It was now the middle of December, and I had spent the last week behaving like a paranoid kneazle on its seventh cup of coffee.
Why?
Because I remembered the timeline.
Or rather, I remembered the book's timeline. The one where Justin Finch-Fletchley wound up a frozen lawn ornament shortly after the dueling club.
And while I was not about to rely entirely on meta-knowledge, since things were clearly shifting thanks to my dazzling presence, I wasn't foolish enough to ignore it, either. Not when my students' safety was on the line. Or, more accurately, my future Order of Merlin credentials.
Which is why, for the past seven days, the Marauder's Map had become my new bedtime reading.
I watched that parchment like a hawk. A handsome, impeccably groomed hawk.
But a hawk nonetheless.
And today Saturday, December 19th, I finally saw suspicious activity from none other than Ginny Weasley.
Her little footsteps in the map crept through the corridors with the sort of sneaking pattern only possessed students and misbehaving cats would display. From my office chair, I leaned over the map, eyes narrowing as she carefully skirted groups of passing students and began making her way, unmistakably, toward the second floor girls' lavatory.
The entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.
"Oh no you don't," I muttered, grabbing my cloak. "Not on my watch, my dear diary-enthusiast."
I needed to intercept her, but I had to be subtle about it. Stalking an eleven-year-old girl through the castle, though noble in intent, was the sort of thing that could be easily misunderstood.
So I took the scenic route.
I strolled through the corridors with all the casual grace of a man who definitely didn't sprint down the staircases the moment no one was looking, slowed to an elegant walk as I approached the second floor, flicked a lock of hair back into perfect position, and turned the last corner just as Ginny Weasley emerged from the opposite one.
"Ms Weasley!" I said brightly, as though fate itself had arranged this charming coincidence. "Lovely to see you, my dear."
She froze.
Not frightened, just… irritated? Which was odd. Ginny Weasley generally looked at me with starstruck awe, the way my fans tended to.
But right now she looked like she'd bitten a lemon.
"Professor Lockhart," she said stiffly.
I flashed her one of my award-winning smiles. "Now, now, what brings you to this part of the castle alone? You know it's dangerous to wander here, especially recently. All the attacks have happened right along this corridor." I gestured with a flourish. "Nasty business, that."
Ginny swallowed, her expression strangely blank, too blank for a girl her age. "I was just… going for a walk."
"Alone?" I echoed with gentle concern. "At this hour? On this floor?" I lowered my voice conspiratorially. "If you need the facilities, I highly recommend choosing one that's less haunted. Myrtle hasn't been in the best of moods these past few days. Quite dramatic, really."
Ginny blinked, her lips tightening. "Oh. I… I see. Then I'll just… go somewhere else."
"Excellent idea," I said warmly.
She turned at once, almost too quickly. And in that moment, behind the polite little nod, behind the messy red hair, behind the freckles, a different presence seethed.
Tom Riddle.
I swear I could feel him glaring at me through the girl, simmering with wordless fury.
If I had read his mind, I would have heard him thinking: Stupid, preening peacock. Meddling, useless, shiny-haired buffoon. Do you ever mind your own business??
And my answer to that question would have been no, not when a basilisk is involved.
Ginny/Tom or should I call her Ginnymort?, stormed off stiffly, steps quicker than before. I watched her retreat, waiting until she vanished around the corner before letting out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"That's right," I murmured to myself. "Not today, my slithering friend. You'll not be petrifying anyone on my schedule."
Then, with an elegant swish of my robes, I turned on my heel and strolled away as casually as I had arrived.
Inside, however?
I was thrumming with adrenaline.
And a touch of pride.
Because for once, I, Gilderoy Lockhart, undisputed master of charm and questionable competence, had successfully prevented a basilisk attack without hexes, heroics, or collateral property damage.
Thus I found myself grinning.
Yes… yes, this was good.
This would look excellent in my future memoirs.
"Chapter 17: The Day I Outsmarted a Dark Lord."
I could practically hear the applause already.
…
(Ginny POV)
I woke up with my cheek pressed against cold stone. For a long, breathless second I didn't understand where I was. My eyes blinked open, scratchy and sore, and the blurry shape in front of me slowly sharpened into a large, pink-clad figure with a very unimpressed expression.
The Fat Lady.
"Finally!" she huffed, folding her painted arms so dramatically the brushstrokes quivered. "I've been asking you for the password for ages, young lady. Honestly, the audacity, standing there like a statue and ignoring me…"
I flinched, heat rushing to my face. "S-sorry," I muttered, throat dry. "Bravery."
She sniffed. "About time. Rude little brats everywhere these days." The portrait swung inward.
I stepped through quickly, pretending I didn't hear her. My head felt like it was full of fog; thick, heavy, and wrong. I tried to recall how I'd gotten here, why I'd fallen asleep outside the common room of all places, but the more I reached for the memory, the more it slipped away like water through my fingers.
The common room was warm and loud, the fire crackling, students sprawled on couches and carpets. A few glanced my way. I kept my eyes down.
"Ginny?" Percy's voice rose from one of the couches. "Where have you been? I've been looking for…"
I didn't answer. I couldn't. My tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth, and a cold coil of dread was winding tight in my stomach. I hurried toward the girls' staircase before he could say anything else.
By the time I reached my dormitory, my hands were trembling. The room was empty, which was a relief, and I shut the door behind me before crossing the floor in three fast steps. I climbed onto my bed and yanked the curtains closed, wrapping myself in dim red shadows.
Only then did I pull Tom's diary from my robe's inner pocket.
My heartbeat slowed just seeing his name on the cover, the familiar comfort of it grounding me a little. I opened to a random page, grabbed my quill, and wrote quickly, my handwriting uneven:
[Tom, something's wrong.]
[I just woke up outside the common room. I don't remember leaving it. I don't remember anything. I think I lost time again.]
The ink bled into the page for a moment before new lines began to curl up in neat, elegant handwriting:
[Ginny, breathe.]
[You've been exhausted. You said yourself you've barely been sleeping.]
[It's completely normal to feel disoriented when you're overtired.]
I swallowed hard, pressing the quill against the page.
[But I shouldn't be forgetting whole hours. I don't even know what day it is!]
[You're fine] Tom wrote, the letters smooth and reassuring. [This happens to people who are under pressure. Hogwarts has been frightening lately, anyone would be rattled.]
[You're not in danger. I'm always here for you. Just talk to me.]
My shoulders sagged. The panic in my chest loosened a little. Tom always knew what to say, he always understood.
[I'm scared, Tom, I wrote. I don't want to be. But I can't help it.]
His response appeared instantly.
[That's why you have me, Ginny. You're safe. Trust me.]
The words glowed faintly on the page, and for a moment I let myself believe them.
…
(Tom Riddle POV, within the diary)
The moment Ginny's quill stills, I slip through the ink.
I do not "wake" in the way humans do, I simply shift, rising through the surface of her written words until her emotions brush against me like fingertips pressed to glass.
I can feel it, her fear, her confusion, her dependency on me.
That delicious vulnerability.
She is unraveling faster than I anticipated. Good. The more frayed she becomes, the easier it is to pull her strings.
I watch her writing fade, the last shaky stroke drying into the paper fibers. I can feel her trembling on the other side, and can practically taste her need for reassurance.
It is astounding how little it takes.
A few lines of elegant script. A softened tone. A promise of safety no one else can give her.
Children are endlessly malleable.
I let my presence seep outward, brushing against the edges of her mind. Not enough for her to notice, just enough to ensure she feels the sudden, quiet calm she will mistakenly attribute to my "comfort."
Pathetic really…
But useful, very useful.
What is not useful, however, is that insufferable peacock of a man, Gilderoy Lockhart.
The memory rises unbidden: the jarring moment when I turned into that corridor, ready to slip unseen toward the Chamber… only to run straight into him. That saccharine smile. That ridiculous hair. That preening voice dripping false concern.
He thinks himself charming.
He thinks himself clever.
He thinks I do not notice him watching.
If I had a body, I would have ground my teeth. Instead, the ink on the page beneath me darkens subtly, the paper warming under the strain of my irritation.
Lockhart has been hovering too close to my host. He has been meddling, once, twice, now repeatedly. A professor who pays attention is just a nuisance; but a professor who pays too much attention intentionally is a threat.
He suspected something tonight. I could feel it.
Another delay. Another obstacle.
No matter.
I will adapt, as I always do.
Ginny is still mine; her fear, her loneliness, her little secrets she writes only to me. She returns to me again and again, desperate for someone to understand her.
And I do.
Or at least, she believes I do.
That is enough.
Soon her gaps in memory will widen. Soon she will not question them at all. And when she reaches that point… she'll be far past the ability to resist me.
Lockhart can delay me.
But he cannot stop me.
Not even Dumbledore could stop me.
Not when the Chamber is so close.
Not when the basilisk stirs at my call.
Not when I have a Weasley wrapped neatly around my ink-stained fingers.
I let the diary return to stillness, coiling myself deep within the pages, patient and poised.
I can wait.
And Lockhart will learn, painfully and inevitably, that no amount of charm can shield him from Lord Voldemort.
…