No more spiraling.
Panic is useless now.
A plan—any plan—is better than freezing and letting canon finish me off.
I can feel my body stabilizing. Weight settles into my limbs. My fingers curl when I tell them to. The stone beneath my bare feet is cold, solid, real. I've absorbed enough from Ginny—carefully, surgically—that I can finally interact with the world instead of just haunting it.
That alone changes everything.
Harry Potter is coming down that tunnel. I can feel him like static in the air, the way fate seems to hum around him. If he sees me, if he gets close enough to think, ask questions, swing that stupid sword—
No. I don't fight the protagonist.
I survive him.
I crouch and snatch the diary from the floor.
My diary.
The anchor of my existence. The most fragile, obvious weakness I have.
If Harry gets his hands on this, it's over. One basilisk fang, one heroic stab, and I'm gone—no soul, no second chance, no reincarnation loophole.
I won't let that happen.
I press the diary flat against my chest and murmur a containment charm, layering it with misdirection, weight distortion, and a subtle repulsion hex. Not unbreakable—nothing truly is—but enough that a panicked Gryffindor won't accidentally ruin my entire existence.
I slide it into the inner pocket of my robes, right over my heart.
Stay hidden, I think at it, and the magic listens.
Now.
The basilisk.
I straighten, the remnants of Tom Riddle's arrogance sliding into place like a well-worn mask. Whatever else I am now, the Chamber still recognizes me.
I turn toward the massive stone face of Salazar Slytherin and speak.
"Come."
Parseltongue spills from my mouth effortlessly, each word vibrating through the stone. I don't order the basilisk to kill—Harry's protection would interfere, and a drawn-out fight only increases the chance of interference from phoenixes, swords, or inconvenient miracles.
I don't need Harry dead.
I just need him busy.
The chamber trembles as stone grinds against stone. From the darkness, something enormous shifts. The air fills with the sound of scales sliding against rock, ancient and wrong and powerful enough to make my bones hum in response.
Perfect.
Footsteps echo at the tunnel entrance.
"Ginny!" Harry's voice cracks as he runs into the chamber.
Right on time.
I don't wait to be seen.
The moment the basilisk surges forward, its attention snapping toward the boy who doesn't belong here, I turn and sprint the other way—toward the forgotten passage, the one buried so deeply in Tom's memories that even Hogwarts itself seems to have half-forgotten it exists.
Behind me, Harry shouts.
Stone explodes as the basilisk roars.
I don't look back.
I run.
My lungs burn. My legs ache. Every sensation feels too sharp, too vivid—my body still half-remembering how to exist—but I force myself onward, ducking into the narrow tunnel just as the chamber fills with chaos.
The entrance seals behind me with a whispered charm.
Silence crashes down.
I brace my hands against the wall, gasping, heart hammering violently against my ribs.
Alive.
I'm alive.
Harry Potter will think he defeated Tom Riddle.Dumbledore will find a wounded Ginny Weasley and a destroyed basilisk.The diary—my diary—will be assumed destroyed or lost.
Canon will move on.
And I will slip into the cracks it leaves behind.
I wipe sweat from my brow and straighten slowly, already feeling my thoughts shift from survival to strategy.
I have a body.I have Tom Riddle's knowledge.And the world believes I'm dead.
That's not a curse.
That's an opportunity.