28 November 1942 — 13 December 1942
A gathering, Riddle had called it.
It turned out there had been more than one. Diagon Alley, Godric's Hollow, even the Ministry — magical communities all throughout Britain. Hogwarts had been the only place in the country that hadn't been attacked by the Alliance.
Classes had to be suspended for the rest of the week as the staff was stretched thin, helping with the repairs. The fifth-years and N.E.W.T. level students were encouraged to join the clean-up in Hogsmeade, and while many came, the absence of those who didn't felt to Ginny like a missing limb.
Alphard was gone by the time she left Dumbledore's office, as well as his relatives. No one had heard from them since. Ginny later learned from Briseis, after she missed Dippet's announcements at breakfast, that Arcturus Black — Alphard's uncle and Orion's father — had come to fetch them himself. The portraits claimed he'd gotten into a screaming match with Dippet over what had happened.
Odette had also been sent away. Every day she wrote them letters, delivered by the Ministry's imperious looking eagle owl. She was fine, she assured them, but she was still staying at St. Mungo's at the insistence of her uncle Torquil Travers, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The letters were several pages long, complaining about everything from the state of her room, to her food, to the Auror trainee that had been assigned as her bodyguard.
"Poor guy," said Briseis, snickering. She put away Odette's latest letter and helped herself to some toast and marmalade. "He's got his hands full. Odette's frightful when she's bored."
"Good training though," said Ginny as she snatched a piece of toast from Briseis' plate. "Odette's slightly less terrifying than your average Dark wizard."
"Only slightly?" said Wendy.
Their laughter was short-lived as another post owl landed in front of them, carrying that day's copy of the Daily Prophet. Margot, who had her nose buried in a Muggle newspaper, unfolded it hastily and scanned the front page.
Briseis clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "Again, Margot?"
Margot made a distracted noise, her eyes fixed on the Prophet. As more details about the events of the last weekend came to light, she had been insisting there was a pattern behind the attacks. When she wasn't worrying about her parents or her brother, she was going through newspaper articles and years-old obituaries, trying to find some connection that she was convinced existed. She had pointed to Ginny's claim from the first Slug Club dinner — that Grindelwald was using the Muggle war as cover for his crimes — as proof that there had to be a method to the madness.
And Margot wasn't wrong. There was a method to Grindelwald's madness, a pattern in his actions. Ginny didn't know if Margot would find it, if she even had the means to piece it together, but Ginny felt unease stir in her gut as Margot continued her search.
"Anyone we know?" Wendy asked quietly.
"Not personally, I don't think," said Margot, who was still reading. "Someone from the Greengrass family — from a disowned branch, but the Prophet won't name names — says they've had their home raided, but can't say for certain if it's the Alliance or just some Muggle break-in. And there's a missing persons report for" — she looked up, hesitating — "Vinda Rosier."
Ginny glanced over at Ronan Rosier, who was sitting with Riddle and the rest of his gang. He was the oldest and biggest of the lot, as imposingly tall as Riddle and more than twice as broad.
"Any relation?" said Ginny, in a determinedly casual voice.
"Cousins," said Briseis.
"Hmm. Doesn't seem very worried, does he?"
"Distant cousins."
With a grimace, Briseis pushed her plate towards Ginny.
"I think I've lost my appetite," Briseis mumbled, looking at the other end of the table, where Malfoy sat with his own set of cronies. Though Ginny would never understand what Alphard meant about Malfoy's brightness — whatever the hell that was — she thought Malfoy looked a little dull without Alphard or any of the Blacks by his side.
Theirs weren't the only vacant seats. Over at the staff table, Dumbledore's chair was empty, just as it had been the last few mornings.
Ginny remembered those first days at the start of the term, how often Dumbledore had chided her for avoiding the Great Hall during meals. Hiding away, he had accused her. She wondered what he'd say now if she said those words back to him.
That is, if Ginny ever found the opportunity. When was the last time they had tea in his office? Or the last time he had asked after her Occlumency? It seemed whenever she wasn't busy with revisions, Dumbledore was too busy with Riddle and his detentions.
"We don't know if it's got anything to do with the Alliance," said Wendy. "They've never attacked Britain before, have they? Not until . . . not until what happened. All of this — missing people, break-ins, arrests — how can we be sure it's really them?"
"We can't be sure it's not the Alliance, either," said Margot reasonably. "Better safe than sorry. If we can just find out why they attacked —"
"They're terrorists," said Briseis, a little hotly, her eyes snapping back to Margot. "All they want is attention. What other reason do you need?"
Margot shook her head. "There's got to be more to it than that."
"Oh yes," drawled Briseis. "There's a pattern."
"There is!" said Margot, frustrated. Briseis had made no secret of what she thought of Margot's theory. "I'm sure of it! None of these attacks are random — we know that for a fact. Everyone who got ki — everyone in St. Mungo's right now is there because they were targeted — because they're a message —"
"Odette's not a message! She's not even a bloody —"
Briseis stopped abruptly, looking embarrassed.
"Not a Mudblood?" said Margot, her lips twisted into a bitter smile.
"That's not what I —" Briseis tried to say, as Ginny and Wendy winced. "You're not —"
"But I am, aren't I?" said Margot darkly. "Odette's got purer blood than mine, hasn't she? So does Orion Black, and Cain and Carolyn Fawley — and that Ravenclaw who almost lost his leg. Septimus Blythe's not a pure-blood, but his mum's a Macmillan, and you can trace her family tree back through at least seven generations. And they're all in St. Mungo's right now, and they almost died —"
"Stop it," said Briseis tersely. "It's too early for this —"
"But don't you get it? Arcturus Black has the Ministry in his pocket — Torquil Travers has been an Auror longer than we've been alive — and we know all about the Fawleys —"
"What about the Fawleys?" interrupted Ginny.
Margot blinked, caught off guard. "Their father, Hector Fawley — he was the last Minister for Magic."
"Oh. I forgot."
Briseis and Wendy glanced at Ginny curiously, but Margot kept going, "I don't know much about Septimus or his mum, but I reckon it's not too much of a reach to say he's got family in high places. Or know people who are, at the very least."
"And?" said Briseis.
"And," said Margot heavily, "they're the sort Grindelwald wants on his side."
Briseis scowled. "Odette is not — her family isn't —"
"No," said Margot, very quietly. She looked away, staring at something in the distance. "And that's the problem. Pure blood won't save you. You're as good as mud if you don't stand with Grindelwald. That's the message."
Silence fell over them like a deadening pall. No one seemed able or willing to meet each other's eyes as they finished their breakfast.
But just before Margot turned her attention back to the Prophet, Ginny followed her gaze. Margot hadn't been staring off into the distance as she spoke — she had been staring at Riddle.
And Riddle had stared back. His expression was preoccupied, and Ginny would have believed he hadn't been paying attention if his eyes hadn't lingered on Margot a few seconds too long. His eyes flicked to Ginny now, and she wondered if he knew, if he'd heard, if he was thinking the same.
He held her gaze for a fraction of a second, then he nodded curtly and turned away.
With no one eager to linger in the Great Hall, they left five minutes later to head down to Hogsmeade. Ginny and her friends had been going every day to help with the repairs — except for Wendy, who came on the first day but fainted at once when she saw the blood splatter outside Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop.
Wendy had been standing outside the store when Grindelwald's men came, had seen them strike down the townspeople. She swore up and down she wouldn't have escaped unscathed if not for Margot.
"You should've seen her," Wendy had said admiringly after the attack, as Madam Galen treated Ginny's injuries. "Margot was brilliant — she hexed their mouths shut —"
"It was a charm," Margot corrected, blushing. "It was the one you used, Ginny, against Malfoy — do you remember? Anyway, it held them off for a little bit, but didn't do us much good, really . . ."
She trailed off, gesturing to her newly mended ankle. One of Grindelwald's acolytes had hit Margot with a jinx that had hoisted her into the air by her ankle, and she'd been dangling helplessly when the professors and the Aurors arrived.
"Don't sell yourself short," said Briseis. She had been inside Scrivenshaft's when it all happened and had been lucky enough to miss most of the chaos. "You did what you could. It's not like anyone's expecting us to fight."
"Shouldn't we?" said Ginny, without thinking. "Shouldn't we fight?"
Briseis turned to her, brows furrowed. "Why're you thinking that? We're fifteen, Ginny."
"So what?"
"What do you mean so what?" said Briseis, her voice rising. "We're students. In Hogwarts. What can we do? We're supposed to study and do our homework and pass our O.W.L.s —"
"But what's it all for?" said Ginny, suddenly frustrated. "Who cares if I can't Transfigure a bloody teacup or brew the perfect Polyjuice? Having a dozen billion O.W.L.s won't keep us safe from Grindelwald. If we can't do anything now, then what's the point? What's the fucking point of — ow!"
Her tirade had been cut short by Madam Galen, who was rubbing some green balm on Ginny's injuries that made her skin sting, frowning sternly at her all the while.
Irritating though it had been at the time, Ginny could tell her friends had been relieved she'd stopped talking, and she hadn't brought it up again. She supposed she could understand their discomfort. This wasn't like the Carrows or Snape, not like with Neville and Luna and the D.A.
But Briseis' words had stayed with Ginny: What can we do?
This, Ginny thought as they reached Hogsmeade, where the repairs were well underway. We can do this. For now, it had to be enough.
It was the last day of the clean-up. For the past week, the Charms teacher Professor Ortega had been showing the student volunteers various complicated Mending Charms, which needed more precise, more intricate wand movements than the simple Reparo. She had partnered Ginny with Raoul Lestrange to reconstruct the burnt facades of the post office building, along with Edward Turner and Jasmine Yang, a Hufflepuff Ginny knew only from Care of Magical Creatures.
They were being assisted by a cheery seventh-year Ravenclaw, Najia Ahmed, who was giving them helpful pointers for the O.W.L.s as they tried to glue together the broken shards of the building's front windows.
"Oh, I don't think Ginny needs it," said Edward. At Ginny's startled look, he added, stammering, "Because, you know, you've got your uncle."
"What's he got to do with my O.W.L.s?" said Ginny. Her concentration lost, the glowing orange lines that ran through the cracks of the glass began to flicker. Najia yelped and hurried to fix the charm.
"Doesn't he tutor you?" asked Edward. "That's what Nancy says, anyway."
"But that was ages ago, wasn't it?" said Jasmine suddenly. The charm flickered again; Ginny thought she heard a cracking sound as Jasmine added, "Before you came to Hogwarts, I heard."
"He home-schooled me a bit, yeah," said Ginny, quickly racking her head for more details of Ginny Smith's life story. "But it was my parents who did most of the work. Uncle just filled in the gaps when he could."
"There!" beamed Najia, before Jasmine could answer. The glowing lines on the glass had faded, fusing the pieces together. "Now we just need to do the frames, and then we can move on to the next one. Is everyone ready?"
On the count of three, the group flicked their wands and ropes of metal wound around the glass, encasing and melding it with the building's new facade.
"So he doesn't tutor you anymore, does he, Professor Dumbledore?" said Edward, over Najia's cheerful compliments.
"He doesn't have the time, even if I wanted him to," said Ginny. "No O.W.L.s help for me, unfortunately."
"Plenty for Tom though, I bet. Not that he needs the help either."
"Tom's being tutored?" said Jasmine incredulously.
Edward snorted. "Of course not. He's doing extra credit stuff — looks good on job applications, apparently." He frowned thoughtfully as they moved on to the next window. "Now that we might need. . . . It doesn't sound like a bad idea, now that I think about it. . . ."
"You might not," said Lestrange, startling the three of them. He barely spoke to them the past few days, not even exchanging so much as a hello with anyone but Najia.
"What?" said Edward blankly.
"If it's better career prospects you're worried about, extra credit can only do much. You might as well save yourself the time."
Edward stiffened. Jasmine shared an anxious look with Ginny then hurried towards Najia, who was obliviously gathering another set of glass shards for the window.
"Yeah, well," muttered Edward resentfully. "Easy for you to say, innit?"
Lestrange shrugged. "We can't all be so fortunate, I suppose. Then again, you might not even be a real Muggle-born at all."
"If you're taking the piss —"
"I mean it sincerely," said Lestrange, in a lazy drawl that sounded the furthest thing from sincere. "Take Smith here, for example — gallivanting about like a Dumbledore when she doesn't even have the name."
Ginny's eyes narrowed. "How, exactly, am I gallivanting?"
Lestrange smirked. "Anyone with half a brain knows Dumbledore isn't really your uncle. Whatever you are to each other, you're so far apart in the family tree that some would say you're barely family."
"Some," Ginny repeated evenly. "And the others?"
Lestrange shrugged again. He had the sort of casual poise that reminded her of Alphard and Malfoy, all those purebloods who thought themselves royalty. Not even Riddle could pull it off quite so naturally, for all his posturing.
"Blood is blood, however diluted it might be," said Lestrange. "Even if you are just a cousin's cousin, once or twice or several times removed. That's still family. That still counts for something."
"It didn't count for anything with Odette though, did it?"
"Of course it did. She's still breathing, isn't she?"
Edward gulped, but Ginny raised her chin, trying to keep her tone calm as she said, "And Orion Black? Carolyn Fawley? Do you suppose they're fortunate to be alive?"
Lestrange didn't react, didn't so much as blink. As though he hadn't heard her, he turned to Edward, who looked slightly sick.
"Do some research," said Lestrange, his expression locked and unreadable. "If you look far back enough, you might just find a wizard somewhere in your tree — a great grandparent from a disgraced branch, maybe a Squib or two. . . . Your blood may not be as muddy as you think."
"Is that a threat?" said Edward stiffly.
"Consider it friendly advice."
"Doesn't sound very friendly."
Lestrange pretended not to hear as he sauntered towards Jasmine and Najia, who were working on another window.
"What about Vinda Rosier?" Ginny called after him, unable to help herself. "Did she get the same friendly advice?"
Lestrange's step didn't falter. "From what I've heard, the Rosiers don't need advice — or warnings."
"I can't stand him," said Edward when Lestrange was gone. "I don't know how Tom does it."
"For the job applications," said Ginny, straight-faced.
Edward chuckled. Over his shoulder, in the distance, Riddle was Transfiguring broken glass into cobblestones, which were being set onto the pavement by Nancy Kincaid and two Gryffindor sixth-years. The group was led by Ignatius Prewett, but it seemed to Ginny that everyone was looking to Riddle as if he had taken charge. It wouldn't surprise her in the least if he had.
What did surprise her was how distracted he looked. Almost out of sorts, like he was going through the motions. It had been that way since the attack, him and Dumbledore. No amount of pestering from Ginny could get either of them to take their minds off Grindelwald.
Neither could she, for that matter.
"What was that about, do you think?" said Edward. "What Lestrange was saying — you reckon he might be on to something?"
"Who knows?" said Ginny. "Slytherins like to act mysterious and respectable and all that tosh."
Edward quirked an eyebrow at her. "Not you though. Obviously."
"Obviously," she said wryly. "All the stuff they say about me are complete nonsense. Don't believe any of it."
"Any of it?"
"Not a single word."
"So all those stories about you being bloody good at Quidditch, I should take those with a pinch of salt?"
Ginny laughed. "All right, those you can believe."
They didn't speak of or to Lestrange again for the rest of the day, instead swapping Quidditch stories as they assisted with the repairs. But the conversation hung over them like a dark cloud, and a chill that had nothing to do with the wintery air was stealing through her chest.
Ginny had never taken Divination. Everything she knew, she learned from Ron's complaints about his homework and her roommates' tittering over tarot cards. And yet, in that moment, she knew that the cold inside her was what it felt like to see the future. Not like Trelawney's Sight or the prophecies Riddle obsessed about, but a bone-deep certainty, a feeling in her gut she couldn't shake.
Ginny had told Riddle time and again that the future could be changed — but that wasn't quite true, was it? There were some things that had been set in stone long before she came to this new-old Hogwarts.
Maybe it didn't have to be Voldemort leading the charge. It could be some other Dark wizard, feeding kindling to his cause, to Grindelwald's, to Salazar Slytherin's before him.
What can we do? Briseis had asked.
Ginny didn't know. Lestrange had made his choice long ago, and so had so many others. So many wars, so many dead, all fighting the same fight. And there would be more — maybe in her lifetime, maybe in the next. There was no changing that, no matter what she did.
It was worth it, everything she had done, everything she was doing. She had to believe it was all worth it.
But for how long?
The start of December brought wind and sleet to Hogwarts, along with a mountainous pile of homework for the fifth-years. It also brought Odette Travers, who strutted towards the Slytherin table one cold, blustery morning as though she'd never left.
"Did you miss me?" said Odette, her strident demeanour the same as ever.
"Didn't even notice you were gone," said Ginny.
"Don't listen to her," said Margot. "She was inconsolable."
"Wracked with grief," said Wendy.
"Cried herself to sleep every night," said Briseis.
Ginny gave them a withering look. "Oh, shut it before Odette's ego grows too big for her head."
"My ego is perfectly normal-sized, thank you," said Odette airily. "No need to be ashamed, Ginny. I always knew you cared."
"But how are you, really?" asked Margot. "You were in St. Mungo's for a long time."
"Only because Uncle Tor's a worrywart," said Odette unconcernedly. "I don't blame him, of course. Especially not after what happened to the Blacks."
"How are they?" said Briseis quickly. "How's Orion?"
"Alphard's fine."
"I didn't ask about Alphard."
Odette raised an eyebrow. "My mistake."
"I take it back," said Briseis, rolling her eyes. "I didn't miss you at all."
"What happened to them, the Blacks?" said Ginny, cutting off Odette's undoubtedly brazen retort. "As far as we know, they haven't written to anyone in weeks. Even Malfoy hasn't heard from them."
Odette's expression immediately turned sombre.
"I don't know much," said Odette in a low voice, "but Orion was at St. Mungo's at the same time I was. Had the same security detail too. I heard some of the Healers say . . . they say it was bad. Really bad. At death's door kind of bad."
The bottom of Ginny's stomach fell out as Margot and Briseis gasped in horror, their eyes wide. Wendy turned pale almost instantly, as though she would faint at any moment.
"He's fine now!" said Odette hurriedly. "But, you know, whatever happened to him has his father terrified. If he had it his way, he'd have Orion and his cousins withdrawn from Hogwarts."
A shard of ice seemed to pierce Ginny's chest. Alphard? Leave Hogwarts?
"But they're coming back?" said Briseis, looking concerned.
"For the exams," said Odette. "After that, I'm not sure if they'll stay for the next term. Stupid Franklin wouldn't tell me anything. Apparently, it was none of my business, and I was being too nosy —"
"Who's Franklin?"
Odette made a face. "My bodyguard. Didn't I tell you about him?"
Despite it all, Ginny couldn't help but exchange amused glances with Wendy.
"I thought his name was That Idiot Man," said Wendy, grinning, the colour returning to her face.
"Really?" said Ginny. "I could've sworn it was Overpaid Babysitter, middle name Glorified."
"You laugh now," said Odette haughtily, "but if you'd met him, you'd know how horrible he was. Such a bore, that Longbottom. Can't even take a stupid joke without being all up in arms —"
"Did you say Longbottom?" repeated Ginny.
But Odette didn't hear her. Abraxas Malfoy had entered the Great Hall and Odette came running towards him, pushing his friends out of the way. There, in full view of the whole school, Odette flung her arms around Malfoy and kissed him full on the mouth.
The crowd hooted and cheered. Briseis and Wendy were beaming, and even Margot couldn't contain her amusement. Ginny caught Riddle grimacing at his wolf-whistling lackeys. Feeling her stare, Riddle shot her a disgruntled look, and Ginny found herself smirking at him. It seemed they were the only two people at the table unimpressed with the display.
"Aren't they the sweetest?" cooed Wendy.
"Maybe a little," said Margot, giggling. "They do look lovely together."
"Is that another word for sickeningly revolting?" said Ginny dispassionately.
Briseis made a loud tutting noise. "Lighten up, will you? Abraxas could do worse than Odette."
"Odette could do better than Malfoy. Much better."
"Can't you at least try to be supportive?" said Wendy, crestfallen. "It's like you're allergic to happiness."
"I'm allergic to Malfoy."
Briseis sighed. "You're impossible."
Fortunately for Ginny, she didn't see much of the new couple as the end-of-term exams approached. The positive avalanche of schoolwork meant most of her free time was spent revising and writing essays, to the point she rarely noticed who was sitting next to her in the library.
On one such evening, Ginny looked up from a taxing History of Magic homework to find Riddle sitting across from her, bent over his own small mountain of revisions.
"What are you doing here?" she said, more startled than annoyed.
"This is my spot," said Riddle defiantly.
"I was here first."
"I've had this table since I was eleven."
"Did you write your name on here too?" she scoffed.
"Yes," he said in a dignified voice.
That made Ginny burst into laughter. Riddle blinked at her, the hand holding his quill raised hovering in the air for a moment. Then his eyes flicked back to his parchment, dipping the point of his quill into his ink pot as if he'd never been interrupted to begin with.
When Ginny next looked up, Riddle had packed away his essays and was frowning at a book she vaguely recognized from Dumbledore's office.
"That doesn't look like Transfiguration," she said, peering at his notes.
"It isn't," said Riddle, his eyes still on the page. "It's for your uncle's private lessons."
Ginny frowned. "That's what you're calling it now, is it? What does he even have you do?"
"Almost everything," said Riddle absently. He was fiddling with the point of his quill, staining his fingernails with ink. He did it when he was concentrating, Ginny had come to realize. It was an oddly endearing habit. "Mostly Defence, a bit of Divination, History of Magic and folklore . . ."
"That's it?"
"What do you mean?"
"He's got you, what, writing books reports?"
"What were you expecting?"
"I thought you were helping him with his research."
"And what do you suppose that entails?"
"Oh, I don't know," she said, her stomach suddenly jerking. "I didn't think you'd be spending so much time covering everything under the fucking sun."
Riddle looked up at her then. "Your uncle dabbles in everything, don't you know? He has a breadth of experience in practically every academic field."
"Well, I know that. Who doesn't know that?"
"Hmm."
Ginny felt a sharp stab of annoyance.
"You like working for him, don't you?" she said suspiciously. "You're having fun."
"Don't be absurd," said Riddle in a sneering tone.
"Oh, right. You're incapable of fun, aren't you?"
He stared at her, his brows now drawn together. After a moment, the corner of his mouth twitched, and he ducked his chin.
"Ah. I see."
"See what?"
Riddle didn't answer, which was a little surprising — he seldom passed an opportunity to argue with her. He didn't speak for the rest of the afternoon, all his distracted sullenness relaxed into satisfaction. Ginny couldn't say why she found it so infuriating, only that she did, and she carried her black mood with her as Christmas — and the exams — drew nearer.
Draughty though the castle always was in winter, the cold was worse down in the dungeons. Despite the roaring fires in the Slytherin common room, Ginny could still see her breath rise in a mist before her as she and her friends pored over their revision notes, their books strewn haphazardly around them.
"Not used to the cold, are we?" said Briseis laughingly as Ginny, in her haste to conjure up a blanket, nearly sent her ink bottle flying all over the rug.
Ginny threw Briseis a surly look.
"I don't know how I'm going to survive the holidays like this," complained Ginny, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders. Times like this, it was hard not to miss the warmth and sunlight of Gryffindor Tower. "I'd be lucky if I still have all my toes by next year."
"You're staying for Christmas?" said Odette, perking up.
Ginny shrugged. Slughorn had begun collecting names the day before, making a list of students who would be staying at Hogwarts over the break, and she had been among the first to sign up.
Riddle's name had been the very first entry.
"That's great!" said Odette. She turned to Margot, nudging her elbow. "Now you've got no excuse not to write back."
"I always write back," argued Margot, who was throwing spoiled pieces of parchment into the fire beside them.
"Only at Christmas. You're too busy moping about in the library with Tom, or whatever it is you two do for the holidays."
A smile fluttered over Margot's face, like she was trying to plaster it on through sheer force of will. "There won't be much of that this year. Mum wants me home for Christmas."
"What!" said Wendy, goggling at her. "But you've always stayed over. I mean, that's — that can't be a good thing, can it?"
Margot shook her head. "My parents don't think it's safe anymore."
"But Hogwarts is the safest place there is!"
"Well," said Margot, hesitating, "the wizarding world isn't as safe as it used to be, is it?"
They exchanged nervous looks. Ginny knew they were all thinking the same thing.
"Still safer than staying with the Muggles, I bet," said Briseis quietly.
"Maybe," said Margot, "but you can't blame my parents for thinking that."
"At least you can spend the holidays with them, right?" said Ginny brightly, with all the cheer she could muster. "I'm sure they missed you."
Margot smiled back, briefly, before she turned away, throwing the last of her discarded parchment into the fireplace.
They worked on as the flames flickered and crackled and the crowd in the common room slowly dwindled. All the while, Ginny could feel her stomach stirring, that scream thrumming faintly inside her.
"You're leaving?"
Her voice came out so shrill that Fawkes glanced at Ginny, flapping his wings balefully and causing several of his feathers to fall. Riddle, who was seated in a straight-backed armchair near Fawkes' perch, brushed the feathers off his robes and placed a calming hand on Fawkes' moulting head.
"Only for a few days," said Dumbledore, peering over the top of his half-moon spectacles. He was grading essays, stacks of parchment covering his desk. "I wouldn't be going if I didn't think it necessary."
"And how few is few?" demanded Ginny. "Where are you even going?"
Dumbledore fixed her with his penetrating stare but said nothing.
"Are you going to tell me who you're meeting with?"
Again, he didn't respond, his mouth set in a hard line. Ginny threw her hands up in exasperation.
"What's the point of telling me if you're not going to say anything at all?"
"I'll be back, Ginny," said Dumbledore gently. "You have my word on that."
"It's not your word I'm worried about," she muttered.
Dumbledore gave Ginny a reproachful look and rose out of his chair like a mourner from the side of a grave. He strode over to Riddle, who was busy scribbling, surrounded by books and hunched over his notes.
Though Riddle was seemingly preoccupied, Ginny knew he was listening. He had been in the office when she had arrived, in the middle of what looked like an exciting discussion with Dumbledore about some recent history journal or other, their words stringing together so fast they sounded like a single syllable. Now Riddle tensed at Dumbledore's approach, and he stayed still as Dumbledore silently read through what he had written.
"Well done, Tom," beamed Dumbledore, clapping Riddle on the back. "Excellent work as always."
"Thank you, sir," said Riddle. His expression was impassive, but Ginny could have sworn he had looked surprised, in that one second with Dumbledore's hand on his shoulder.
Ginny huffed out an impatient breath. She couldn't tell if Dumbledore's nonanswers were for Riddle's benefit or if Dumbledore was simply keen on keeping her in the dark. The thought that it might be the latter — that Dumbledore's evasiveness was because of her — made her feel a hot surge of anger.
"What about your research?" Ginny tried again.
Dumbledore shook his head at her. "My studies can wait. Yours will not."
"I'm of age! I'm old enough to know —"
"But you're a student still," said Dumbledore, a little sharply. "You can't carry every battle in your heart as if it were your own. And no, Ginny, I don't say that as a challenge."
"Too late," said Riddle in an undertone.
"Piss off," Ginny snarled at him.
Riddle flicked on a pleasant smile. "Out of insults already?"
"Mind your own bloody business, why don't you?"
"This, coming from the girl who sticks her nose in everyone's business —"
"I wouldn't need to, if you weren't such an arse —"
"It is almost curfew," said Dumbledore loudly, "and time, I think, for us all to retire to our rooms."
Ginny and Riddle glared at each other for another moment before his face settled into a mask of friendly indifference. Recognizing the abrupt dismissal, Riddle got to his feet and gathered his things, petting Fawkes on his way out.
"You'll watch over him, won't you?" said Dumbledore when the door had swung shut. "Keep him in check?"
"That's a given, isn't it?" sighed Ginny. "Since I am his handler now, apparently . . ."
Dumbledore chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "I leave him in your capable hands."
"Until . . . ?"
"It's difficult to say."
"Is it?" she said harshly. "Or would you just rather not share?"
The grin slipped off Dumbledore's face, leaving something hollow and troubled underneath.
"There's more at play here that you think," he said. "More than I know, as hard as that may be to believe."
"Yeah, that is hard to believe."
"If I could tell you more, I would."
"Then what can you tell me?"
Dumbledore seated himself behind his desk and considered her, the tips of his long fingers together. A long beat passed, then another. Still, he said nothing.
Ginny let out another sigh, staring miserably at the dark window. Snow was falling, drifting down against the pane.
"Will you at least be back before Christmas?" she asked after a while. She still felt angry, but she could see there was nothing to be gained by arguing further.
Dumbledore smiled, if a bit thinly.
"I can try," he said, and Ginny was suddenly aware of the gravity behind his eyes, the disquiet.
The next day, she looked up at the High Table and found his seat empty. Though Dumbledore hadn't said it, Ginny knew then, with the same cold certainty from before, that it would stay that way for many mornings to come.
"You don't have to keep doing this, you know," said Ginny on their way to breakfast.
Once again, her friends had left her alone with Riddle, giggling and exchanging knowing smiles as they disappeared down the corridor.
At Riddle's questioning look, Ginny clarified, "This charade. I know you've got your whole" — she waved vaguely in his general direction, making a face — "image to maintain, but everyone already thinks we're dating. My friends think we're dating, no matter what I tell them. I doubt they'll change their minds anytime soon."
"You'd think so," he said noncommittally.
"Meaning?"
"Perception matters."
Ginny waited for him to explain. "Thank you for those words of wisdom," she said dryly when he didn't.
"Happy to oblige," said Riddle, glancing at her as they rounded a corner. He was wearing a look of bland politeness; Ginny decided to name it his Happy Face, what with how often he glowered at her when there was no audience to impress.
"I'm just saying," she said, "I don't think people care about our personal lives as much as you think they do."
"So early in the day and you're already trying to get rid of me?"
Ginny snorted. "As if you'd let me."
"People talk," he said in a grave tone, when the crowd around them had thinned to a handful of stragglers. "They'll always talk. Better that we control the narrative, if we can't take control of anything else."
She stared at him for a moment, and then rolled her eyes. "Well, you'd think so."
"Meaning?"
"You're a control freak. Haven't you noticed?"
To her surprise, Riddle smiled. It was nothing more than a slight quirk of his lips, but it wasn't the placid smiles of his Happy Face.
"Pot, meet kettle," he said, amused.
Ginny was so taken aback by the change that it took her a second to realize what he meant.
"I am not a —" she began, glaring, then stopped.
They had reached the entrance hall, where sunlight spilled from the giant oak front doors that led to the grounds. From where they stood, Ginny could see the swirling snow, carried inside by the winter breeze.
"Go on ahead, if you want," she said distractedly. Without stopping to think, she sprinted down the flight of stone steps and out of the castle walls.
At once, cold air bit at her skin, but Ginny didn't care. It was her first time out of the castle since the repairs at Hogsmeade, and she took it all in, mesmerized. All colour had fled the world around her, leaving behind only whites and pale greys. The sight brought her back to happier days, the carefree moments of her childhood — days of bright laughter and warm hearths, of furious snowball fights with her brothers in the Burrow . . .
Christmas was coming. She had known it, of course, but somehow the fact had never quite sank in until now.
It had been a long time since she'd had a happy Christmas. . . .
Ginny opened her eyes, though she didn't remember closing them. She was on her knees and holding a handful of snow. It packed easily as she squeezed it between her fingers. Before she was aware of it, she was making snowballs, shaping and smoothing them until they were round and clean and perfect. Soon, she had enough to build a small pile.
The sound of footsteps crunching the snow behind her made Ginny whirl around. Riddle stood there, scowling at clumps of snow clinging to his trousers. A sudden gust of wind had him crossing his arms, in an attempt to — subtly, she assumed — tug his cloak tighter around his body.
"Not a fan?" said Ginny, nodding at the snow on his robes, unable to hold back her grin.
"Not particularly," said Riddle in grumbling tones.
Which was rather ironic. He looked like he belonged in this colourless world. Against the grey sky and bright snow, his dark eyes seemed even darker, and strikingly so.
"Do you intend to stay here all morning?" said Riddle, lifting his head. There were melting flakes in his hair.
"Where's your sense of adventure?"
"Currently cowering behind my need to stay warm."
Ginny forced down her grin. "Ha," she deadpanned. "That was almost funny."
"I can be funny."
"Just because your little gang laughs at everything you say doesn't mean you're funny."
"Why else would they be laughing, then?" he said, with such exaggerated innocence that Ginny snorted out a laugh before she could stop herself.
Riddle turned his gaze to the small arsenal of snowballs beside her. He looked curious.
It occurred to Ginny then that she wasn't sure why she made them in the first place. There was no one to throw them at, and it wasn't as if Riddle was the sort who would appreciate a good snowball fight. Maybe Alphard would have humoured her, if his sister's hawkish stare wasn't there to hold him back. . . .
Ginny looked down at the snowball she was holding, feeling suddenly foolish.
"Don't you dare," said Riddle warningly when she looked up at him.
"Don't worry," scoffed Ginny. "I'm not wasting a perfectly good snowball on you."
Riddle tilted his head, as if scrutinizing her.
"There's a spell for that," he said, gesturing to her heap of snowballs.
"To make these?" she said disbelievingly. "Where'd you get that?"
"Your uncle told me."
Ginny gaped at him, not sure if she heard him right. "My uncle taught you a spell to make snowballs? Dumbledore taught you?"
"He told me. I didn't say he taught me."
"A spell. For snowballs."
"I'm surprised you haven't heard of it. You learned everything from him, didn't you?"
"Merlin," she grumbled. "A snowball spell . . . of all the bloody useless . . . is that what he's researching? What else is he wasting his time on? Besides you, that is."
Riddle arched an eyebrow. Ginny turned away, tamping down her bitterness.
"Right," she said, sighing. "Sorry. That was schoolmarmish of me, wasn't it?"
"Schoolmarmish?"
"I've got a schoolmarmish face, I've been told."
"You don't," said Riddle, sounding confused.
"Good to know."
Neither said anything for a while, Ginny out of embarrassment for her outburst, and Riddle for —
For whatever it was he was thinking about.
The grey sky above them turned white. Students trickled out onto the grounds, their bustle and their laughter slowly filling the silence.
Ginny got to her feet. She was still trying to think of something to say, to come up with a better apology, when she saw Odette and Malfoy out of the corner of her eye. They were huddled together a little distance away under a tree, a sprig of mistletoe hovering above their heads. Ginny wondered what Alphard would have thought of them; she was almost glad he wasn't here to witness this strange development.
"Travers could do better," said Riddle, following her gaze.
Ginny laughed. "Finally, something we can agree on."
"You say it as though it's a first."
"Isn't it? Feels like it."
A group of second-years passed them, whispering and eyeing her pile of snowballs.
"Go on, have at it," said Ginny, smiling.
They beamed at her. Each grabbed an armful of snowballs and ran off excitedly, leaving Ginny with the one she still had in her hand. She hadn't realized she had been holding it all this time. It was smaller now, though still heavy and compact, maybe enough to . . .
Ginny hesitated, then plunged recklessly on. Taking aim, she threw the snowball right at Malfoy's head.
"Nice shot," said Riddle, but his voice was drowned out by Odette's startled shriek and Malfoy's livid yelling.
"Fifty points!" Malfoy was bellowing, his face covered in snow. "Fifty points from whoever threw that! What the bloody hell —"
But Odette had caught sight of Ginny before she could duck away. Red with rage, Odette drew her wand and caused the snowballs Ginny had given the second-years to fly out of their hands.
Cackling, Ginny grabbed Riddle's arm and pulled him away from the onslaught. Without another word, they ran back to the castle, trying and failing to dodge the bewitched snowballs at their heels.