By the time the summer holidays roll around, I'm practically imploding with impatience. It's been nearly seven months since I revealed my identity to Tom; seven months of insanity, of drinking firewhisky in the Room of Requirement, of duelling each other in the Chamber of Secrets, of sneaking into the kitchens for the free food. And in those seven months, Tom has somehow managed to fill a place in my heart that I didn't even realise had been empty since I severed ties with Godric. Friends, but more than that. Family.

And yet Tom still hasn't quite put the fragmented clues together, still hasn't asked about the locket. I'm growing anxious.

We agree to spend the summer at the Cambridgeshire House, as we do every holiday. So that's where we arrive, trunks in hand, in the sticky heat of mid-July. The roses clawing up the brick façade are in full bloom, and the little garden is submerged in sprouting flowers. There is a rippling haze in the air, which is humid and sultry, and the underlying hum of bees.

I leave the matter for a couple of weeks, before eventually succumbing to my increasing impatience and suggesting a trip to Diagon Alley. Tom, thankfully, complies with few questions. The next morning, we apparate straight into the crooked avenue, the sun baking the worn cobbles and a gentle breeze setting the creaky shop signs swaying. I take Tom into one of my Gringotts vaults first and he nearly drops dead at the sight of gold and jewels billowing over the floor like a sparkling sea.

"It's all yours," I say, offering him the little sliver key, "if you want it."

He stares at me, wide-eyed, and I smile, pressing the key into his palm.

Weighed down by an obscene number of coins, we venture back out into the sunny alleyway. I take the lead, accumulating dozens of shopping bags stuffed full with books and clothes.

"You certainly like shopping," Tom comments, glancing at the assortment of bags dangling from my hands and smiling incredulously.

"Shopping is one of the many pleasures in life," I reply airily. "Ice cream?"

We stop at an ice cream parlour and stuff ourselves with fruity sundaes practically dripping out of crystal glasses. Then I casually suggest that we take a turn up Knockturn Alley.

"You want to go down the dodgiest street in London?" Tom asks, grinning slyly.

"Don't you?" I return through a deliciously cold mouthful of sundae.

He shrugs noncommittally. "Alright."

Knockturn Alley is the disreputable twin to its counterpart, Diagon Alley. Even on a day like today, the street is flooded with twisting shadows, the looming storefronts blocking the sunlight and casting the shoppers as fleeting silhouettes that dart in and out of dark recesses like fish in a rockpool. Most travellers are alone, and hooded, their faces little more than warped smears heavily obscured by their cowls. There is an ancient scent to the alley, a commingling of dust and old stone and brass and archaic parchment. It's strangely intoxicating.

"Wait," says Tom, suddenly stopping and turning to look at one of the stores. I don't have to look to know that it's Borgin and Burke's. It seems as if some of the clues paid off, at least. "Can we go in there?" he asks.

I turn to face the shopfront. It's barely changed at all since I was last here: the windows are still yellowed with age and greased by a thousand touches, the blurred glimmer of lost treasures behind the lead-lined glass simultaneously foreboding and yet strangely alluring.

"Of course," I reply nonchalantly, as if it isn't the most important thing in the world to me.

We step inside, and the heavy copper bell, greening with antiquity, jangles loudly. The shop is large, dimly lit, and laden with a myriad of antiques: dusty crystals, tarnished mirrors, weathered bones and dulled jewellery. Tom whistles in appreciation, gazing around at the crammed shelves in wonder.

A man springs to life from behind the counter and slinks up to us. He's one of those people of whom it is impossible to tell the age; he concurrently appears wizened and ancient, as if he has the dust from ages past still in the lines on his face, and yet his eyes have a kind of youthful cunning. In the gloomy light of the shop his wrinkles are exacerbated, and his appearance is oddly monotone, like a grey paper copy of a man.

"Can I help you with anything?" he asks with the practiced sleekness of a salesman.

"We're just browsing," I reply amiably, strolling towards a shelf and casually picking up a severed hand, inspecting its nails.

"Looking for anything in particular?" he persists.

I turn the severed hand over, looking at its palm before depositing it back on the shelf and picking up a bloodstained pocket watch.

"Do you have anything with an interesting history?" Tom asks politely, still enthralled by the menagerie of archaic items. He reaches out to pick up a ring set with a fat, glittering emerald.

"Don't touch that," both I and the shopkeeper say at the same time. Tom's hand pauses mid-air before withdrawing sheepishly.

"Unless you want to lose that hand," I amend over my shoulder, putting the pocket watch down and plucking a beautiful, engraved silver knife off the shelf.

"Well," begins the man smoothly, "we do have this lovely little piece." He pulls some white gloves out of his pocket and slips them over his hands before delicately retrieving a golden amulet from a glass cabinet. It's moulded like a scarab beetle, plated in gold and set with turquoise stones. "Egyptian," the shopkeeper says, holding it out on his palm for Tom to see. "Belonged to Rameses III before his assassination. The legend goes that it was stolen after his death, and every subsequent owner was murdered in turn until the curse was broken by the Morrigan."

Is that true? Tom asks silently.

Mostly, I think back.

"Fascinating," Tom says out loud. Before he can continue, I interrupt.

"What would you say is the most valuable item you've ever sold?" I ask mildly.

The shopkeeper reverently places the amulet back into the case and dusts off his hands. "That depends on what you value in an item," he replies evasively.

"The usual things," I say indifferently. "Age. History. Rarity. Price."

He shrugs. "I've sold many antiques that fit that description. But if you're asking what was the most expensive item I've ever sold, well, then that would have to be the locket of Salazar Slytherin."

Tom freezes up. "The what now?" he breathes.

The shopkeeper chuckles. "Unbelievable, I know. But true. We had it analysed by the best experts in the field, and they all confirmed that it was genuine."

Tom is silent in shock. He glances at me, but I keep my gaze firmly set on the shopkeeper, betraying nothing but cool interest.

"Who sold it to you?" I ask nonchalantly, feigning ignorance.

"Some girl," he says easily, "about twenty years ago it must've been. Pregnant, by the looks of her. She didn't even know what it was, sold it to me for 10 galleons. Of course, I sold it on for a great deal more."

"Really," I say composedly. "Who bought it?"

"An antiques collector," he replies. "And a regular here. Hepzibah Smith. She paid four hundred thousand galleons for it, if you can believe that."

"A small price to pay for such a priceless object," I muse.

"True," he says, chuckling.

I buy the little silver knife and escort a shell-shocked Tom from the shop. He stops dead in the middle of the alley, staring at me.

"That woman has your locket," he says at last.

"I know," I reply.

He pauses, frowning. Then his eyes suddenly widen in dawning realisation. "You already knew."

I shrug. "It was nice having it confirmed, but yes, I knew."

"Why don't you just take it back?" he asks, confused.

I glance behind me. There are too many shadowy figures, too many potential eavesdroppers.

"Let's talk somewhere a little more private," I murmur, and apparate us back to the Cambridgeshire House.

Haha! I am ahead of schedule! Should be maybe a week (or less!) until next update :)

Just for reference, 400,000 galleons is about 2 million pounds. Or roughly 2.5 million dollars for my American friends. Or 2.25 million euros.

As always, any reviews/questions/praise/worship is always most welcome.

Love you all,

Amy Grace xx