"Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell."
— William Shakespeare, Macbeth
"People who cease to believe in God or goodness altogether still believe in the devil. . . .
Evil is always possible. And goodness is eternally difficult."
— Anne Rice, Interview with the Vampire
It took a long, long time to fall, long enough for her to observe with a strange, detached interest the way the curse spread inch by inch across her chest, and how her heart thumped hard against her ribs in rebellion. There were swirling lights behind her eyelids, and cold creeping into her bones, and sharp, invisible claws pulling her in all directions. Then there was the impact that forced her breath out with a gasp, and the realization that she had finally stopped falling, that she could feel something solid beneath her.
She had only a moment to revel in her relief when sounds meandered in, voices growing louder, pushing closer, crowding her until the pain became a dull throbbing in the background.
"— fell out of the sky!"
"But that's impossible! You can't Apparate in Hogwarts!"
"My dinner!"
"That's what you're worried —"
"Oh my God, she's bleeding! Someone get the matron —"
She opened her eyes. Black spots danced in her vision, and she found faces she didn't recognize peering down at her. Above them, the black sky was dotted with stars and —
Candles.
Floating candles.
Wrong.
Her hand flew to the locket around her neck. It had been burning before, but now she could feel the metal cooling against her palm. The weight of it was strange and unfamiliar, the heaviness pressing down on her chest as if a reminder — a warning.
She heaved herself to her feet, her legs wobbling unsteadily beneath her. As she stood, a sea of black robes and curious faces parted before her, and her eyes landed on a figure across the hall.
She had heard it said that time could slow down, and maybe that was true. That dreadful day in the Chamber of Secrets, the sight of Hagrid carrying Harry's lifeless body, the expression on her mother's face when she fell. . . . Those moments lasted longer than they should have, reality stretched thin with dread and horror.
But this? Seeing that familiar face, pale and wide-eyed, still as a statue amid the chaos — this was the opposite.
Everything sped up.
The noise of the crowd rose in a crescendo around her, a hundred voices clamouring to be heard, and Tom Riddle's silence rang louder than it all.
I can end this, she thought. Here and now, I can end it before it even begins.
Ginny Weasley raised her wand.
.
.
.
Tom Riddle first met her on a cold, drizzly evening at a bus stop.
Winter was looming near, and the biting winds threatened to topple him over as he waited for the rain to subside. Across the street from where Tom stood, there was a girl his age, crouched low upon a store stoop with her parents. The couple was gazing down at their daughter with such concentrated love and warmth that it was like looking at the sun, the three of them glowing with happiness. Tom had passed them not even five minutes ago, before the rain had fallen, but they had been too caught up in each other to notice him.
But why would they? It was a simple truth that Tom was easy to overlook. Easy to ignore. Easy to dismiss. It meant he could sneak out of the orphanage whenever he wanted, and he spent a lot of time travelling around London. Amid the dull rumble of the city, he could move out of the way and stay unseen, with his hands darting in and out, always in fleeting touches. Whenever he returned, his pockets would be bulging with trinkets — useful things like a pocketknife and a ball of string, and always something wrong but interesting, like pictures from a man's wallet or a bracelet from a woman's wrist.
On days Tom felt especially daring, he went up to grownups on the street and asked them for bus money. Usually they just mumbled half-hearted apologies and patted their pockets helplessly, but lately they did what he asked of them, without asking too many awkward questions. More out of a desire to be rid of him, he knew, than true altruism. He was an undesirable element in their comfortable lives, a reminder of how grim the world was outside their warm houses, and he was starting to learn how to use it to his advantage.
There was another gust of wind, and Tom nearly staggered, knocked out of his reverie. In the same howling blast, he saw from the corner of his eye someone heading towards the bus stop, towards him.
Another girl, older than him but not enough to be an adult. Her red hair was vibrant against the dull greys above and below and all around them, flying like a banner in the wind. She was dressed in what looked like a long, flowing dress — or something like a coat or a robe — and it looked remarkably dry.
Tom cut his eyes away, back to the family across the street. They were huddled under an umbrella now, darting down the pavement. It looked like they were laughing, but the sound was lost in the now pelting rain. A pang of envy pierced through him, sharp and cold.
That morning, Danny Watson had been adopted. Him, that simpering, thin-skinned boy — he had been chosen over Tom, and soon he would know what it was like to be in that girl's shoes. There had been a part of Tom, in the days leading up to Danny's adoption, that had thought . . .
Well. It had been Tom's own fault, really, for having hoped. How could he have thought it would be him? Hadn't he been through this before? This sore disappointment ringing through his bones was a familiar feeling, brought on by years of repetition. A reminder that he was nothing to yet another pair of prospective parents, that he was nothing to his own parents, that he was nothing to everyone.
Except to me, Tom thought. He was something to himself, and he had to believe it was true. It was easy, after all, to get lost in the vastness of the world, and so he had to believe he could break away from the anonymity.
When the family was out of sight, Tom became more acutely aware of the girl next to him. She was staring at him, and somehow he was certain she had been staring since she had ducked under the roof.
"I seem to be holding your interest, Miss," said Tom, lifting his chin defiantly.
He had wanted to make her uncomfortable, but rather than squirm or look away, the girl arched her brows, her mouth pressed into a thin line.
"You shouldn't have done that, you know," she said in gently chiding tones. "Stealing isn't very nice. How would you feel if someone stole from you?"
Tom frowned, not a little bewildered. Of course he knew it wasn't nice — that was the point. It was his way of tipping the scales, of balancing injustices.
But how did she know? Surely she couldn't know. . . .
"But I wouldn't worry about it now," the girl continued. "The wallet's back where it belongs."
Suddenly wary, Tom's hands flew to his pockets. They were empty, he realized.
"Where did you — ?"
"Back in the lady's purse, where it should be. Like I said."
The girl's expression didn't change, but Tom could have sworn she looked faintly amused. His eyes narrowed.
"How?" he demanded.
She wriggled her fingers, the corner of her mouth twitching. "Magic."
Tom stiffened. She was laughing at him, he was sure of it, and yet . . .
There had been no one else on the street when he had stolen from the family. He was careful about that — he always timed it so that no one would catch him in the act, and he always picked those he was sure wouldn't notice the little boy in shabby clothes.
And Tom was certain the couple hadn't noticed him; they had been too engrossed in their daughter to pay him any mind.
So how did this girl know? For that matter, how did she swipe the wallet from him then return it to the family, when she hadn't moved this entire time?
"Come along then," the girl said, holding out her hand. "I'll buy you some ice cream, if you like, but you have to promise not to do it again."
Tom blinked at her outstretched hand. A beat passed, then two. The sound of rain hammering overhead seemed deafening in the silence.
"You don't know me yet, do you?" she said after a while.
Before he could think to ask what she meant, the girl was crouching down, his face slightly above hers. She was smiling, wide and bright, and this close to her, Tom could see her eyes were a warm brown.
"My name's Ginny, by the way," she whispered, low and quiet, like a secret. "And I meant it about the ice cream."
"It's raining," said Tom at great length.
"Hmm, that it is."
She stood and then — Tom couldn't say how it happened. One second, her hands were empty, and the next, she was holding an umbrella, opening it, and swinging it over her shoulder.
Magic, she had said. Questions buzzed and swarmed in Tom's head, each wrestling for importance, and he couldn't find any kind of thought that would settle them all.
"Right then," she said lightly. "What about hot chocolate? Extra marshmallows and all."
She held out her hand again, and this time Tom took it.
"I'm Tom," he said at last. "Tom Riddle," he added, almost impulsively. It was important that the world knew that he did, indeed, have a surname, otherwise he would just be another Tom.
"Nice to meet you, Tom Riddle," said Ginny, smiling still. "I think you and I are going to be great friends."
Ginny was a storyteller. In a quiet, secluded corner of a shabby café, over mugs of hot chocolate and a shared plate of toffee pudding, she regaled him with stories, each one more fantastic than the last.
A world of magic, of wizards and witches and all manner of creatures, hidden from those without.
A brewing war, just like the Great War, but with wandfire and rituals and forbidden magic.
A school, a sprawling castle brimming with light and enchantment. Waiting for him, for Tom. Hogwarts.
Tom believed her. Inexplicably, he knew she was telling him the truth. It made sense now, why he never fit, why he had always been different. He had never belonged in this world at all — he belonged elsewhere, somewhere different, somewhere better.
"And you'll be there too, won't you?" said Tom. "You're magic too!"
Ginny hesitated. "I'll be there, but I'm . . . I'm a special case, let's say."
Tom's excitement — and he was excited, more than he could remember being in a long while — dimmed, just a little. "What do you mean?"
"It means you have to . . . you have to be good, all right? You have to promise you'll be good. Because you'll see me again, but you'll have to wait —"
"You're leaving?" said Tom, sitting up quickly. Panic gripped him so suddenly that it felt as if someone poured ice water down his back. "You're not staying?"
"I can't," said Ginny with a small apologetic smile. "Not right now, but one day."
The joy and eagerness he had felt while listening to her stories were gone in an instant, replaced by a cold dread that filled the familiar hollowness within him. It only grew as they made their way back to the orphanage, like black tendrils spreading and twisting into every part of him, until the lightness and contentment from before felt like a distant memory.
Tom hated going back, it was always the worst part of his trips around London — but now it felt even worse. It didn't seem fair, it didn't seem right, that he should have to return after knowing the truth of what he was, after all of Ginny's stories, after learning about the world that awaited him.
"Where will you go?" asked Tom when they arrived, standing outside the backdoor of the orphanage.
It was still raining, and Ginny was idly twirling the umbrella in her hand. Her other hand was gripping Tom's own, and he had the sudden wild, childish notion that she might not leave if he held onto her tighter. It wouldn't work, of course, but a part of him still wondered if he could convince her to stay with him — the same way he could convince strangers on the street to give him money without outright begging.
"Hard to say," said Ginny, shrugging. "I can never tell where I end up."
"That's not a proper answer."
"Ask me a proper question and maybe I'll give you one."
Tom scowled. It felt like he was missing the first half of a joke — one that he should already know, from the way Ginny was trying to stifle her laughter — and he was frustrated at not being able to determine what it was.
"You'll see me again," she promised. "Not tomorrow, I don't think, but I'll come back."
"People always say that," grumbled Tom.
"I'm not people."
Suddenly he heard the shuffling of people from inside the building, lumbering down the stairs and along the hall.
"Tom?" It was one of the caretakers, stomping towards the door. "That better be you, young man! How many times do we have to tell you — no wandering off!"
There was a rattling of keys, and the doorknob turned with the faintest of clicks. Clockwise, anticlockwise, up — and just as the treacherous door fell open, Tom turned around.
Ginny was gone, as if she had never been there at all.
The thick fir tree behind the orphanage was one of Tom's favourite hiding places. No one had ever found him up there, tucked away in the branches, though he doubted anyone bothered to look very hard, if at all.
Tom climbed rhythmically, his breathing settling in time with his hands and feet. In the distance, he could hear the muffled voices of the orphanage staff, but he took his time, concentrating as he scrambled up. He kept going until the branches were so fragile that the next one up snapped off his hand. Forced to accept that he was as close to the top as he was going to get, he shinned along the branch until he could see out of the conifer.
Here among the thick pine needles and the smell of sap, all he could hear was the rustling of leaves, cut off from the muted buzz of the city. The tough climb, the bitterly cold air — it was all worth it, just for this moment of quiet and solitude. Like entering another world . . .
"What did I say?" came an irritated voice from somewhere above him. Tom looked up, and just about managed to keep his grip on the tree in shock.
It was Ginny, looking back at him with a fierce frown. Her hair was unruly and stuck up all over the place, but it was undoubtedly her, exactly as she had been when he last saw her. The same dark clothes, the same golden locket.
"What did I tell you? Be good, I said. I very distinctly remember telling you to be good."
Tom swallowed. His voice seemed to have deserted him, and it was hard to remember all he wanted to tell her, all the words he had carefully constructed in his head, on the nights he had laid awake, wondering if the day by the bus stop had been more than a figment.
"You're here," said Tom finally, in a low voice. "You're real."
Her expression softened, and she climbed down until she was sitting beside him.
"Of course I'm real," said Ginny gently. She held out her hand, and Tom reached out, twining his fingers with hers. "See? Feels real enough, doesn't it?"
It did. It must be.
Tom nodded, his eyes fixed resolutely on their entwined hands. "You were gone."
"I'm sorry. I can't promise it won't happen again."
"Where did you go?"
"You'll find out when you're older." She laughed at Tom's scowl and let go of his hand. "There's no need to pull that face at me. You're going to know eventually."
"Why do you do that?" he said, his voice growing stronger.
"Do what?"
"Keep secrets, not tell me things . . . act mysterious."
"I've got to keep you on your toes," she said in a ridiculous singsong. "I know how you get when you're bored, and you get bored easy."
"Not of you." And he meant it. He couldn't imagine ever getting bored of Ginny and her stories.
But she only rolled her eyes. "Ever the charmer. Don't think that means I've forgotten."
"I didn't do anything," he said coolly. He fought not to recoil at her disapproving look.
"I know you fought with Billy Stubbs yesterday," she said sternly. "That poor rabbit . . ."
Tom wanted to deny it. Had they been on the ground, he would have leapt to his feet in protest. No one had caught him in the act, and even though Mrs. Cole and the staff were looking for him now, they had no way of proving he had done it. They never did.
But he knew at once it would be daft to lie to Ginny. She wasn't like the caretakers or the other children in the orphanage — she was special, just as he was, and he had the disturbing sense that she knew what he was thinking. That she would see through his practiced aloofness, no matter what he said.
"He started it," said Tom, looking away. "He called me names! He said I was —"
"That doesn't make it right. This isn't what magic is for, Tom. You shouldn't have done it."
"What would you have done then?"
There was a pause, long enough that Tom worried she had vanished — but no. Ginny was still seated next to him, her arms almost brushing his, her cheeks strangely pink.
"Well," she said, drawing the word out. "I would have punched him, probably, but you shouldn't do that either."
"Then what —"
Before he could finish, Ginny jumped down from the tree. It was far too high a jump, one that should have hurt her, but she landed as lightly as if she had simply hopped down a front step. She must have known Tom was watching in amazement because she turned back and grinned, clearly showing off. He almost called down to ask how she had done it, but she quickly sobered, her hands on her hips.
"I won't teach you anymore if all you're going to do is pick fights and steal things," she said, glaring.
A retort was on the tip of his tongue when her words sank in. "You're going to teach me?"
Her brows drew together, a series of emotions flickering across her face — confusion and surprise, then something like anger, something like dismay, before she slid them all behind an expressionless shutter.
"Come on down," she said. "I'm still mad, but since I'm here anyway. . . . I suppose we might as well."
Tom climbed down as quickly as he could, not heeding the twigs scratching his arms and face.
"You're really going to teach me?" he said, fast and breathless, once he was on the ground. "Real magic? With wands and —"
He stopped, mouth snapping shut, as he caught sight of Ginny's pursed lips. In his excitement, he had almost forgotten why he was here — why he had sought this refuge, why he was hiding away — in the first place.
"Just —" She gave him a once over, as if sizing him up, then sighed. "Just promise you won't do it again."
Tom nodded immediately, trying to keep his anticipation in check. He had heard the note of her throat tightening; Ginny was upset, and somehow he knew it had not nothing to do with Billy Stubbs' rabbit.
Then she shook her head, the corner of her mouth curving into a smile, and the sight of it burned away his unease.
"Come along, Riddle," she said airily, with a fondness shining through the words — a fondness for him.
Tom followed her without hesitation.
There was no way of telling when Ginny would come back. She wandered in and out, the only guarantee of her return the promise she repeated, without fail, at the end of her visits: you'll see me again.
And Tom did.
Every day, he waited by the front gates or lingered by the windows overlooking the gardens, searching for her now familiar silhouette. Hardly anyone ever passed through, and he knew this addition to his routine confused the caretakers. He could feel their eyes on his back each time, but he wasn't the first or the only orphan to sit by the gates, waiting and looking for a visitor — for any visitor, to whisk him away from this awful place.
But unlike most, Tom wasn't waiting for naught. Sometimes there would be days between her visits, sometimes weeks and even months, but Ginny always came back, the same as she ever was, with stories of Hogwarts he was sure he would never tire of.
"Put your pen down," she had said the first time she had taught him magic, laughing at whatever she had seen on Tom's face. "This isn't that kind of lesson."
It hadn't been, and neither were all the ones that followed. They were nothing like his normal schoolwork. Rather than teach him about things like numbers and history, Ginny taught him about spells and potions and seemingly innocuous things, like Quidditch teams and how to find the kitchens in Hogwarts. Always, she reminded him to ignore the people she called Slytherins, and to not pay attention to what they believed about blood and status.
"Names have power, I'll give them that," she said. "But it's not from how pure your blood is or how much money you've got. They're just labels. The only power they have is the meaning you give them, and we'll all be happier if you give them nothing at all."
The strangest thing was how Ginny wouldn't let him do any actual magic. She insisted her wand wouldn't work for him, and so Tom had to settle for her demonstrations or practicing the spell on his own. The first time he had done it, he had turned a match into a needle, and she had looked at him with an odd expression. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by her usual beaming smile.
"I'm not doing this right," she muttered later, more to herself than to him. "My — I know someone, who's a much better teacher."
Tom doubted it. He couldn't imagine how anyone could be better than Ginny at anything. She did everything with ease, conjuring lights and stories out of thin air without any effort at all.
Once, he asked her about this supposedly better teacher, the unfinished my — someone that she carried with her and loomed over every lesson. To his surprise, her smile faded, and her face drained of colour until her freckles stood out like ink splatter.
"No one you should know," she snapped, her face blank and impassable. He later caught her frowning when she thought he wasn't looking, clutching her necklace so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
Ginny had looked sad then, in a way she never was. It was the same look new children in the orphanage wore, when they still foolishly hoped for a saviour that would never come, for some distant relative to appear and tell them they had a family all along.
Unable to help himself, Tom asked her about that too. There was a second's delay when Ginny didn't seem to be responding, not even breathing, but then she shot to her feet and stared at him, a shadow clouding her face. He was irrepressibly reminded of Mrs. Cole when she lost her temper, of those furious reprimands that had never bothered him.
But it was different with Ginny. Tom shrank back, even as indignation rose in his throat, even as he held her gaze. It was different, because he could feel it — the weight of her magic, the brightness of it, thrumming in the air between them.
She was angry and trying to contain it, and he found himself oddly captivated. The knowledge that she could do anything, that she had the power simmering under her skin, made him freeze where he stood, waiting for what she would say and do with bated breath.
In the end, Ginny merely said, in the same harsh tone, "They're gone now."
Tom frowned when she didn't offer anything else. He clasped his hands behind his back and blinked innocently up at her. "You've got a funny way of missing people."
Ginny pinned him with a burning glare, and he could tell she wasn't fooled. "I guess I do."
Though she eventually changed the subject, the conversation hung like a pall over their heads for the rest of the day. It was almost disappointing, how anticlimactic it was.
But Tom didn't forget. He sometimes wondered if he ought to try asking again, about her family and her mystery someone. How far could he push, before she snapped back? How many times could he ask the same questions, before he would get his answers?
Or would she simply not give them? How far would she go to keep her secrets, to keep him waiting?
Would she leave for good, to do just that?
Curious as he was, Tom couldn't risk it. He would be patient, he decided, if it meant Ginny would return.
Most of the time, they stayed at the edge of the garden, hidden among the trees and far from the wandering eyes of the staff and the other children. When it got too dark, they would go up to the roof of the building, careful not to let anyone see them come and go. Ginny seemed to know his hiding places as well as he did; there were times when she found him taking his secret passageways, when he was trying to avoid the dull, irritating presence of the children in the orphanage with him.
Some days, she appeared to him when he was out in the city, and often she would take him to the same café from that first day. One summer afternoon, she brought him to the duck pond in St. James' Park, insisting he ought to enjoy the rare burst of fair weather.
"Why don't we ever go to Diagon Alley?" said Tom, watching the ducks glide past.
Ginny shrugged and tossed scraps of bread to a scruffy-looking drake. "Because it's a surprise. You'll get bored of it, after a while."
No matter where she took him, it was these visits that Tom liked best, though it meant she couldn't show him any magic. Wandering the streets of London with Ginny by his side made these unsanctioned trips feel even more like an adventure. It was as if the world was bigger now, brighter and stranger in ways he never thought possible. It felt more real, too, when they were weaving through crowds and brushing against strangers. Proof that she was real, that she wasn't made up, despite what Billy Stubbs and the others whispered behind his back.
Yet it was also these visits Tom dreaded most, for how quickly the hours passed. The sun was sinking fast, and as he and Ginny gazed upon it, it sunk below the horizon and disappeared.
"You'll come back, won't you?" he asked as they neared the orphanage.
"Of course," she said, and again he had the fleeting thought of asking her to stay.
Instead, in the most grave and solemn tone he could muster, he said, "Don't forget me."
Ginny laughed, letting go of his hand so she could ruffle his hair.
"Never," she said as Tom, scowling, wriggled free. "I don't know how I could ever forget you."
Maybe it was because of his own gloom, but he thought there was something in the way she said it, something in her words that belied her smile. Tom didn't have very long to ponder what it was before Ginny ushered him through the door, with her usual reminders to be good and be patient, all right, you'll see me soon.
A thick fog had settled over the grounds like a cold veil. Tom vaguely wondered how it could have descended so quickly as Ginny waved goodbye and disappeared through the mist.
And just like that, the world seemed dimmer. Smaller, as if it had shrunk down to this grim building and its empty courtyard. Tom went to his room, looked out the window — the fog had lifted now, though the garden seemed blurred and shadowy still — and he waited, counting down the days until her return.
"Expecto patronum!"
A silver horse shot out of her wand and galloped soundlessly through the trees. Tom watched, filled with wonder, as it seemed to drown out the sunlight, basking the garden in its glow like it was the only light in the world.
Just what sort of things could one do with magic?
Everything, he thought. The possibilities seemed limitless, almost overwhelmingly so. More than making things move and hurt, more than talking to snakes, more than commanding animals to do what he wanted, there was also this — this dazzlingly bright creature, and all the other bright things Ginny had shown him.
As captivating as it was, though, it didn't hold Tom's attention very long. His gaze drifted back to Ginny, who was still watching the horse bound across the grounds with a pensive look.
"You went away again," he said.
She turned to him slowly, as if roused from a stupor, and didn't answer right away. "Was I gone for very long?"
The longest, Tom didn't say. Almost a year, this time.
Hope was a terrible, stupid thing to indulge in within the walls of Wool's Orphanage. He had learned that years ago, but he still felt the strain of it, pressing and pulling at him, each time she disappeared into the night, the same promise echoing in his mind.
"Will you tell me now, where you went?" he asked instead.
Ginny shook her head. "Not yet. You're too young."
Tom was sorely tempted to stomp his foot, if it wouldn't completely prove her point.
"You're not much older," he protested. The horse was trotting towards them, leaving a trail of silver light in its wake, when a thought occurred to him. "How old are you anyway?"
Ginny looked about the same age as the oldest children in the orphanage. But then she had always looked the same to him, an unchanging constant.
"Older," she said calmly as the horse stood next to her. Cast in its silvery glow, her golden necklace glinted as the horse gently nudged her shoulder with its muzzle. "Rather rude of you, Tom, asking a lady her age."
Tom made a face. He was about to retort when he realized she was trying to distract him, so he changed tack.
"Why can't you stay? Last time, you said you can't stay anywhere. That it wasn't allowed."
A frown creased her forehead. "Did I? Well, it's not wrong, really, but it's more complicated than that."
"What does that mean?"
"It's not that it isn't allowed. It's more like . . . there are guidelines, you could say. Even magic has rules that need to be followed. They're not the sort of thing you could break — bend a little, maybe, but not break. Not even if I wanted to."
"Do you want to?"
She looked away and let out a long sigh. "You ask an awful lot of questions."
"You never tell me anything," he couldn't help but say, his tone rising.
"I tell you plenty. You just never listen."
"I do too!"
Tom didn't realize he was whinging until Ginny levelled a cool gaze in his direction. The horse beside her had dissolved into nothingness, returning them to the dim afternoon light.
"But you haven't learned anything," she said. She was staring at him like she was trying to summon the energy to be angry and not finding it.
Tom felt a squirming mixture of embarrassment and indignation. He had learned plenty, hadn't he? He could do the spells she had taught him without needing a wand, and he had memorized all the incantations, remembered all her stories. . . .
And yet, that odd look sometimes flickered across her face. Almost like she was wary, like Mrs. Cole and everyone else — but that didn't make sense. Why would Ginny be wary of him, when it was she who could do all these wonderful things?
They regarded each other silently for a moment before Tom, unable to come up with anything else, settled on appeasement.
"Can you show me again?"
The silver horse burst from her wand once more, soaring across the garden. All the while, it seemed to be looking at Tom, its head held high and its eyes watchful and vigilant.
Tom didn't know what had woken him. Nothing usually disturbed his sleep. He was used to the nocturnal sounds of the city — a car going by outside, an animal noise in the night, the voices of the wind in the trees — but tonight something was different. His neck prickled uncomfortably, and he squinted into the darkness of his bedroom, unable to shake the feeling that something was lurking around the corner. He propped himself up on his elbow, fully awake now, straining to hear.
There it was, outside the window. He got up and opened it wide, leaning his head out and staring at the empty garden.
Only it wasn't empty. Even from a distance, he could see a figure curled under the fir tree, a small glow illuminating a familiar mane of red hair.
Tom didn't even think about it; he was out of his room and racing to the garden in a heartbeat. It was only when he was outside that he realized something was wrong.
Ginny was crying. Not the big heaving kind of crying, but soft and muffled, like she was trying to stifle them, yet still her hushed sobs pierced the quiet like a thunderclap.
Tom was at a loss. When the other children cried, he had dealt with them by ignoring their tears and walking away. It didn't feel right to do the same now, to pretend that he hadn't seen her. He didn't know what to do, how to make his presence known, but he was saved the trouble — Ginny abruptly stood, the glowing end of her wand pointed in his direction, almost blinding him.
"Stand back!" she snarled. "Don't come any closer!"
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He was close enough to see her tear streaked cheeks glistening in the wandlight, the circles under her eyes, the gauntness of her face.
"Ginny?"
Ginny fixed him with an unblinking stare and didn't respond. Finally, after a moment that felt like ages, she lowered her wand.
"It's you," she said, in a voice barely above a whisper. "It's always you."
There was something deep and unfathomable about her eyes — as if she was a million miles away, and not stuck in the bare garden of Wool's Orphanage. She was a bit frightening, if Tom was being honest, but he took a step forward, ignoring the small voice in his head telling him to run.
"Ginny?" he tried again. "Are you all right?"
It was a silly question — it was plain to see what the answer was — but he couldn't think of anything else to say. She didn't seem to hear him, she just continued to hold his gaze, and then —
Tom must have been drowsier than he thought, because it took him longer than he should have to realize she was laughing. It was a low laugh that caught in her throat, and it had a terrible hollowness that sent a pang through his chest.
"I'm running out of time," she said. Her voice rose, bordering somewhere on hysteria. "Nothing I do, it's never enough, and you — you're just . . ."
Ginny broke their stare and paced restlessly, before coming to a stop below the fir tree, on the same spot where he found her. She slid down and sat leaning against the trunk, her eyes closed. It was so cold that Tom could see her breath fog in the air, and it was then that he noticed her clothes were wet, her hair tangled and flat like she had just gotten out of the rain.
"Here's something they won't teach you in Hogwarts," she said suddenly, her eyes snapping open, "and it's the most important lesson you'll ever learn: magic is intent. I learned that from a friend of mine. He wanted to take the world apart and see how it worked, and then put it back together, worse than when he found it."
Tom's heart thudded in his ears and again he heard that same, instinctual voice — the voice encouraging him to run, get out now — but it was Ginny. She would never do anything to hurt him.
He couldn't help but be curious, too. Ginny never spoke of her friends, of her family, of anything about her life outside of her visits to him, but now she had given him a glimpse, her dark eyes drawing him in, and he couldn't look away.
"The Muggles, they have this law. Entropy, they call it. Have you heard of it?"
Tom had, but Ginny didn't wait for him to respond.
"Magic is like that. Spells and wands, we use them to direct our power, and when we do, there's always a cost. Charms, jinxes, hexes — and curses, especially. We lose something, when we use our magic. Most of the time it's simple, nothing too alarming: the effort it takes to cast, the breath in our lungs when we say the words, the — the time" — she drew in a shuddering breath, her hand flying to the locket around her neck — "we need, to learn and to practice how to do it. How to get it right."
Ginny stood and stepped out of the tree's shadow. Under the moonlight, her pale face seemed worn and haunted, and Tom realized she looked worse than he thought — her clothes were torn in places, and there were small cuts along her arms and face.
"Magic is intent," she continued. "When you cast a spell, any spell, you have to believe it — really believe it. It's not enough to want it, but you have to believe that what you stand to lose is worth the price.
"And sometimes it's not. You can try and justify it, but sometimes the price is too steep and you can . . . you'll lose yourself, and nothing will ever be worth that much. Do you understand, Tom?"
He wished he could say yes. He wanted desperately to give her the answer she was looking for, but they both knew it wouldn't be true.
"Listen to me," said Ginny after a long silence. She looked away and laughed the same hollow laugh that made his stomach churn. "I must sound like a total nutter to you."
Tom forced himself to inch closer. His eyes cut over her profile, and she clenched her jaw tightly.
"What happened, Ginny?"
"Too much, and too little. There's not enough time. There won't ever be, will there?"
For the first time, he was glad for such a vague answer. He had never seen her like this — hard and bitter, but somehow small and vulnerable. She seemed so much older now, in a way he couldn't explain, and he wasn't quite sure he wanted to know why.
Ginny took another sharp breath and rubbed her forehead, glancing around the garden as if seeing it for the first time. When she turned to look at him, something in her eyes had softened, and though she was still unsmiling, Tom suddenly felt that the Ginny he knew was back again.
"I know it's not your thing," she said softly, "but can I hug you? It's — I know it's stupid and I'm not making any sense, but just this once, is that all right?"
Tom blinked, thrown by the sudden request. He hesitated before coming to her side, half-expecting Ginny to disappear as he approached. But she didn't — she simply leaned forward and held him, surprisingly tight, when he was close enough to reach. Despite her sodden robes, her damp skin, her sweat-soaked hair, there was a warmth emanating from her that made something inside him shift.
That someone could feel so real, could be so solid, so alive. . . . Was this why people hugged? To know the person in your arms is alive? To know you are too?
"Not long now, Tom," said Ginny, but he barely heard her. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to feel this, to remember, to know it by heart: real.
It was dawn when Tom opened his eyes. He stared up at his cracked ceiling, listening to the sound of the city as it came to life. He must have laid there for hours, silent and motionless, but even as sunlight began to flood through his windows, he still felt the loss of it — the cold in a space where there used to be life.
The days passed, turned to weeks, turned to months.
Tom waited. In the still moments of the night, he wondered about her last visit. He thought he was used to her idiosyncrasies, that nothing short of seeing Hogwarts with his own eyes could surprise him — but then, that was very much like Ginny, wasn't it? To be constant, yet unexpected.
He wondered what had happened, for her to be so distressed and . . . broken, he supposed, was the only word for it. She was always careful to hide her hurts and her secrets. What could have happened to break that veneer? Whatever it was, was it why she had yet to return? Was she better now? Was she all right?
He tried not to assume the worst. Surely whatever it was that had her so upset would be dealt with soon. And then, when she returned, she would tell him the whole story. It must be something fantastic, something even more extraordinary than all the others, for her to be gone for so long.
But what if —
No.
She would be all right. She always was.
The new year passed without a sign of Ginny.
Amy Benson got adopted, much to his relief. Dennis Bishop didn't, much to his annoyance. They had been more unbearable after their summer outing to the seaside. While they kept away from him for the most part, they had also gotten a little braver in their pestering about his routine and secret trips. Tom almost wished he had gone through with his plan — to take them to the cave he had found and give them a good scare — but he knew Ginny would have chastised him for it. She always seemed to know when and how he used his magic. With the state she had been in last time, he didn't want to give her any more cause to be disappointed in him.
More children came through the gates. Some left with their new families, others because they were too old to stay.
Tom didn't bother with any of them, and they knew better than to bother with him. Even the older ones, like that loudmouthed Billy Stubbs, had learned to stay away from Tom. They didn't call him mad, not when he could hear, but he knew they talked about him all the same. They looked at him with suspicious, hateful eyes, and a hush would descend whenever he entered the room.
He didn't care. He knew he was different, that he was special, and that was all that mattered. Better to be thought crazy than to be thought an average, worthless orphan.
Besides, he had the wizarding world to look forward to. Not long now, Ginny had said. Maybe that was what she meant — that he was going to Hogwarts soon.
I'll come back. She had said that too.
So Tom waited.
In between his normal lessons and homework, he practiced the spells she taught him, so he could have stories of his own to tell her. He repeated the incantations over and over, until the words felt familiar on his tongue, less clumsy and more real.
Because it was real, wasn't it? The proof was in front of him, plain as day — he could make things move and change and fly.
He kept an eye out for her when he wandered the city, retracing the places they visited — the run-down café, the bus stop, the duck pond in St. James' Park. Sometimes he would see a flash of red in his periphery or hear the swish of rustling clothing in the dark. Each time his heart leapt in his chest, only to sink to his feet once he realized it was nothing more than a trick of the light.
He spoke to the snakes he found in the garden, for lack of anyone else to talk to.
"The Master knows," they said to him. "The Master remembers."
Tom didn't know why they called Ginny that, but he chalked it up to the wizarding world's strangeness. Ginny would explain it, when she returned.
She was going to return, wasn't she?
She promised, didn't she?
I'm not people, she had told him.
Another thought rose unbidden, a familiar, doubtful voice in the back of his head whispering, But what if . . .
More months passed.
Tom didn't know how so much of it did before he even noticed. Time used to pass slowly in Wool's Orphanage. It used to feel like ages for the summer sun to set, for the autumn leaves to fall, for the winter snows to melt.
But now time had sneaked past unnoticed, like a wicked shadow beneath his feet. Expanding, growing, bleeding.
But what if . . .
Another year.
Children came and went. Parents came and went. The Danny Watsons and Amy Bensons left, while the Billy Stubbses and Dennis Bishops remained.
Tom Riddle remained.
On New Year's Eve, he stood on the rooftop of the orphanage and looked at the stars above, at the city below, at the monochrome world around him. Fireworks lit up the sky, a shower of colour and embers, but he saw none of it. His shadow crept in the non-space between them, twisting and slithering and writhing.
Being eleven, he mused, didn't feel all that different from being ten. It was as if nothing had changed.
But something had, hadn't it? He knew now that it had been a lie all along.
Ginny, it turned out, was people.
.
.
.
She stood alone in a long, dark corridor. There was a door at the end, plain and nondescript, but something about it made her heart pound in excitement. She wanted to rush towards it, to see what was on the other side. It was the sort of thing he would do, wasn't it? The sort of thing she would do as well, and yet —
Fear surged through her. She had been here before, she realized. This place was familiar, and so was that door, and it was —
The door was opening. A sliver of light sliced through the dim corridor, broadening across the stone floor, and she caught a glimpse of —