Guilt

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7th November 1992

Mark groaned. Fighting a Basilisk seemed cool. Killing a Basilisk felt even cooler. Being pinned under the body of a Basilisk — not so much.

He needed to get himself out of here. His leg had gone numb under the crushing weight of the carcass, and Mark needed to know exactly how much damage it had done to his limb. Hesitantly, he edged his hand towards the dry, scaly skin of the snake, holding in all the disgust that was threatening to vomit itself inside himself. His fingers brushed against the greenish hide before he jerked it back in shock.

"Eeugh—I can't do it. I can't," he muttered to himself, rubbing his hand vigorously over his shirt. Damn the reptiles, and damn the evolutionary process for ever creating them in the first place. He needed to find some other way—some way to get this bloody thing off of him without touching it.

Maybe he could use his wand; after all, if performed correctly, the effect of a levitation spell wasn't dependent on the mass of the object. It could work—if he could get his hand on his wand, which had slipped from his hand when the dead basilisk fell on him. Turning his head, Mark's eyes found the piece of ash-brown wood lying about two feet away from him. Stretching his hand, he tried to reach for the wand but came up a few inches short. He tried swiping back and forth in a vain attempt to touch it but still fell short. He then stretched his body, hoping to gain a longer reach, but immediately grunted out in pain. It was simple really: The more he stretched, the more his leg moved underneath the weight of the snake. The more his leg moved underneath the weight, the sharper the pain which shot up his thighs.

Mark steeled himself and tried reaching again. After a second or two, his fingers finally brushed against his wand. Ecstatic, he tried rolling it towards himself, his fingers curling to provide the required force. But luck was not on his side, and the desperate attempt only ended up giving the wand a push away from him.

"Shit," he whispered. Before he could think of something else to do, Mark heard the soft sobs of Ginny echo through the chamber. Realising that she could help him, he tried to call her.

"Ginny," he croaked, his throat parched. She must not have heard him, for there was no response. Gulping down to wet his throat, he tried again, louder this time.

"Ginny."

"Huh," Ginny looked around, and suddenly remembered. "Mark!" she cried as she stood up and hurried towards him. "Are you alright? Of course not. I'm so sorry. I—It's all my fault. I'm—I'm—It's all my fault—sorry" she broke down again into sobs.

"Ginny—Ginny!" Mark grabbed her attention. She looked straight at him with her tear-stained eyes, her face twisted with guilt.

"My wand?"

Looking towards where he was pointing, Ginny quickly grabbed the wand and handed it to Mark.

"All right —" Mark steeled himself. If what he remembered from first aid was right, this was going to hurt like hell. Pointing the wand towards the huge head of the Basilisk, he scrunched his face in concentration.

"Wingardium Leviosa."

Although he barely whispered the words, they had the desired effect. The Basilisk slowly rose from where it had trapped his leg. Mark bit his lip to dull the pain from his leg. Moments later, he let the dead serpent drop unceremoniously.

"Shit," Mark mumbled. The pain was much greater than he'd realised. He must have dislocated something when he had tried reaching for his wand.

"Don't move," Ginny ordered him, her helpless visage now replaced by a business-like expression. "It needs to be put in a splint. Wait here. Don't move."

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