In Gryffindor Tower, the roaring hearth did very little to warm Ginny Weasley.
She sat huddled in a squashy armchair in the quietest corner of the common room, her knees pulled tightly beneath her robes. She looked small and distracted, barely paying attention to the conversations happening around her.
Everywhere she looked, there was something she didn't want to think about.
Across the rug, a group of third-years were arguing over whether garlic amulets or pointed amethysts were better at repelling dark curses, while near the window, Ron and Seamus were engaged in another hushed but furious defence of Harry against a pair of sceptical older boys.
Ginny tried to ignore them.
She couldn't.
Deep down, a cold knot of dread was tightening in her stomach. Every time she thought about the little black Diary hidden beneath her mattress upstairs, her breath seemed to catch.
She had always thought of the Diary as her friend.
It had listened to her when nobody else seemed interested in what she had to say. It had answered her questions, comforted her when she was lonely, and never laughed at her for being the youngest Weasley.
But lately, everything felt different.
Her father had warned her many times about enchanted objects. Some could be cursed, some could possess dangerous magic, and others could do things their owners never expected.
A Diary that could write back to you definitely belonged in the dangerous category.
Ginny had never allowed herself to think about that before because the diary had always been kind to her. But now that students were being attacked inside Hogwarts, she couldn't stop wondering what would happen if someone discovered the Diary.
What if a professor found it?
What if Dumbledore examined it?
What if someone discovered that she had been writing to it for months?
And what if they somehow decided that she had something to do with the Chamber?
She was only eleven years old.
The thought of being accused of hurting Colin or Justin frightened her more than she wanted to admit.
She didn't understand what was happening at Hogwarts, and she certainly didn't understand why she sometimes couldn't remember certain things.
All she knew was that something terrible was happening, and she was terrified that somehow she would be blamed for it.
Late that night, long after the common room had emptied and the dormitory fire had died down to grey ash, Ginny drew the curtains around her bed.
The other first-year girls were already fast asleep.
Ginny waited several seconds before reaching beneath her pillow and pulling out the little black Diary. She kept glancing toward the other beds as though one of them might suddenly wake up and catch her.
Her hands were trembling as she opened the cover.
She dipped her quill into the ink and touched it to the cream-coloured page.
* I can't do this anymore.*
The ink soaked smoothly into the parchment, disappearing between the fibres.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Ginny stared at the page, biting her lip.
Then the familiar black letters slowly began appearing beneath hers.
* What is troubling you, Ginny? *
Ginny's shoulders relaxed slightly.
*Colin and Justin are still frozen stiff in the hospital wing. Everyone treats Harry like a monster, and every time I write to you, I feel like I'm keeping secrets from my family. What if a teacher finds you? What if they think I'm the one doing it?*
Her quill scratched frantically across the page, the letters growing jagged and uneven as tears blurred her vision.
One landed directly on the parchment, spreading the ink into a dark little blot.
*I understand, Ginny. I didn't realise how frightened you have been. If having me with you brings you fear instead of comfort, then you should not keep me.*
Ginny stared at the words, her quill hovering above the page. She had expected him to be angry. Somehow, that frightened her almost as much as everything else.
Instead, there was only that familiar warmth in his reply, the same calm voice that had listened to her when nobody else seemed to understand.
*You're not angry?*
*Never,* Ethan replied.* A true friend only wants you to be safe. If letting go of this diary brings you peace, then you must let it go. You do not need an old book to be brave.*
A shuddering breath escaped Ginny's chest. The suffocating guilt that had weighed on her for weeks seemed to loosen, little by little, until she could finally breathe without feeling as though something was pressing down on her.
She looked at the Diary for a long moment, then lowered her quill one last time.
*Thank you. For everything.*
There was a pause before the answer appeared.
*Goodbye, Ginny. Take care of yourself.*
Ginny closed the leather cover with a quiet click. She slipped the little notebook deep into the pocket of her robes and curled beneath her blankets, pulling them up almost to her chin.
For the first time in weeks, she felt as though she had put down a burden she had been carrying for far too long, and when sleep finally came, it was dreamless.
The next afternoon, Ginny slipped away while the rest of Gryffindor was down at the Quidditch pitch enduring a sodden practice.
Rain hammered against the castle windows, and somewhere far below she could hear the distant whistle of Madam Hooch, but she paid none of it any attention. All she could think about was the little black Diary hidden inside her robes.
She wanted it gone. Not merely out of Gryffindor Tower, but somewhere far away from her things, her bed, and everything that might connect it to her if someone came looking.
The abandoned girls' bathroom on the second floor was the only place she knew where students rarely ventured, and if the rumours were true, nobody in their right mind went there voluntarily.
Ginny pushed the heavy door open and immediately shivered. The room was freezing, gloomy, and flooded with an inch of murky water that sloshed around her shoes as she stepped inside.
High above her, the sound of miserable, gurgling wails echoed between the cracked stone tiles.
"Who's that?" Moaning Myrtle's shrill voice drifted down from somewhere near the cubicle. "Come to throw more rubbish at poor, defenceless Myrtle?"
Ginny didn't answer. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, and for one terrible moment she wondered whether she should simply turn around and leave.
But then her fingers closed around the Diary inside her pocket, and the memory of Ethan's final words returned to her.
Goodbye, Ginny. Take care of yourself.
She splashed across the flooded tiles toward the furthest cubicle, keeping her eyes down as Myrtle continued complaining somewhere above her.
Then Ginny pulled the black notebook from her pocket, held it tightly for one last second, and refused to give herself time for another thought.
She threw it straight down into the flooded sink.
Splash.
The water swallowed the book almost instantly.
Ginny stared at the empty sink for a heartbeat, feeling a strange mixture of relief and sadness twist inside her. Then she hitched up her wet robes, turned on her heel, and bolted out of the bathroom without looking back.
Submerged beneath several inches of icy, stagnant water, Ethan sat completely unbothered within the dry, compressed void of the Horcrux.
The dark enchantments woven into the Diary's creation repelled the water entirely; not a single drop reached the pages, and from within his strange little sanctuary, Ethan could hear every muffled sound from the bathroom above him.
He knew Myrtle's temperament well. Having an object thrown through her ghostly form was precisely the sort of insult she would never let go unanswered.
She would throw a catastrophic tantrum, flood the floor, and make enough noise to ensure that sooner or later, someone came to investigate, and that someone would most likely end up being Harry; after all, they treated this place as their hangout spot.
Ethan did not have to wait long.
By late afternoon, the sound of hurried footsteps approached from the corridor, accompanied by a familiar, complaining voice.
"Look at this mess," Ron grumbled. "Filch is going to skin us alive just for walking past it, mark my words. Why does she always have to flood the place?"
"Let's see what's upset her this time," Harry replied, sounding tired and subdued.
The heavy door groaned open, and the two boys stepped into the flooded room, their shoes sending little waves across the floor.
"All right, Myrtle?" Harry called cautiously. "What happened?"
"What happened?" Myrtle shrieked, swooping down from the rafters so quickly that she sent a spray of dirty water across their robes.
"I was just sitting in the U-bend, thinking about death, when someone threw a heavy old thing right through my head! It hurt! Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I haven't got feelings!"
Harry blinked at her. "What did they throw?"
"It's over there in the stall!" Myrtle wailed dramatically, pointing toward the furthest sink before diving headfirst into a bowl with a loud, echoing plop.
Harry exchanged a look with Ron before splashing toward the back of the bathroom. Ron remained closer to the doorway, carefully keeping his boots out of the deepest water.
Harry peered into the sink.
Floating just beneath the surface was a small, black, leather-bound notebook.
"What is it?" Ron called. "Looks like an old Muggle diary."
"It is," Harry muttered.
He crouched down and reached into the murky water, lifting the notebook carefully by one corner. The moment it emerged, Harry frowned.
The pages were completely dry.
Not damp. Not merely less wet than they should have been. Completely dry.
Harry turned the Diary over in his hands, wiping the faded leather against his sleeve. There wasn't even a bead of water clinging to its cover. His thumb brushed over the tarnished, flaking gold letters stamped into the peeling leather.
T. M. RIDDLE
Beneath the name, almost hidden by age and wear, was another marking.
1943.
Inside the quiet space of the Horcrux, Ethan leaned forward in his armchair, a faint smile touching his lips as he felt the slightest connection form between them.
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