A/N: Quick an update as I could make. (: I hope you like it. Thanks for the reviews! This is a really long flash-back... and by the way, in answer to someone who said that the news-sign in Piccadilly had an error in saying "CALL THIS NUMBER" – no, it's correct. Because Piccadilly is a Muggle area... silly.

Disclaimer: It's mine. And so is Buckingham Palace. And a cement racoon. And Dan Humphrey from Gossip Girl.

Fast-Forward

Chapter Thirty-Six: The Hand That Drives It

Her breath caught. He was washing blood down the sink. He caught her staring and his jaw tightened. "It's nothing," he muttered, drying his hands. His head bowed in the shadows. "I won't die," he said, and, for all of his bravado and this-is-stupid talk, his voice was strangely subdued. "Is that enough?"

"...Fine. Fine." Beth slammed her glass down onto the table, glaring. "I don't know about you, but I didn't have to world's best father. He never spoke to me, but I suppose I was the lucky one. He left my brother disabled. We decided it was kinder to let him go. My mother was barely strong enough to stand it, but what could she do? For some idiot reason, she actually loved him. And every night, when she came to me after whatever my father had put her through, she always said the same thing. 'Don't worry, Lizzie,' it was. 'They're not all like this. Don't let your father discourage you from love. It's a beautiful thing'. She died of internal bleeding, but I was still fool enough to believe her."

"It was about twenty-odd years ago, I think. I was about seventeen; I had a summer job at the Prophet. There was a woman named Merope Gaunt in the South of Scotland who went ballistic – though it was expected, apparently, because her whole family were crazy..." Will explained. "She basically went on a rampage killing loads of Muggles. They never caught her, but someone found her dead in alleyway in the end."

Her mind flashed back to how calm and – well, un-lunatic-y, if that was a word – Morfin had been. And now, to hear how crazy Merope had been. Perhaps Morfin was the moral twin, and Merope the immoral one. What did that mean, though? If Merope was bad twin, and she had died... She jolted with sudden, painful realisation. Merope was the immoral one. She had to a child. And shortly after, she had died. Died of symptoms similar to Tom's. Tom, who had a child. Tom, who had the immoral twin inside him.

So that's what it meant. For some reason, the curse included that as soon as the next pair of twins were born, the immoral of the previous pair would die. The question was, would Tom's second soul be strong enough to take him with it?

xxx

Monday morning. Another day.

It was mostly dark in the bedroom, but a few cracks of lights came from the curtains, and under the door. These rays of lights failed to stretch far enough to the bed, reaching only as far as a foot before faltering on the ground.

Ginny rolled over to look at Tom, who she knew was still in bed due to his weight sinking the left side of the mattress slightly. From a glance, he appeared to be asleep. She decided that she would let him sleep a while longer.

She clambered out of bed and moved to check Marianne. However, her daughter was asleep as well, and as well as Ginny knew that she should wake her up and get the day started early, so that the morning was less of a hurry, she couldn't bring herself to disturb the peace.

Aw, hell. You can both sleep another ten minutes, she thought to herself.

Glancing back once over her shoulder at Tom, she slipped through the door, her footsteps muffled on the cream carpet. She closed the door behind her and breathed a sigh of relief. A quiet few minutes, without Marianne tired or hungry or just randomly crying; without Tom stumbling about wearily, forever reminding her that his time was running out. Thank Merlin.

She moved to the window and checked the post. There were two letters – as usual, from Grace and Alden. She opened Alden's first.

Dear Ginny,

I hope that you and Tom and Marianne are doing well. It's strange, having to always remind myself that there are three of you now and that I have to include an extra name in my standard greeting... anyway, I know that Tom was feeling unwell the last time I heard from you. It's probably gone away by now, but I thought I would check anyway. I'm going off on a tangent – the main point of this letter is to invite you to a sort of dinner party, except informal, and a lot less obnoxious that the term 'dinner party' implies. We would be celebrating Dominic's recovery – with Dom as the guest star himself. Write back soon if you want to come, so that I know how many tables I need to book in the restaurant.

-Alden

PS. Is Grace alright? She still hasn't answered any of my letters, and I wasn't sure. Do you know if she's still with Luke? They were rather... rocky, so to speak, the last I heard. But I haven't heard in a long time, so I don't know. I'm just worried about her, that's all. ...You of all people would understand.

PPS. Did you know that Jack Swithin is dating Claude Bastet? Again? I did tell him that I didn't think it was a good idea, but he's missed her a lot... God knows why. Anyway. Talk to you soon.

Jack. And. Claude. Together. Again.

Ginny twitched.

Well, there was no accounting for taste with some people, but she supposed that she wasn't to interfere. She re-read the first post-note, feeling an ache of sadness deep in her gut. Grace and Alden were still such a problem. It had been almost exactly five months since the big collision of hearts at the Castledon-Bailey Station, and still no-one was happy. It was ridiculous.

She opened Grace's letter. Yay. Now she had to read another page or so of emo love-triangle scribble.

Hi Ginny-poo,

Hm. I think I'll start by saying that life sucks. Alden's still sending me letters. I opened one, just to see what it said, even though I promised myself that I wouldn't. I only saw some cheesy words like 'love' and 'always' and 'please' and then I set fire to it. As well as all of the two hundred and fifty-seven others. Yes, I counted. Shut up. And stop raising your eyebrows. I know you are doing.

Luke's not living with me anymore. We broke up a few weeks ago. I know, I should have told you earlier, but I was feeling too depressed to explain. It was just... messy. He started sleeping on the sofa... and he found Alden's letters and got really angry... but then he didn't seem to care at all... and he brought a blonde bimbo home, but he said they were just talking. Then she left, and I told him that I didn't care if he'd slept with her and he said okay he did, and I asked if he fancied her, and he said no and he looked really honest and quite sad. And then I said do you fancy me and he said no. And I said did you ever fancy me and he said of course. And I said when did you stop fancying me and he said that he thinks it was a long time ago but he only just realised. And I said okay. And then he said are you still my girlfriend and I said no. And he said okay. And then he started packing.

I still see him in lessons and on campus and stuff, and we're very friendly. It was a bit awkward at first, but now it's getting better. I don't mind anymore than we aren't together. What gets me is... well, I was always avoiding Alden because I had Luke. And now I don't. And now I don't know why I'm avoiding him. And I don't want to avoid him anymore. But I have to. I think.

Well, whatever.

Talk to me soon, I miss you loads. Sophomore year is alright so far. That's a point, actually – I only have to withstand the awkwardness of Luke until May, and then he'll graduate. Then I never have to talk to him again, if I don't want to, but I think I will, because if you exclude how possessive and emotional he is, he's really lovely. As a friend. I just think he's too over-the-top for a boyfriend. And I don't love him. But I'm going back onto the Alden topic, and I don't want to.

Lots of love, Grace xxx

Ginny dropped the letter to the coffee table and shoved a hand roughly backwards through her red hair. Honestly, her best friends were so stupid. They couldn't see what they were missing even if it danced in front of them in neon lingerie.

She glanced at Grace's writing, but decided that she could write a reply at work if she got too bored – but she would have to hide it from Angeline, or she'd get in trouble for skiving off work. It didn't really matter. Angeline never came to see her anyway. Ginny suspected that her boss was still sore about her marrying Tom.

Hah. Owned.

Looking up at the clock, Ginny saw that a good fifteen minutes had passed.

Jesus, how slowly do I read? No wonder I always ran out of time in exams. She sighed again. I should probably get Marianne.

She expected that she would have to wake Tom up as well if he was still asleep, as he still insisted on going to work despite his condition. She didn't approve – every day, when she shook him awake, he would open his eyes to a sad, disapproving hazel stare, challenging him into feeling guilty It hadn't worked so far, but today just might be that day. She pushed open the bedroom door, ready to drag him from sleep... however, as she squinted at him through the faint gloom, she saw that his eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling.

For one heart-stopping moment she thought that he was dead.

"Tom?" She froze, terrified. "Tom?!"

Then she realised that he was breathing, and she relaxed infinitesimally.

But why would he still be lying here? Why would he not have woken up and seen to Marianne and got dressed and washed and read the Daily Prophet and told me the interesting parts while I attempt to make breakfast? Why isn't he up?

Tom didn't answer, as she then understood how every breath was rapid, short, and heavy – as though there was something sitting on his chest and crushing his lungs. He was severely struggling just to breathe in and out.

She hurried immediately to his side, perching on a tiny fraction of the bed beside him. "What's wrong?" she asked in a very small voice. She didn't know what to do. She wasn't the one doing medical school. She had no idea what she was supposed to say, what she was supposed to do, to make everything alright again.

She was beginning to doubt that everything was ever going to be alright again.

Tom's eyes flashed to hers quickly, but then he looked back up at the ceiling, screwing his face up slightly in the effort of breathing. One hand – his right hand, closer to her – twitched as though he was considered moving it, and then he clawed at his stomach, clumsily, robotically, digging his nails in as he attempted to drag air into his lungs.

Ginny panicked.

Come on, come on – you have to know something about first-aid!

"Try to relax," she told him, taking his hand and smoothing her thumb over the ice-cold skin. "Just cl– no. Just try to relax."

She had been about say 'just close your eyes' but then she had been scared that they would never open again.

"Slowly... slowly... breathe. In - and out – slowly. It's okay, I promise, it's okay. It's okay."

His words took a long time to come out. "...Is it?"

She ignored this. "I'm going to presume, then, that you're not going to work today?" she asked quietly.

Tom didn't say anything, but he slumped slightly in defeat.

It meant a lot that he was finally giving up his obstinacy and admitting that he was ill. It meant that the curse was progressing – and progressing a lot faster than she had ever expected.

She lifted his hand and touched her lips lightly to his knuckles. "You know I love you... so much," she whispered, even if he wasn't listening. "And you're going to be okay."

He didn't respond. Ginny wasn't sure whether he simply hadn't heard, or if he didn't want to answer. Either way, she continued murmuring to him. Time passed slowly, Marianne stirring quietly from her own sleep behind them, and then Ginny realised that Tom was breathing easy, his eyes closed, sleeping.

xxx

The coffee at work tasted funny. Well, in truth, it probably tasted nice, but Ginny had been drinking home-made, badly-mixed, burnt coffee for more than a month now and was used to it. She had probably destroyed her taste-buds.

She sighed and took the mug back through to her cubicle, where a case of severe writer's block was stopping her from having any inspiration whatsoever for an article on the possibility of a Kneazle pandemic. She was hoping that this coffee would help.

In actuality, she hadn't been due to return to work for another week from today, but about a week and a half ago, after three days of Tom being unable to go to work, she had decided that something had to be done. Money didn't grow under the sofa seats – that was only when it fell out of her pockets and dropped down the back – and they weren't rich enough to live without either of them working. She hadn't really been sure about leaving Marianne with Tom (she still wasn't) because, firstly, she was worried that in this weak state, Tom's alter-ego might triumph and hurt their daughter; and secondly, she knew that Marianne would only make him worse, not better. She had realised, though, that they had no other option.

Ginny sank into her seat and took a deep gulp from her coffee. A combination of the taste and the heat of it stung her throat, but she didn't care.

Beth walked past with arms full of paper, at that moment.

Ginny lifted her head – and the mug – therefore splashing some up her nose – which hurt – and waved.

"Ow!" she exclaimed loudly, which certainly attracted Beth's attention, even if the enthusiastic wave hadn't. "Oh my God, that's hot – ow, ow, ow!"

"Hi," said Beth. Then her voice and expression took on a disdainful edge. "By the way, can you tell your friend to stop stalking me? Thank you." She walked away, leaving the redhead utterly confused.

"What?" She set down her mug, still holding a hand over her scalded nose, and leaned back in her chair to stare after her friend. "Who?" However, just because all celestial beings, in heaven or hell or purgatory or even rotting in the ground, hated her, she leaned too far and the chair tipped over.

Crash.

...Today is not my day.

"Be-eth," she called irritably as she got clumsily to her feet and flipped her chair upright. If the older woman was going to cause her multiple painful accidents, then at least she could stay around to explain herself. "Get back here. I will not tolerate your un-explaining-ness. Really."

She waited.

Nothing. Beth did not come back.

She huffed, and went back to work. She didn't honestly expect that she would have any inspiration, and she didn't. She had some more coffee. Nada. A little more... nope.

For God's sake.

There was no way that she was ever going to be promoted to a journalist if she carried on like this. She just needed to face it – she was scrawny little twenty-year-old Ginny Peregrine (Riddle), the small girl out of her depth in the big boy's pool.

"Hey, don't look so sad," Louise said softly, appearing by her side.

"I'm way too young for this," Ginny muttered. "I should really still be making coffees for Angeline."

"But you're not, and that shows a lot. You're not much younger than me – only a few years – and you're doing much, much better than I did when I was your age, honestly."

"You know what," said Ginny thoughtfully, looking up at the blonde, "I think that's the longest sentence I've ever heard you say in one go."

Louise flushed scarlet, and Ginny felt bad for making her friend feel uncomfortable.

"I'm only joking," she said hastily.

She would have said more, but at that moment a tiny dark-haired boy (who she swore couldn't be older than fifteen) turned up. "Post, Mizz Riddle," he drawled in a heavy London accent, and tossed a bundle onto her desk.

"See?" said Ginny. "I should be doing that." She peered after him. "I'm not much taller, actually."

Louise offered a timid, half-hearted smile, but she was still red from the jab at how quiet she was. "What have you got?" she asked, nodding at the bundle of letters.

"No idea."

Ginny picked the bundle up. She was still getting frequent letters from Grace and Alden – she had delightedly accepted the invitation to see Dominic well again – and apologise for being his demise in the first place – but not much had changed since the status update a little over a week ago. Perhaps her friends had decided to write to her at work... it was a first, but she supposed it wasn't an idea that had never been considered before. She inspected the bundle. In actuality, there were only two letters in the pile, both quite thin, but the elastic band pinning them together compressed their middles and flicked the ends up, giving them an appearance of being larger than reality.

She read the untidy scrawl on the front of the first letter and recognised it as Luke's handwriting. What on earth could he want?

Ginny,

Can you please tell your idiot friend Menzies to get over herself? Thanks. How are you, by the way?

-Luke

She frowned, and glanced down the hallway at where Beth was. The older woman was talking to Martha, who was in charge of the obituary column. She then recalled what Beth had said a few minutes ago that had been so confusing.

"Hi," said Beth. Then her voice and expression took on a disdainful edge. "By the way, can you tell your friend to stop stalking me? Thank you."

"Ohhh," she murmured to herself. She hadn't realised that Luke and Beth had ever spoken – or even met – other than the times she had been present and had accidentally forced them into each other's presences. "Well."

She didn't want to cause waves, but she was still annoyed that Beth wouldn't explain what was going on, and, in the hope of finding out, called down the narrow hallway, "Menz? Luke says to get over yourself."

Beth's face darkened to fury, her eyes narrowing, thin grey slits. She said something to Martha to excuse herself, and then stormed down towards Ginny. She slammed her palms down hard onto the redhead's desk, thrusting her thin, angry face into her cubicle, and growled out, "What?"

"I don't know," said Ginny innocently. "That's just what he said. Why, what happened?"

An animalist snarl came from Beth. "God, he's so annoying – I told you to tell him to stop stalking me. And he is, he can't deny it! I've run into him five times now. By coincidence. And every time, no, he can't just walk past me, no, he's got to try and talk to me, as though I ever would want to speak with an arsehole like him!" She snarled again, glaring, her lip curling back. "I cannot believe him."

"Maybe he's just being friendly?" Ginny suggested fearfully.

"Friendly," Beth scoffed. "He's stalking me. I'm actually scared he's going to try and kill me."

Trust me, Ginny thought ruefully, you do not know how it feels to have someone stalk you and try to kill you. Don't ever go there.

Beth shook her head, her short dark hair slipping across her nose. "Just tell him to stay the hell away from me."

"Okay." Ginny shrugged. The less of her friends were at each other's throats, the better, in her opinion.

As Beth traipsed back down the corridor to Martha, who had been staring at the exchange with worry in her wide eyes, and Louise left to find Will, Ginny turned to the second letter. The front was blank.

Interesting.

She tore it open.

Her eyes flickered across the text and all of the air rushed out of her lungs.

This fight has been going on for far too long.

We know how this is going to finish.

It's completely unnecessary.

We need to talk.

It ends within a fortnight.

It's time to stop playing this game.

And I assure you, I won't be on the losing team.

It wasn't signed but she knew exactly who it was from. None other than Bernard Terby. Terrorising her when she thought that life couldn't get any worse, when she thought that she couldn't sink any lower. She was already watching a knife fall towards her skin, without the need of a hand driving it there.

xxx

A/N: Yay, a quick update. I've been working hard to get this out quickly. I didn't really know how to end this chapter, so I decided just to finish it there, on a vaguely poetically sinister note. Well, lots of twists here... muahahaha. Now it's getting interesting. Please review, je t'aime.