Alexander had been deeply interested in true crime, regularly consuming content through videos and TV shows. He had noticed a peculiar pattern: Many murderers planned their crimes with great detail, sometimes years in advance, considering every aspect meticulously. However, post-crime, their behaviour often shifted dramatically. They failed to reflect on potential oversights or preventive measures against being caught. Instead, they left behind incriminating evidence, such as a forgotten glove or a forgotten blood smear. Sometimes, panic would lead them to actions that compromised their alibis or made their situation worse. Generally, these criminals overestimated their cleverness while underestimating those determined to catch them.
She wouldn't make those mistakes. She couldn't afford to.
Hermione's murder had been executed as planned - the diversion by the Acromantulas completed flawlessly. Yet, the anxiety gnawed at her. How could she be caught? Could she have overlooked something? A stray detail, an unseen thread that might unravel everything? She knew better than to underestimate the dangers of complacency.
That was why she was here now, not letting her guard down. Every element of her plan needed to be scrutinized with the same painstaking care she had devoted to planning and carrying it out. Staying ahead of every possibility wasn't just prudent - it was survival.
Her fingers moved steadily, threading a needle through the fabric on her lap.
The body itself was untraceable back to her. The venom of the Acromantulas should have destroyed any magical trace of the ritual. There were even witnesses - Hagrid, Ron and Harry - who saw the spiders dragging Hermione's body into the Forbidden Forest. The Chamber of Secrets, where the ritual took place, remained completely secure. No one but Harry had the Parseltongue ability to enter, so she just had to keep him away from the second-floor girls' bathroom. Of course, once the Aurors concluded their investigation, she would need to return and eliminate any lingering evidence. Unfortunately, she didn't have enough time on Hallowe'en for that. For now, the risk was too high - especially with Auror Moody and his magical eye prowling about.
She had of course thought of other alternatives for dealing with Hermione's corpse.
Feeding it to the basilisk would have triggered the wards the next time it hunted in the Forbidden Forest, making everything far more unpredictable.
Leaving the corpse in the Chamber of Secrets - her original plan before catching them by chance - would have meant everyone knew Hermione had gone missing without crossing the perimeter wards of Hogwarts. But, as headmaster, Dumbledore would also be able to check that she wasn't anywhere inside them. After ruling out Floo travel and Portkeys, he would likely suspect the Chamber of Secrets - and that was far too dangerous.
Ginny still believed the Acromantula solution had been the best option.
Her fingers fumbled with the needle, pricking herself more than once as she tried to focus on the task at hand, the occasional sharp sting breaking her concentration.
No ghosts, either. That was another potential loose end tied off. The original Ginny and Hermione had been drained of soul energy to the point that forming a ghost would be impossible. Ghosts, after all, were nothing more than manifestations of soul energy, that was not tied to a body.
The only potential problem lay in the Resurrection Stone. She didn't know how it worked, so Ginny couldn't be sure if it was a problem. If someone with the Stone summoned either Hermione or the original Ginny, that might present a risk. That was a danger she couldn't address now but would have to keep in mind. There could be a scenario where Dumbledore or Harry, after finding the Gaunt ring, use the Resurrection Stone to summon Hermione and she tells them that Ginny is possessed by Tom Riddle. That wouldn't be good. But for now, the voices of the dead couldn't incriminate her.
Her alibi was another fortification. She was in the Gryffindor common room when the wards had informed Dumbledore about Hermione's death, surrounded by dozens of witnesses. To the best of anyone's knowledge, Ginny Weasley had been a frightened first-year sitting together with her older brothers while the chaos unfolded. Even if it came to the worst-case scenario and the Aurors demanded her memories, she had one ready: The memory of the original Ginny sitting on the afternoon of Hallowe'en in the library with Hermione. She had checked it with Occlumency. There was no incriminating part in the memory. No strange conversation - not even the diary in sight. It wasn't her last memory of Hermione, obviously, but they wouldn't know that.
Veritaserum, though… That was a wildcard. If it were used, her fabricated stories and careful manipulations could crumble. Her only comfort was the unlikelihood of the Ministry resorting to such extremes unless they already had damning evidence. For now, it was a distant threat. She could obliviate the name and face of the human sacrifice for her ritual from her own memory, but even then, it would be obvious to herself that Hermione had been the human sacrifice. Therefore, it probably wouldn't help against Veritaserum.
Lucius Malfoy was another potential problem, though not an immediate one. The elder Malfoy knew the diary was in her possession, but self-preservation should ensure his silence. No wizard of his standing would willingly admit to distributing a dark artifact, especially not one linked to Voldemort, to a child. He had too much to lose.
One variable Ginny couldn't fully predict was the effect of her altered behaviour. It gnawed at her. The shift had begun a week before Hallowe'en when the original Ginny, slowly uncovering the truth about Tom's influence, had started to panic. Her demeanour had grown erratic: Doing bad in classes, spending time in the library with Hermione and an increasing tendency to isolate herself.
Now, following the ritual, Ginny had carefully crafted a narrative to account for her current state. Her personality had shifted yet again - no more awkward blushing, no fumbling nervousness around Harry. That behaviour would be impossible to credibly sustain, but she had already spun a believable story to justify the difference.
Grief. It was the perfect excuse.
Grieving Hermione's death, combined with a newfound determination to 'be there for Harry', explained away the shift in her interactions. Any inquiry about her previous behaviours could easily be attributed to overwork and emotional strain: The pressures of trying to excel academically, navigating subtle bullying from Slytherins and the fallout from fights with her roommates. If pressed further, she could convincingly paint a picture of a young girl cracking under the weight of expectations, struggling to balance her ambition with her fragile emotional state.
Dumbledore was also an unpredictable variable, one she couldn't devise a clear countermeasure against. Did he know something? Or was it simply her own paranoia reflecting back at her in his watchful gaze? The uncertainty was maddening, but Ginny knew that the only viable strategy was to remain unremarkable - just another grieving Gryffindor first-year trying to stay afloat in the chaos. She had to avoid drawing attention at all costs, to be perfectly ordinary in her actions and demeanour. For now, that meant playing the part to perfection: A good little Gryffindor, dutifully attending her classes, keeping her head down and letting her performance as a heartbroken child shield her from his penetrating scrutiny.
"Ginny, why are you doing that?" Emily asked, leaning over from her seat across the table. Her brown curls bounced as she craned her neck to look at the uneven embroidery Ginny was attempting.
Ginny blinked, her thoughts snapping back to the present. "Hmm?" She glanced down at her work, quickly forcing a small, self-deprecating smile. "Oh… Just something mum suggested I work on. She's big on ladylike hobbies. I figure I've got the time now since I can't go to the library."
And knitting is something Voldemort would never do - in case someone watching knew about the diary.
Emily leaned closer, examining Ginny's work. "It's… uh, coming along?"
Ginny chuckled softly. "You don't have to lie. I'm rubbish at it."
Mira, seated nearby with a book in her lap, glanced over. "Embroidery is an art, you know," she said primly. "It takes patience and discipline. My grandmother insisted I learn when I was younger. I can show you a thing or two, if you like."
Ginny gave her a grateful smile. "I'd appreciate that."
Daisy, perched on a nearby armchair, spoke up quietly. "It's not that bad," she said, though her tone lacked conviction. "At least you're trying."
Ginny nodded, her face warm with apparent gratitude, though her mind noted Daisy's timid nature as something to subtly encourage later. Their camaraderie felt real, even if it had been meticulously engineered. With a few heartfelt apologies, some strategically chosen moments of vulnerability and her ever-reliable wandless compulsion charms, she'd managed to regain their trust. These girls were useful allies - not particularly clever or influential, but comforting buffers that helped maintain her image of an ordinary, unassuming schoolgirl.
Before she could steer the conversation further, the portrait hole swung open. Percy entered with his usual brisk demeanour, his prefect badge catching the firelight. He scanned the room before spotting Ginny.
"Ginny," Percy said, his voice clipped and formal. "Professor McGonagall has requested to see you in her office."
She felt a brief pang of unease but managed a slight nod. "Alright." Setting aside the needlework, she stood and followed Percy. He walked beside her in silence, his rigid posture and tight expression offering no clue as to why McGonagall wanted her. Ginny's thoughts churned as they navigated the castle's familiar corridors.
When they reached McGonagall's office, Percy gestured for her to enter. The office was exactly as she remembered: A warm, organized space brimming with books and magical curiosities. Yet today, it felt suffocatingly small.
Her eyes were immediately drawn to the stranger standing near McGonagall's desk. He had a tough, no-nonsense air about him, with very short, wiry grey hair. His sharp gaze swept over her, assessing her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. Ginny fought to maintain a neutral expression as she turned toward McGonagall.
"Miss Weasley," McGonagall said, her voice warm but tinged with gravity. She gestured to the chair in front of her desk. "Please, have a seat."
Ginny complied, sitting with her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
The man stepped forward, his posture rigid and his tone brisk. "Miss Weasley, I'm Auror John Dawlish. I've been assigned to investigate the circumstances of Miss Granger's death."
Ginny's stomach twisted, but she kept her expression calm, allowing a faint trace of grief to show. She nodded slowly, her voice soft but steady as she replied, "I understand."
Dawlish continued, his gaze never wavering. "We're retracing Miss Granger's steps and gathering any details that might provide clarity on what happened. Your cooperation is essential."
"I'll do whatever I can to help," Ginny said, keeping her tone carefully measured. Inside, her thoughts raced. This was the moment she had prepared for and every word she spoke had to be flawless.
Dawlish's sharp eyes fixed on Ginny as he leaned forward slightly. "Miss Weasley, can you tell me about the last time you interacted with Miss Granger?"
Ginny nodded carefully, adopting a tone of measured grief. "We studied together in the library on Hallowe'en," she said, her voice soft but steady. "Hermione was looking into… Acromantulas after Professor Lockhart's announcement about the colony in the Forbidden Forest. We stayed there until about two o'clock and then parted ways. I don't know where she went afterward."
Her words were measured, avoiding any unnecessary elaborations. She kept to the narrative she had prepared, offering just enough detail to seem forthcoming while steering clear of any openings for further probing. Ginny's carefully chosen tone carried the weight of her fabricated sincerity.
Dawlish considered her words, his expression impassive. "I'll need to view that memory in the Pensieve," he said finally.
Ginny's breath hitched imperceptibly, but she gave a small nod of compliance. Carefully extracting the memory - after some unnecessary instructions how to do so - she passed it to Dawlish. The Auror approached the Pensieve while Ginny stepped back, standing close to McGonagall.
The office grew oppressively silent as Dawlish leaned over the swirling silvery threads of memory. Ginny folded her hands tightly in front of her, focusing on keeping her breathing even. Her mind worked overtime, double-checking every detail of her alibi while forcing herself to appear composed. McGonagall stood beside her, also waiting for Dawlish.
After what felt like an eternity, Dawlish straightened, his expression unreadable as he returned to his seat.
"Thank you for that," he began, his tone carefully neutral. "Miss Weasley, would you say that was the last time you saw Miss Granger?"
"Yes," Ginny replied softly, her voice steady.
Dawlish didn't miss a beat. "And why were you researching cursed objects before Halloween? You seemed… nervous."
McGonagall stiffened, her voice curt as she interjected. "Auror Dawlish, I don't see how that question pertains to…"
"It's alright, Professor," Ginny cut in, allowing a faint note of hesitation to slip into her voice. She turned back to Dawlish. "I was researching because of my diary. I think someone - probably a Slytherin, like Harper - cursed it with a forgetfulness charm. It was affecting my work, so I had to destroy it."
McGonagall frowned slightly. "Why didn't you bring this to me, Miss Weasley?"
Ginny looked down, her voice small. "I was embarrassed," she admitted. "It's just a diary, after all. I didn't think it was worth bothering anyone over."
Dawlish narrowed his eyes slightly, leaning forward, his voice calm but with an edge of intensity. "Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Miss Granger, Miss Weasley?" he asked, his tone even but probing, as though searching for a reaction. The question hung in the air, a subtle pressure that made the room feel tighter.
Ginny blinked, genuine confusion flickering across her face. "Why would you ask that? I thought the Acromantulas attacked her," she said cautiously, her voice steady but laced with curiosity.
Dawlish leaned back slightly before responding. "The wards around the Forbidden Forest make it impossible for Acromantulas or any creature to leave unaided," he explained, his tone measured but his gaze intent, watching Ginny closely.
The words struck Ginny like a blow. Wards around the forest? Those didn't exist in Tom Riddle's time. A cold jolt of panic coursed through her. If what Dawlish said was true, it meant her careful plan now had a glaring flaw she hadn't accounted for. The implications churned in her mind, threatening to unravel her composure.
For a moment, she felt her control slipping, but she clamped down on the rising dread, summoning every ounce of her Occlumency training. Ginny forced calm into her thoughts, allowing shock - not fear - to surface.
Her eyes widened, playing the part of a shaken, innocent child. "I… I didn't know that," she whispered, her voice trembling just enough to seem authentic. She shook her head, feigning helplessness. "I have no idea who could have done something like that."
McGonagall, watching her closely, softened at the apparent distress. Placing a hand on Ginny's shoulder, she said firmly, "That's enough, Auror Dawlish. Miss Weasley has been through enough… Miss Weasley, it's all right. We'll handle this."
Ginny nodded mutely, allowing herself to appear small and vulnerable. Inside, she catalogued the revelation, already strategizing her next move.
Dawlish straightened, gathering his notes with a finality that made the room feel even smaller. His expression remained unreadable, his demeanour cold as he addressed Ginny. "Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Weasley. You've been very helpful," he said, though there was no warmth in his voice, just the mechanical tone of someone fulfilling a duty.
He exchanged a brief glance with McGonagall before his sharp gaze turned back to Ginny. "You must not speak about this conversation to anyone. Is that clear?" The demand was not a suggestion - it was an order, one that left no room for doubt.
Ginny nodded quickly, her eyes still wide with feigned shock, her heart racing beneath the practiced facade. "Yes, sir."
McGonagall stood up and gestured for Ginny to follow her toward the door. As they stepped into the hall, Ginny couldn't shake the unease gnawing at her insides - the unexpected twist about the wards around the Forbidden Forest left her rattled. Still, she had to keep it together.
Percy was waiting outside McGonagall's office, his arms crossed and his expression strained. "Come on, Ginny," he said, his voice attempting to sound gentle but barely masking his impatience. "Let's get you back to the common room."
Ginny nodded without a word, following her brother down the quiet corridors. As they reached the portrait hole, Percy placed a hand on her shoulder, his demeanour softening. "You'll be all right," he said awkwardly, but his concern was genuine.
"I will," Ginny replied, her voice steadier than she felt. She climbed through the opening, quickly met by her roommates, their faces lit with curiosity.
"What happened?" Emily asked immediately, her eyes wide with intrigue.
"Was it about Hermione?" Daisy added, her tone hushed.
Ginny plastered on an apologetic smile, already crafting her excuse. "They just had more questions about what I saw that day," she said, keeping her voice light but tinged with weariness. "It's exhausting, honestly. I just want to lie down for a bit."
Her roommates exchanged glances but nodded, accepting her response. Emily gave her a quick squeeze on the arm. "Let us know if you need anything, okay?"
Ginny thanked her and slipped away to the dormitory, closing the door behind her. Once alone, she pulled out the Marauder's Map. Unfolding it carefully, she tapped her wand against the parchment. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
The ink swirled, spreading across the page in familiar, intricate lines. Her eyes roved over the castle layout, scanning for the names she needed. Most of the Aurors, including Moody, were clustered near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. From their steady movements, Ginny concluded they were likely dealing with the Acromantula colony. But it also revealed something far more significant: Dumbledore wasn't in the school. Whatever had pulled him away was her gain. Her gaze snapped to the Defence Against the Dark Arts office. Gilderoy Lockhart's name hovered there, alone. Perfect.
Ginny approached her bed, her wand steady in her hand and began her work. Beneath the blankets, she conjured the rough shape of a sleeping figure, transfiguring it into a close approximation of herself. The contours took form with subtle adjustments - the messy fall of red hair across the pillow, the curve of a shoulder visible through the blanket's folds.
As she worked, she was acutely aware of her wand's slight resistance, a sign of what she had come to understand in recent days: It no longer felt completely bonded to her. The ritual had altered her magic, blending the magic of the original Ginny with that of Tom Riddle. Her wand still responded, but with an unfamiliar hesitation, as if it sensed the change and questioned her right to wield it. She couldn't risk replacing it just yet - doing so now might draw unwanted attention to herself. For now, she would have to endure the unease and adapt.
Pushing the thought aside, she focused on animating the figure. The rise and fall of its chest began with a faint motion, deepened into the rhythm of a calm, sleeping breath. She added small, subtle details: The occasional twitch of a hand beneath the covers and the stillness that hinted at deep sleep.
Her wand moved without a sound, weaving layers of magic to perfect the illusion. Ginny stepped back, her eyes narrowing as she inspected her work. The fake Ginny looked convincingly alive, blending seamlessly into the dormitory's quiet atmosphere.
Satisfied, she cast a silent Disillusionment Charm on herself, the familiar chill washing over her as her body became invisible. With careful steps, she slipped out of the dormitory and back into the castle's dimly lit halls.
She moved silently through the dim corridors until she reached Lockhart's office. The faint flicker of candlelight spilled under the door and she could hear his voice - a smug hum interspersed with murmured praise to his looks.
Easing the door open, she slipped inside, her movements soundless. Lockhart was standing near his desk, absorbed in a mirror propped against a stack of books. He admired his own reflection, smiling and posing with exaggerated charm, oblivious to her presence. Ginny felt a ripple of disgust but kept her focus sharp and positioned herself directly behind him, her wand steady in her hand.
With a silent flick, she cast the Memory-altering Charm. Lockhart froze for a moment, his expression briefly vacant as the new memory took root. Ginny guided the scene into his consciousness with precise intent.
In this fabricated memory, Lockhart led the three Acromantulas into the castle under the Imperius Curse. He wandered the corridors until he encountered Hermione and Ginny by chance - the first students he came across. Seizing the opportunity, he obliviated Ginny on the spot, leaving her with no recollection and coldly ordered the spiders to attack Hermione. The justification was cruel and self-serving: Hermione, being muggle-born, was expendable in his eyes, a victim the Ministry might overlook. The tragedy, he reasoned, would provide the perfect backdrop for his heroic narrative. He would later claim to have vanquished the Acromantula colony alongside the Aurors, solidifying his reputation as a valiant protector of Hogwarts.
The memory settled and Lockhart blinked, his brow furrowing slightly as if trying to grasp a stray thought. Then, he resumed his self-admiration in the mirror, unaware of the intrusion. Ginny slipped out as silently as she had entered, leaving no trace.
Ginny knew the limits of her fabricated memory. While a skilled Legilimens could theoretically uncover its artificial nature, the process would likely destroy Lockhart's mind entirely or leave him with irreversible damage. This practical limitation worked to her advantage. Neither Dumbledore nor Snape, as formidable as they were, would risk such a drastic step without overwhelming evidence of tampering.
More concerning was the potential use of a Pensieve. At trials, memories of suspects were forcibly extracted and examined by experts in memory magic, who could identify inconsistencies or signs of fabrication. Ginny understood that for her plan to succeed, she couldn't rely solely on the altered memory being taken at face value. Lockhart needed to implicate himself in a way that was undeniable, leaving no room for alternate explanations.
Her primary goal, then, was to manipulate events such that Lockhart would self-incriminate himself while also ensuring he conveniently lost his memories afterward, mimicking the events of the original story. This would eliminate the possibility of further investigation. The plan was intricate, its success dependent on many moving pieces, but Ginny had contingencies prepared. If her first approach failed, she was more than ready to adapt.
By the time Ginny reached Gryffindor Tower, her mind was a whirl of strategies and contingencies. She slipped through the portrait hole, the Fat Lady's drowsy muttering barely registering. Ginny moved silently to her bed, dismissing the animated clone beneath the covers with a flick of her wand. The transfiguration dissolved, and she slid beneath the blankets, letting out a quiet sigh.
Her thoughts settled as exhaustion began to claim her. Step by step, her plan was unfolding. Now, it was a matter of waiting for the pieces to fall into place.
Her thoughts began to quieten as exhaustion seeped in. She could only hope she hadn't missed any critical detail… again.