She should have seen that Bludger.
It wasn’t uncommon for Harry to end up in the Hospital Wing so soon into a Quidditch match, but even this was a new record. She lay gazing up into the shadowed arches high above, wondering idly if the House Cup would still be an option even if they did lose the match to Ravenclaw. Sixth year was already turning into a mess, with Sirius fighting the Wizengamot and Draco acting far too friendly for her liking. Too many things were changing, and it seemed the Quidditch match was simply another sliver shoved under her nail.
She shifted on the infirmary bed, trying to get comfortable. Maybe she should have taken Madam Pomfrey up on that extra potion, if only to have a completely dreamless sleep for once.
Hissy, hissy, little snakey—
Harry’s eyes snapped open.
—slither on the floor—
She jolted upright, clawing her tangled hair out of her face. Those words... That warped voice.
The hospital wing was silent, save for the gentle snores of the two other occupants. She was frozen in place. We killed it, she thought helplessly. We killed the Basilisk. Whispers in the walls that only she could hear. Her own breathing sounded too loud in the space, ragged and shaky. This couldn't be a dream. She prayed it wasn't.
The nightmares had been getting worse, destroying any possibility she might have had of getting any sleep. She’d been forced to rely upon Dreamless Sleep potions almost to an unhealthy degree. Still curled under the sheets, she glanced blurrily around.
Madam Pomfrey had pulled the curtains around the bed at Harry’s request before retiring for the evening. With the lights out, the moonlight had been almost too bright for her to fall asleep. A shadow slid up the sides as someone approached. Tall and slender and possibly male, Harry hazarded as the figure settled into the chair beside her bed. There was a faint breath. Definitely male.
Not Ron.
Probably Draco. He’d been uncomfortably nice ever since the year started, and it would be something he’d do, visiting a fellow student in the infirmary. In the dead of night. Maybe try to kill her.
As silently as she could, she felt for her glasses on the bedside table and slid them on.She tried to keep her breathing as still and level as possible as if still asleep. If it was Draco, she wanted nothing to do with his particular brand of snide condescension.
The shadow leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, as though preparing to wait until she woke up.
“Tired of feigning sleep, Harriet?” Guess not.
But a second later, she felt like the potion she had been given before bed was going to make a second appearance when she recognized that voice. Not from the Ministry last year, but from a hidden chamber, beneath the watchful golden eyes of an ancient serpent. Whispers in the walls.
The shadow of Tom Riddle, age sixteen.
Tom Riddle sat on the other side of her curtain, fully intending on staying there.
“I killed you!” she whispered hoarsely. “I stabbed your diary!”
He laughed quietly. “Did you really think that would get rid of me? That was only the smallest piece of me.” His shadow shifted, one leg crossing over the other as he got comfortable.
How had he been able to get through the wards? Dumbledore had assured her of the extra measures the Ministry had taken to enhance the protecting barrier around the school, made precisely to keep Voldemort out.
“How are you here?”
“You invited me,” he said in an oddly cheerful voice. She could envision his slow smile, his black eyes narrowing. Feeling the painful constriction of her insides, Harry slowly pushed herself up onto her elbows and stared intently at the curtain where, separated only by a thin barrier of cloth, sat her mortal enemy.
“How can I invite you when I clearly don’t want your company? I would think trying to keep you out of my head would have been obvious enough.”
Tom had the gall to tsk. “When will you ever learn, Harriet? We are one and the same. You can’t keep me out any more than you can ignore your own thoughts.”
“I want to forget,” she whispered.
“It’s not that easy.” Tom’s voice was light, almost conversational. And Harry could feel the suffocating power behind it. She was struggling to breathe now. It was like his hand was at her throat. “I can never truly go away, not unless you ensure every piece of me is gone. And you don't know how to do that."
Her breath was shaky. "Why are you telling me this?" What was he asking? Harry couldn't believe he was telling her to kill him. His entire goal had been immortality. And she had obviously failed to kill whatever shred of him was in the diary.
“Why? I’ll tell you a riddle, Harry,” he said smooth as silk. “How do you kill a ghost? How do you kill something that is not alive?"
"That's not a riddle," she whispered.
Tom's laugh was low and razor-edged. Her skin crawled. "If you find the answer, I'd love to hear it."
Harry couldn’t bear to hear any more. She lunged forward and ripped the curtain aside.
Moonlight splashed over unoccupied beds and across the floor, highlighting the fact that the chair beside her bed was empty and she was very much alone.
She was shaking now, as much from the anger as the fear.
The shadow rippled on the curtain, attached to nothing. “Did you think to rid yourself of me so easily?” Tom Riddle asked intently. One dark arm rose, as though reaching out to her. But she had nowhere to hide. “I am with you wherever you go. And unless you destroy me, I will be with you forever.”
And she felt the cold imprint of lips against her scar before she blacked out.