4 September 1942
Riddle was staring at her again.
Ginny took a careful sip of her tea, trying to focus on the pleasant warmth of the cup against her palms and the steam rising in soft billows on her face, and willed herself not to look back.
In the four days since the term began, Ginny had caught him looking in her direction too many times for it to be a coincidence. He was subtle about it, watching her from the corner of his eyes with glances that came and went so quickly that it was as if they were never there at all. She doubted anyone else had noticed. Even if they had, Riddle's scrutiny wouldn't have been considered alarming, not when he wasn't the only one looking.
Dumbledore had warned her that her arrival would be met with rumours and a baffling amount of anticipation. Ginny knew how fast stories could spread in Hogwarts, how they could devolve into something vicious and ugly with every retelling, but she hadn't been prepared for the attention being heaped upon her.
It wasn't that everyone kept trying to talk to her or to befriend her or anything like that. None of them approached her at all. They were simply . . . fascinated by her. Ginny could hear them whispering when her back was turned, and she could feel their stares lingering on her when she walked in the corridors.
Even the teachers were interested, expecting her to be just like her uncle. They had unfailingly said as much at the start of every class, and Ginny was forced to smile and nod and stammer her way through their questions.
"You mustn't blame them for wondering," Dumbledore had said, when she had complained to him. "Your presence here, after all, is perhaps the most interesting piece of news since the cancellation of the Quidditch World Cup."
"They're saying I'm your daughter," Ginny had told him, hoping he would see how ridiculous it all was.
But Dumbledore only chuckled. "Are they, now? Such imagination they have. . . . Impressive, isn't it, what curious minds can think up?"
There had been a gleam in his eyes as he said it. In that moment, Dumbledore had looked so much like the Dumbledore from her own time that Ginny had been torn between nostalgia and frustration.
Ginny had given up trying to get his sympathy on the matter after that, and she did her best to ignore the gossip circulating about her. She had to admit it was partly her fault: as satisfying as hexing Abraxas Malfoy had been, it had ruined her plan of being as unnoticeable as possible. If she could avoid a repeat of that, if she could avoid drawing any more attention to herself, the novelty of her presence would soon wear off, and she would be able to fade to the background and be just another fixture of the school.
That didn't make Riddle's staring any less unnerving. It didn't matter that the whole of Hogwarts seemed to be overwhelmingly curious about the stranger dropped in their midst — they weren't megalomaniac, homicidal would-be Dark Lords.
There was something ironic about being at the receiving end of his concentrated curiosity. Tom — because the diary could never be anything but Tom to her — hadn't been half as interested in Ginny as Riddle seemed to be. He had pretended, of course, but Ginny knew she had been nothing more than a tool. Tom had made that abundantly clear when she had seen him for the first time, looming over her with his cold eyes and mocking smile.
It was those same eyes that were studying her now, and it made Ginny's insides squirm uncomfortably. Recurring nightmares weren't supposed to turn into a flesh and bone human being in school robes and a green tie. She deserved some sort of award, really, for having the restraint to not pass out or scream her head off or shout the Killing Curse at Riddle every time she saw him.
At last, Riddle looked away, saying something to the small group that hovered over him like moths to a flame. Whatever it was, it had the boys laughing loud enough that some students on the other side of the Great Hall turned to look.
Ginny let out the breath she had been holding and went back to her breakfast. Books were propped open next to her plate, so she had an excuse to keep her head down and not look so pitifully lonely. She was sitting at the end of the table, several feet away from the rest of her House. For a few fleeting seconds, Ginny wondered if this was what Harry felt all the time, before swiftly pushing the thought away.
Not too long ago, the wide berth between her and her classmates wouldn't have existed. The old Ginny, the one who had drawn people to her with wry jokes and bold grins, would have nonchalantly sat down next to someone and opened with a charming quip or news about the latest Quidditch match. Back then she had sat among Gryffindors and flitted about Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws.
She had never been surrounded by Slytherins, all pristine clothes and disdainful sneers and carefully cocked brows.
And wasn't that a thought? A Weasley in Slytherin. Draco Malfoy would have an aneurysm. Fred and George would have started up a riot, if they wouldn't have been too busy laughing their arses off at the supposed impossibility. . . .
Ginny pushed her plate away. Hurriedly, she gathered her books and tried to ignore the tell-tale prickling in her eyes. The thought of her brothers — the last she had seen of them, George had been crumpled over Fred's unmoving body, Percy desperately covering the both of them with spell after spell — had made something coil tight in her chest, twisting and pulling taut.
Three months in 1942 hadn't numbed the pain. It didn't help that she was sitting here, eating her breakfast and keeping up a bloody farce of normalcy, at the place where so many bodies had spilled out on the ground, cold and mangled and unmoving.
It didn't help that this Hogwarts was more crowded than her own. Her class now was twice as large as the one in her own time, and it was a stark reminder of how much the world had lost in the first war alone, of how much was at stake.
And it didn't help that she was surrounded by both strange and almost-familiar faces, reminding her of how wrong it all was. Of how alone she was. Of how she didn't belong in this time, and where she did belong was out of her reach.
As much as she tried to push back her thoughts, too many painful reminders slipped through, insisting that she should be sitting at the Gryffindor table, talking Neville's ear off with Colin at her side. Not here, alone with Slytherins who only ever glanced at her with varying degrees of curiosity and disdain.
Ginny stood, her bag slung over her shoulder. Looking up at the High Table, she found Dumbledore giving her a kind smile. Ginny tried to return it, but she ended up with something more of a grimace; her bullshitting skills were never up to par when she was on the verge of having a good cry.
As Ginny left the Great Hall, taking as long a stride as her legs would allow, she could feel Riddle's gaze burning a hole into her back — wary, calculating, and inexplicably curious.
When Ginny arrived in Slughorn's classroom, most of the class was already there. A good number of heads turned to follow her as she made her way to the sole empty table at the back of the room.
Slughorn had also seen her enter. He looked like he wanted to approach her or call her to the front, but he was too preoccupied with Margot Droope, a Slytherin prefect, to do more than enthusiastically wave at her from across the room. Droope was showing him her notes, gesturing animatedly as she spoke, and it — God, Ginny, don't do this to yourself — reminded Ginny of Hermione, with her bushy curls and eager-to-please expression. Their conversation came to a close when the last of the Gryffindors came in, and Slughorn called the class' attention.
"Settle down, everyone, settle down," he began. "All right, let's see now . . . everyone take out your books, your potion kits, your scales, and — ah yes. Almost forgot. Everyone, pick a partner! We'll be making a potion that is sure to come up in your O.W.L.s, and you will all be doing it in pairs."
Slughorn looked pointedly at the table to his left, where three boys sat with their heads bent together. They were whispering fiercely, their voices too low to make out, when suddenly one of the boys broke away to look at Ginny. Alphard Black was one of the almost-familiar faces in the crowd, and Ginny would have thought him handsome if his features weren't scrunched up in obvious displeasure.
Slughorn cleared his throat. Black, looking extremely put out, finally stood and swaggered to Ginny's table. Ginny, in response, rolled her eyes.
"Excellent!" said Slughorn, and he began his lecture. Ginny listened with only half an ear; she may not have been a Potions prodigy, but his discussion wasn't any different from when he taught the same potion to her class two years ago — or, rather, fifty-something years from now.
Instead, Ginny doodled on the corners of her parchment, and studied her reluctant partner from the corner of her eye. Black had the same haughty look of his family, and his features were framed by dark longish hair that her mother would have condemned as exceedingly unkempt.
Black, for his part, looked as bored and as disinterested as Ginny felt. He stared stonily ahead, his jaw clenched and his arms crossed, until Slughorn instructed the class to begin making the Draught of Peace.
"Let's clear a few things up, Smith," said Black, sighing heavily as he gave her a flat, condescending stare. "I'm not doing all the work for you."
Ginny's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"Unless you've been living under a rock, I say it's quite obvious — you're fortunate to have me as a partner. However, it wouldn't be fair if I did all the work and —"
"I'm not asking you to," said Ginny, indignant.
"Of course not. I'm merely pointing out that given your history, you don't have much experience with potion brewing. It can't be helped, but it doesn't excuse you from —"
"I'll have you know," Ginny cut in, struggling to keep her tone even, "that I'm good at potion making."
There was an amused, snide twist to Black's thin smile. "I'm sure."
"I am, Black. I'm bloody great at it."
Black paused. Maybe he finally noticed her thinly veiled anger, or maybe he realized he was being a prick. In any case, Black shrugged and said, "All right, then. You prepare the ingredients, I'll handle the brewing."
Not in the mood to argue, Ginny laid out her things and began to work. Black didn't say a word when she handed him the ingredients, not even when she made a funny comment about Slughorn's moustache. The only time Black deigned to look at her was when she didn't give him enough syrup of hellebore, tsking at her with such an impatient air that Ginny was tempted to throw the flask in his face.
Ginny was preparing the last of the ingredients when she noticed Black reaching for the bottle of powdered moonstone. Feeling vindictive, she rapped his knuckles lightly with her wand and said, "Not yet."
"What are you talking about, Smith?" said Black, glaring at her as he withdrew his hand.
"You're not supposed to add the moonstone yet," said Ginny, using her best Hermione-esque tone. "You have to let the potion simmer first."
"It's had enough simmering," drawled Black. "In case you haven't noticed, the potion has already turned violet."
"And you're supposed to wait for it to turn purple."
Black tsked again, gesturing to the blackboard. "The instructions said violet. Can't you read? Besides, violet or purple — they're the same thing."
"They're not," said Ginny. "Violet means you've mixed until the unicorn horn is just incorporated, which means the potion will work just fine —"
"Then I don't see the prob —"
It was Ginny's turn to tsk, and Black's mouth tightened at the sound. "But it won't work right away. You have to wait for it to turn purple so the ingredients have time to settle."
"It won't make a difference," said Black snidely.
"It will," Ginny insisted. "If you don't give it time to rest, the potion won't be properly balanced, and there'll be a ten minute delay before it can take effect. You have to let the potion simmer longer."
Slughorn, who had been peering at the cauldron of a pair of Gryffindors nearby, chose that moment to waddle over, beaming from ear to ear.
"Very good, very good!" he exclaimed approvingly. "How ever did you learn that, Miss Smith?"
Ginny had learned it from homework Slughorn himself had assigned, but she couldn't exactly tell him that. Wearing her most charming smile, she said, "Just some light reading, Professor. I didn't want to be behind, what with my . . . history and all."
"Well I daresay that won't be a problem! Clever girl like you, you'll be passing your classes with flying colours, no doubt about that. Take ten points for Slytherin, Miss Smith, for being a dab hand at Potions!" Still smiling warmly, Slughorn turned to Black. "You're lucky to have such a talented partner, eh, Alphard?"
"Quite," said Black stiffly as Slughorn shuffled off to another table. Ginny gave Black a look of wide-eyed innocence, wordlessly handing him the bottle of powdered moonstone — the potion, at last, was now a deep purple.
Seething with quiet anger, Black proceeded to snub her with renewed determination, but Ginny, feeling considerably lighter, wasn't offended in the least.
Their potion was almost done when Ginny let her eyes stray to Riddle and Droope's table. Riddle was grinding porcupine quills into powder, nodding agreeably as Droope, bent over their cauldron, gave instructions through the silver mist. Black, damn him, caught Ginny staring before she could look away.
"Can't you ogle him in your own time?" sneered Black. His voice was loud enough that the girls in front of them, Briseis Burke and Wendy Crockett, turned to look. "And not while we're — oh I don't know — making a potentially lethal potion?"
Ginny felt her ears burn, her good spirits rapidly fading. "You don't hear me asking you to be a dick at your own time, so just leave well enough alone, yeah?"
Black gaped at her, and Ginny remembered too late that girls in the 40s weren't supposed to be so vulgar.
"You better be good at multitasking," said Black after a moment, sharp and mocking. "I don't want to get a less than perfect mark because of your little crush."
"No need to worry about that," said Ginny crossly. "I'm a dab hand at Potions, remember?"
Before Black could come up with a retort, Slughorn called for the class to bring a sample of their potion to the front. Ginny began to fill her flagon with the shimmering liquid, her movements jerky with rage. She chanced another glance at Riddle; he too was preparing the sample, but his half smile was noticeably smugger than before.
Slughorn praised Ginny and Black's potion with gusto, and Ginny moved away quickly so she wouldn't meet Riddle's eyes. When Ginny returned to her table, Black was still scowling, and he was almost finished clearing his things. Burke was now giggling, glancing back at Ginny over her shoulder as she whispered to Odette Travers, who was sitting at a table across the aisle.
Brilliant, Ginny thought as she emptied out the contents of her cauldron with a silent Evanesco. This was just what she needed — more rumours. At the rate Burke was going, half the school would be talking about how Ginny fancied the pants off Riddle by suppertime. Just fucking brilliant.
Class was dismissed not long after, and Black glided out the door without a backwards glance, chin held high and satin robes billowing behind him. Ginny saw Riddle approaching her table, having just extricated himself from Slughorn, and she hadn't finished packing her things quickly enough to make a clean getaway.
Riddle hadn't spoken to her since the first day, and their interactions since then had been limited to nodding politely at each other in the corridors. She knew he was suspicious of her — how could he not be, when their first meeting had gone as brilliantly as her encounter with Malfoy? Ginny had been too transparent, too flustered that Riddle had no doubt noticed her immediate dislike.
She couldn't afford a repeat of that. She had to be polite. Amiable. Dull. Let Riddle think her a simpleton with nothing to hide.
"Be as inconspicuous as you can," Dumbledore had said. "Nothing is more unnoticeable than mediocrity — perhaps then he will underestimate you."
Heart hammering in her chest, Ginny busied herself with her potion-making kit, only looking up with a politely inquiring smile when Riddle reached her table.
"That was entertaining," he said. He was every bit as handsome as Ginny remembered, his skin as pale and smooth, his eyes dark and calm, his movements exuding effortless grace. But up close there was something off about him, little things that didn't fit the image of the perfect, terrifying monster from her nightmares.
Riddle's robes were faded and frayed at the seams, nothing like the expensive, pitch black material that Malfoy and the Blacks wore. His bag had clearly seen better days, and Ginny knew from experience that it was being held together only by mending charms and a needle and thread.
It was almost comforting, the thought that Riddle wasn't as pristine and in control as he made himself out to be. Despite all his carefully woven lies and gentlemanly smiles, there were still cracks in the facade hiding the penniless orphan he really was. A reminder that he was still human — human and vulnerable.
"What was?" said Ginny.
Riddle smiled as though he was sharing an inside joke, so sickeningly charming that she wanted to punch him in his perfect teeth. "Seeing Black get taken down a peg."
"You two don't get on then?"
"He's quite good at Potions — one of Professor Slughorn's favourites. It's not every day he gets shown up in class."
Ginny's smile faltered. Riddle hadn't answered her question, but she decided not to push. "All I did was read a textbook."
"Not our assigned textbooks though. I've checked."
"It's in the library." Ginny shrugged, hoping it looked casual and not like she was itching to turn tail and run. "Can't really remember the title but it's there — the Reference Section, I think."
Riddle looked suddenly hesitant, his head bowed just so, like he was too self-conscious to meet her eyes. "Perhaps you can help me? I've been worrying about the O.W.L.s lately and I think I may need help with —"
Ginny couldn't help the little laugh that bubbled out of her throat. "Really? You?"
He blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"I've seen the teachers fawn over you, Riddle. You're the best in our year — I really doubt you need any sort of help, Potions or otherwise."
He preened a bit at that, the corners of his lips lifting upwards. "Maybe I'm just looking for an excuse to talk to you."
If it had been anyone else — literally anyone else, even that oaf Zacharias Smith — Ginny would have batted her eyelashes and said, "Bet you say that to all the girls."
She hummed noncommittally, swinging her bag over her shoulders. "I have to go to class."
"So do I. Care of Magical Creatures?" said Riddle, and Ginny tried not to grimace.
"You too?" she said, struggling to keep her grin in place when Riddle nodded. "Great."
It was a long walk from Slughorn's classroom to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where Kettleburn's classes were held. As they made their way out of the dungeons, Ginny wondered, not for the first time, if she really was up to the task that had been thrust upon her. Since her arrival earlier in the year, she had dreaded having to do this — to have to interact with Riddle, to play nice with him and pretend to be a simpering idiot, to act like cursing him whenever she saw him was the farthest thing from her mind.
But you wanted this. You planned this.
Hadn't she asked to be put in Slytherin so she could keep an eye on Riddle? So she could stop him before hell could break loose? Hadn't all this been her plan in the first place? And yet here she was, still too much of a coward and letting her memories get in the way.
"How are you liking Hogwarts so far?" asked Riddle, jolting her out of her self-pitying reverie.
"It's all right, I suppose."
He arched an eyebrow. "Just all right?"
"What's there to say? Do you want me to wax poetic about the castle and the classes and all that?"
That same smile of his was back, accompanied by a short chuckle. "If you like. It's just a bit unusual, that's all. Most first-years tend to be more expressive when asked."
Her own first-year wasn't all that grand either, no thanks to him.
"Sorry to disappoint," said Ginny dryly, "but I'm not actually eleven."
"Fair enough," said Riddle, his gaze forthright and penetrating. "But what about us Slytherins? Any thoughts on our House?" Ginny was unable to hide her frown in time, and Riddle quickly added, "I'm assuming we haven't made a favorable impression?"
"Not really," admitted Ginny, looking away from his intense stare. "Don't know about you, but I'm not really keen on all the gossip that's floating about. Not to mention Malfoy and his lot . . ."
Her voice trailed away, worried she had revealed too much, but Riddle only looked amused.
"I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "The rest of us aren't so bad though, I don't think."
Ginny bit her tongue to stop herself from saying something stupid, and internally cursed whoever decided her schedule was a good idea.
"I can't help but wonder what it's like," said Riddle, when the silence had stretched on for longer than was comfortable, "having a relative as your professor."
Ginny opened her mouth before closing it, resisting the urge to throw Riddle a sharp look when she realized what he was doing. He was trying to weasel information out of her — about Dumbledore. Was this why he was so suspicious of her? Was the reason for all his creepy staring not because of her and some instinctive knowledge of her wrongness, but because of her pretend uncle? If so, it was oddly insulting, that she was just another unwitting party in his enmity against Dumbledore.
Like how Tom hadn't seen her as anything more than a means to get to Harry. Points for consistency, she thought.
"It's all right," Ginny said again, as impassive as before.
He cast a sidelong glance at her. "I imagine it must be somewhat odd. You and Professor Dumbledore seem rather close."
"Hmm," she said vaguely. "What's Kettleburn like? I heard about what happened with Beery's play."
A shadow of frustration flickered on Riddle's face. "And what did Professor Dumbledore say about it?"
Ginny stopped walking abruptly. "Bit rude of you, interrogating me about my uncle," she snapped, and she fancied she saw a hint of uncertainty in Riddle's features. "The right thing to do would be to just drop the subject and move on."
"Interrogating?" Riddle frowned. "I'm only making conversation."
"You're not, and you're not being very subtle about it either." He looked offended, and he opened his mouth to speak before she continued, "You've been making these — these — statements, and expecting me to answer them. I didn't pester you when you avoided my question about Black, because I can take a hint, but you won't give me the same courtesy. Well, I'm not having it, Riddle. That's not how conversations work."
As she spoke, Ginny realized it wasn't just about Dumbledore either. Riddle had done the same days ago — asking questions that weren't quite questions but still demanded answers, trying to read her, to analyze her.
And hadn't it been like that with the diary too? Wasn't that why it had been so easy to talk to Tom? It hadn't just been to evade her questions, but a way to seem like he was interested in what she had to say. Tom had let her fill his pages with stories, letting her answer unspoken questions, manipulating her into thinking he cared enough to listen.
This was his charm, Ginny realized, more than his looks and his magic. Riddle had his silver tongue, a way with words that made it easy to share more than what was explicitly asked for. It was all there, between the lines, and Ginny, being the idiot that she was, had been obliging so far.
"Isn't it?" said Riddle, looking completely sincere in his cluelessness. "I say one thing, you say another —"
"No, you've been trying to wheedle information," Ginny bit out, and his unassuming mask fell, his face suddenly blank and inscrutable. "You want to know something? Then bloody ask."
She could almost imagine the cogs in his head turning behind the expressionless front, and she wondered how he was going to try and save face.
"I'm sorry," said Riddle, and Ginny's jaw nearly dropped. "I didn't mean to offend. It's just — well, I've been hearing all these rumours and I wondered . . . you're right. It was rude of me. I apologize, I never meant to make you uncomfortable."
He looked genuinely contrite, his mouth set in a deep frown and his brows furrowed in worry. Ginny was at a loss for words.
"Yeah, well . . ." Struggling not to gape at him, she started walking, her steps brisker than before. "Just . . . don't do it again," she finished lamely.
Riddle caught up with her easily, and Ginny carefully looked at anywhere but his profile, feeling immensely grateful she had overgrown her tendency to blush quickly.
"Professor Kettleburn is quite eccentric," said Riddle after a while. "It's common consensus that his class is an easy O because of it, but it's truly the opposite. His, let's say, idiosyncrasies make him rather precocious."
Ginny could feel his intense gaze boring through her, his mind trying to edge its way through the fringes of her own. Dumbledore had taught her Occlumency over the summer, but even though her lessons had gone better than Harry's had, she wasn't sure she could keep Riddle out for long. Thinking it best not to risk it, she kept her eyes fixed on the ground.
"I heard he's a little reckless," said Ginny, trying not to shift uncomfortably.
"More than a little, I should say," said Riddle, exhaling slightly — another soft laugh, as fake as the rest of him. "But he's dedicated. His fondness for dangerous creatures is widely known, and it makes his classes one of the more exciting ones."
Like Hagrid. The thought came unbidden, and memories of afternoons in Hagrid's hut, drinking tea with Fang curled by her feet, rose to the surface. Hagrid had understood, when she had told him about the chamber and the diary, and he had comforted her in a way her family couldn't have, because they only ever knew Voldemort; they hadn't known Tom like she and Hagrid had.
"Right," mumbled Ginny, her stomach twisting painfully. Hagrid was here now, only thirteen years old and grieving for his father. In a few months time, he would be expelled, his prospects ruined, unless Ginny could stop Riddle. . . .
Outside the castle walls, the sun was at its height, lightly dusting her shoulders and the top of her head with warmth. The breeze was cool and soothing, the sky a clear, uninterrupted stretch of blue, not a grey cloud in sight — the perfect weather for flying.
How long had it been since the last time she flew? Since she last held a broom and soared for the fun of it? The wind in her hair, the world miles below her, laughing as she dodged the twins' Bludgers and threw the Quaffle past Ron's waiting defences —
"When's Quidditch try-outs?" asked Ginny impulsively.
Riddle looked sideways at her, seemingly surprised. She wasn't sure if it was because of the question or because she had finally turned and met his eyes unflinchingly. A loop of memories played in her mind — little Ginny at six years old, breaking into the family's broom shed and taking her brother's brooms out in turn, practicing under the star-strewn sky.
"Next Saturday," said Riddle. "Are you planning on trying out?"
"Well, I wasn't planning on watching, if that's what you think."
"I should warn you that the team can be competitive."
"Any means to achieve their ends, yeah?"
"It's a dangerous sport," said Riddle slowly. "Almost everyone who has ever been on the team is from a well-connected family. They don't take too well to outsiders."
Meaning Black and his sort. Ginny wrinkled her nose.
"Almost?" she repeated. "So no place for my kind then?"
If Riddle noticed her drawling impression of Malfoy, he didn't comment, ignoring her question altogether. "What position will you be playing?"
Ginny gave him a pointed look and almost didn't answer. Huffing slightly, she said, "Chaser, if there's a spot for it."
"You strike me more as a Seeker."
Riddle's eyes were as flat and calm as the lake on a spring morning, and Ginny had the sinking feeling he wasn't talking about Quidditch anymore. She had no idea what to say, and never had she been more grateful to see Kettleburn's class. A Ravenclaw with dreadlocks waved Riddle over, and Ginny nearly sighed with relief when Riddle went to the small, motley assortment of students who had been beaming up at him since they came into view. Black was also in the class, and he seemed to have noticed her, if his disapproving frown was anything to go by. It became more pronounced when Raoul Lestrange, one of the boys he had been sitting with in Potions, nodded in Riddle's direction.
Ginny sat in the back. She was inexplicably reminded of Luna when a dark-haired, bespectacled Ravenclaw settled in the empty seat beside her. The mournful voice in her head was too loud to tune out, saying that Luna ought to be the one sitting next to her, and that if her best friend had been here, she would have had a thing or two to say about the Tebo that Kettleburn set loose on the unsuspecting fifth-years.
As soon as Kettleburn dismissed the class, Ginny all but ran back to the castle. There was no way she was giving Riddle another opportunity to play at chivalry by offering to walk her to the Great Hall or invite her to lunch with his buddies.
Suddenly remembering Black's bruised ego and Burke's big mouth, Ginny made an about-face when she reached the entrance hall and headed to the kitchens. Hungry as she was, she was in no mood to be stared at and to have to listen to whatever gossip that was born in the hours since breakfast. The house-elves were eager to serve and even more delighted when they recognized her as Dumbledore's niece.
Her last class of the day, Charms, was uneventful. Like in her other classes, Ginny waited until a handful of her classmates had already performed the Summoning Charm — Riddle, unsurprisingly, was the first to cast it successfully, followed almost immediately by Droope — before trying it herself. Professor Ortega, a clever-looking witch with salt-and-pepper hair, was less than impressed when Ginny's book barely moved an inch, and Ginny made sure she looked properly disappointed when her subsequent attempts were as ineffective.
"Ah, well, no matter," said Professor Ortega, trying and failing to look enthused when the book's pages did nothing more than flutter. "Just practice some more, Miss Smith. I'm certain you'll get it soon."
She was, it was obvious, expecting something more from Ginny, someone more talented and less ditsy and a bit more like her renowned uncle. It said a lot about Ginny that dashing these expectations were her only source of fun these days.
Ginny fled to the library once Charms was over. She stayed in a table hidden by rows of shelves of dusty, untouched tomes, and surrounded herself with parchment and textbooks on Parseltongue and the Dark Arts, the ones that she and Dumbledore hadn't destroyed or hid away when they had scoured the Restricted Section for anything that made mention of Horcruxes. Though certain that Riddle hadn't followed her, she Transfigured the book covers in case, and only lifted the spell when the librarian sternly but kindly informed her that the library was closing.
"So much homework already, dear?" said the librarian when Ginny insisted she needed just a few more minutes, and please, she really needed to borrow these books, if that's all right.
It took a few more minutes, an abundant use of her puppy dog eyes, and copious name-dropping before the librarian acquiesced, and by the time Ginny arrived in the common room, armed with her borrowed textbooks and a bag of pastries nicked from the kitchens, it was almost curfew.
On her second day back at Hogwarts, Ginny had spent an embarrassing five minutes staring at the Fat Lady's portrait, having momentarily forgotten she was no longer a Gryffindor. She hadn't made the same mistake since, but she still missed the warmth and the homely atmosphere of the Gryffindor common room.
The Slytherin common room was beautiful in its own right, elegant and tasteful in a way that was almost cold and unwelcoming. For all its grandeur, nothing about the place was homey, and Ginny hated how needlessly luxurious it all was. Too opulent for the comfort of the Burrow, too grandiose for the cosiness of the Gryffindor common room. There was no sunlight, no view of the grounds and the forest and the open sky, nothing to show that there was a world beyond the stone walls.
But there was a spot Ginny had claimed as her own, more out of necessity than fondness, and no other Slytherin came near it once it became clear who had made a nest of the particular corner. It was a leather loveseat beside the window that overlooked the lake, and the sound of the water would have been soothing if the green light wasn't so inconveniently dim.
The Blacks, like always, had settled near the crackling fireplace, along with the more elite members of their House. Riddle was nowhere to be seen, and neither were his underlings, but some of the younger students were scattered about, chatting animatedly. Ginny was content to ignore them, busy as she was with her books, and would have gone on ignoring them if she hadn't heard her name.
". . . Ginny Smith, what kind of a name is that anyway?"
"Common name."
"Common Muggle name."
"They just let anyone in at Hogwarts these days, don't they?"
Ginny stifled a groan when she realized who they were — one of the Blacks and Byron Zabini, speaking too loudly for a private conversation. They must be angling for a reaction. Ginny's suspicions were confirmed when she caught sight of Zabini's hand casually placed where his wand would be in easy reach, and Walburga Black's manicured fingers were curled around her own. A group of second-years saw that Ginny had lifted her head from her books, and nudged each other to quiet down, clearly expecting a spectacle like before.
They were going to be sorely disappointed. Ginny was too tired to put on a show, and too proud to have to witness Dumbledore heave another one of his disappointed sighs if he found out she attacked a student unprovoked again.
But still. Ginny wasn't quite tired enough to bite her tongue.
"I'm so dreadfully sorry my name offends you," said Ginny loudly, so that her waiting audience would hear. "We can't all have names as lovely as yours, Walburga."
Walburga Black's mouth hung open with soundless rage, and Ginny swept to the dormitory before anyone else could react. The only other person in her room was Droope, who gave her no more than a cursory glance before burying her nose back in her homework. Ginny didn't mind — she really was tired, her eyelids heavy with sleep.
As Ginny flopped down on her bed, she couldn't help but be glad that the day — the entire week, really — was over. One week down, the rest of her life to go.
The thing was, Ginny wasn't sure how she ended up in 1942 to begin with.
She remembered the battle well enough — the bright beams of light, the shattered windows and the crumbling walls, the bodies splayed out on the flagstones. . . .
Ginny remembered how it felt to move among all the wreckage and death. It had felt as though she was floating, weightless and not quite aware of her own movements, like there was something unseen pulling at her limbs. There was a feeling of icy clarity, a sort of coldness that pooled at the pit of her stomach, and it made her feel numb and alive all at once. Like a fog had been lifted, and everything was suddenly, frighteningly clear.
It had made everything slow down, stoking the rage inside her until Ginny could focus on nothing but the fire that prickled along her skin and clawed tight in her chest. She remembered the blood pounding in her ears and the nimbleness of her feet, how she twirled and turned as she shot curses without compunction or hesitation.
But more than anything else, more than the actual fighting, Ginny remembered her mother, falling to the pavement. Colin, lying still and peaceful. Fred, his eyes unseeing.
And Harry. Brave, wonderful Harry.
Ginny remembered clutching his body, looking down at the blank face of the boy she could have loved, and thinking of all the things they had left unsaid between them. She could have sat there for hours, hunched over Harry's lifeless form as she shot at the Death Eaters who came near, until an arm came around her, gently but firmly pulling her away.
We have to go, Ron had said, but his voice had buzzed against her ear like all the sounds swirling inside her skull. Come on, we have to go. Let — let him go, Gin, he — he's not . . . he's gone, Ginny. He's gone.
Ron had told her to run, and Ginny had. She had run with no clear purpose, no destination, with only the white-hot anger in her chest to cling to and the icy clarity in her veins saying, If I'm going down, I'm taking you bastards with me.
And somehow, without meaning to, she had found herself on the seventh floor, standing opposite a familiar tapestry and staring at a familiar blank wall.
Ginny couldn't remember what she had asked for, if she had closed her eyes in concentration or if she had whispered her wish under her breath. By then she had been swaying on her feet, spots dancing in front of her eyes, and she was only dimly aware of her broken bones and bleeding leg and the masked men approaching her.
But whatever it was she thought of, whatever it was she had asked for, the Room of Requirement had obliged. A door had appeared, and the room inside had been warm and enticing. Her body had moved of its own accord, stirred by the promise of safety, and Ginny, half-awake and barely upright, vaguely thought, I need to save them . . . can't let them die . . . one more chance . . . have to save them . . . have to. . . .
I have to go back.
The world had spun, sweeping Ginny in its orbit, and suddenly she was free falling, tumbling into a swirling, endless expanse, and then —
And then she was here.
