.

"I am," I admitted, my voice rushed. "I'm looking for Most Macabre Monstrosities. I've checked the usual section, but it's not there."

Penelope tilted her head thoughtfully. "Oh, that's a peculiar title. Perhaps it's in the returned books bin? Let me help you find it."

I hesitated for a moment. I didn't want to involve her in something so dangerous, but her offer seemed genuine, and I didn't have time to refuse help. "Thank you," I said with a small nod, and we headed toward the bin together.

As we searched through the pile, my fingers brushed against the worn spine of a familiar book. I pulled it out and opened it quickly, flipping through the brittle, yellowed pages until a certain word caught my eye—basilisk.

My hands trembled as I read the description:

"Of the many fearsome beasts and monsters that roam our land, there is none more curious or more deadly than the Basilisk, known also as the King of Serpents. This snake, which may reach gigantic size and live many hundreds of years, is born from a chicken's egg, hatched beneath a toad. Its methods of killing are most wondrous, for aside from its deadly and venomous fangs, the Basilisk has a murderous stare, and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall suffer instant death. Spiders flee before the Basilisk, for it is their mortal enemy, and the Basilisk flees only from the crowing of the rooster, which is fatal to it."

I froze. My heart dropped into my stomach as everything clicked into place. Why only Harry could hear the voice, why he heard it through the walls, the petrified students, Mrs. Norris. This was it.

"What is it, Hermione?" Penelope asked, noticing the panic in my expression.

"It's... it's a basilisk," I whispered. My voice was shaky as I continued to read aloud. "Its gaze can kill, and its presence explains how no one's died yet—they've only seen its reflection." I looked up at her, my mind racing. "Penelope, this thing is moving through the castle—probably through the pipes. That's how it's staying hidden!"

Penelope's face paled. "Are you sure about this?" she asked, her voice laced with both fear and curiosity.

"Yes," I said firmly, but my throat felt tight with dread. "It all makes sense now. We need to warn someone." I glanced down at the book, then, in a moment of resolve, wrote the word pipes on it, tore the page out, and bald it up, holding it firmly in my fist so Madam Pince wouldn't see it. "This information is too important to leave here."

I looked back at Penelope, trying to stay calm. "Do you have a pocket mirror with you?"

She nodded and pulled it out, a small silver mirror engraved with delicate flowers.

"We're going to use this to look around corners," I said, glancing nervously at the darkened library entrance. "We can't risk looking at it directly."

Penelope gripped the mirror tightly, her eyes wide, but she nodded. Together, we left the library, walking cautiously toward the Great Hall. The corridors were eerily empty, the sound of our footsteps echoing softly. I held my breath as Penelope angled the mirror around each corner before we turned.

"Do you think we'll make it back?" Penelope whispered nervously.

"We have to," I said, though my voice wavered. "We need to warn everyone."

As we approached another corner, I felt a chill creep down my spine. Something was wrong. Penelope held the mirror up, and I saw it—the reflection of two glowing yellow eyes.

"Don't look!" I screamed, but it was too late. My body froze mid-step, the scream caught in my throat. A cold, heavy numbness spread through me as my vision blurred and then went dark.

The last thing I remembered was the faint sound of Penelope gasping beside me before everything faded into silence.

It was as though I had slipped out of reality and into some dark, unfeeling void. I couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't even cry out. All I had were my thoughts, spiraling in a whirlwind of fear and helplessness. How had this happen? I didn't know what to do or how to fight it. For the first time in my life, my brain couldn't solve the problem—it was utterly useless.

Then, I heard them. Familiar voices, sharp and panicked.

"Oh, heavens! It's Miss Granger!" Professor McGonagall's voice was unmistakable. Usually firm and commanding, it now carried an edge of horror that made my insides twist. "And Miss Clearwarter! Look at them!"

"They've been Petrified," squeaked Professor Flitwick, his voice high with disbelief. "This is dreadful! Absolutely dreadful!"

I wanted so desperately to respond, to tell them I could hear them, that I was here, but no sound came from me. The fear clawed at me, choking me from within. My heart, though I couldn't feel it beat, seemed to scream in despair.

"Quickly! We must get them to the hospital wing at once," McGonagall snapped, regaining her composure. "We need to inform the Headmaster immediately."

"I'll levitate Miss Granger," Flitwick offered, his voice trembling.

Next thing I knew, I felt weightless—floating through the air. The sensation terrified me. I couldn't see anything, couldn't tell where I was being taken. My brain raced with questions: What will they do? Can this be fixed? I couldn't bear to imagine Ron and Harry finding out like this. What would they think? Would they blame themselves? Would they be safe? The fear of the unknown gnawed at me relentlessly.

After what felt like an eternity, I was laid on something soft—a bed. The familiar scent of the hospital wing seeped into my senses. The sound of hurried footsteps and whispered voices followed.

"Oh, my goodness," Madam Pomfrey's voice broke through the silence, sounding both fretful and determined. "Another attack. Both of them. How long were they like this?"

"We don't know," McGonagall replied, her tone heavy with worry. "We just found them near the library."

"Thank goodness no one else came across them," Pomfrey muttered. "Poor things… But at least they'll be safe now."

Safe. The word echoed in my mind, though it brought little comfort. I wasn't safe. None of us were. Whoever or whatever was behind these attacks was still out there, and I was utterly helpless.

"Do you think… Could it be—" Flitwick started, but McGonagall cut him off sharply.

"We must not jump to conclusions. We'll wait for the Headmaster."

I wished I could cry, to let out the fear and frustration, but I couldn't. All I could do was lie there, trapped in my own mind.

The faint sound of hurried footsteps echoed in the sterile quiet of the hospital wing a while later. Could have been minutes, could have been hours. I couldn't really tell. Then came a voice that sent a pang of emotion through my frozen form.

"Hermione!" Ron's voice called out, urgent and filled with worry.

Oh, Ron. I couldn't see him, couldn't move, couldn't turn my head to take in his familiar face, but his voice brought a bittersweet comfort. I longed to answer him, to tell him I was okay...well, as okay as one could be in this state, but of course, I couldn't. I was trapped, paralyzed in this petrified body, reduced to nothing more than a silent observer. Tears welled in my heart, though none could ever fall.

I strained to hear what was happening around me. Professor McGonagall's measured tones explained to them how Penelope and I had been found, petrified, clutching the mirror. My mind screamed to warn them, to tell them everything I had uncovered about the basilisk, the pipes, and the danger they were in. But my body betrayed me. I couldn't even twitch a finger to give them a sign.

I caught Harry's voice next, steady but cautious, denying any knowledge of the mirror. I knew that tone; he was trying to keep calm, to stay composed for Ron. But I could sense the undercurrent of concern in his words. They didn't know. They didn't understand the full picture yet. And I was the only one who could help, but I was useless, silent and frozen.

"Come on, Ron," Harry said, his voice quieter now. "We need to go."

No, Harry, Ron—don't leave me! I screamed internally. Stay. Please stay. I need you. My boys. My friends. My family. They were the only thing keeping me tethered to sanity in this horrible state, and now they were about to walk away, leaving me alone with my unspoken thoughts.

Ron hesitated. I could sense it, feel it even though I couldn't see him. He didn't want to leave. He was probably frowning, shuffling his feet as he always did when he was unsure. I could picture the way his ears would go pink when he was upset. Oh, Ron, don't go.

I hated this. Hated being unable to help them, hated being the weak link. They needed me. And yet, here I was, utterly helpless, petrified like a statue.

My boys. My poor, brave boys. I could only hope they'd find the answers they so desperately needed before it was too late. For them. For me. For all of us.