5 September 1942

The hardest part about Occlumency, Ginny had learned, wasn't keeping people out. It was trying not to get sucked in.

Every time she wasn't strong enough to keep Dumbledore's mind out of her own, she would see what Dumbledore saw. All the memories she couldn't hide or protect, she would see again as though they were happening right in front of her eyes. Reliving them, as though she was living in that moment and nowhere else.

"Ginny," said the Harry from her memories. He was sitting on the ground, back against the wall of the headmaster's office, slumped and defeated, but he tried to sit up once he caught sight of her. "What are you doing here?"

It hurt to even look at him, because he was so tired, so helpless, and he deserved so much more than what was awaiting him. Ginny knew she had to look away now, to take control of the memory, but she couldn't. It was too easy to get lost in the moment — this moment. The last time she ever saw Harry alive.

To force herself to snap awake, to leave and return to the present — that was always the worst part about these lessons.

"To see you, obviously," she was saying, before she could stop herself. Or her memory was, echoing the words she had said to him that night, before he had marched to his death.

Ginny was holding two mugs of steaming butterbeer in her hands, handing one to Harry as she sat down next to him.

"Here," she murmured, pressing one of the mugs into his hands. "Drink up."

"I . . . thank you," said Harry, stunned, but he made no move to take a sip. "How — how are you doing?"

Almost instantly, he looked away, his eyes widening as he swallowed hard, the question what am I saying? clearly flickering behind his eyes.

Ginny allowed herself a small smile at that. It was a stupid question — more than a stupid question, even, but she understood the sentiment behind it.

"Fine," she told him. She let her voice to linger in the air, because there was so much she wanted to say, so much that they had left unspoken between them, but there wasn't enough time and she didn't have the words to say them now.

Too late, she thought. Always too late.

"Ginny," Harry began, his voice hardly a whisper, nothing at all like the sweet tones she was used to, back when they had been dating. "I — I'm so sorry, about Fred — about everything —"

"You shouldn't be," she said, gaze trained on the doorway opposite them. "It's not your fault. None of this is."

"But —"

"You've got nothing to apologize for, Harry. Now drink your butterbeer. You shouldn't die on an empty stomach."

It was a poor joke, but the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Next to her, Harry flinched, nearly spilling his drink in shock.

"What?"

"You heard me," she said calmly, taking a sip of her own butterbeer.

"But why — how did you —"

"I know you, Harry," said Ginny. "You're going to give yourself up to Tom so he'll spare us. So he won't take Hogwarts. You're going to let him kill you because you think it's the only way."

Harry exhaled, reaching out with his hand and grasping hers, staring at her with an intensity that was almost startling. "Are you going to ask me to stay?"

She wanted to. God, how she wanted to.

"No," she said, finally turning to look at him. To really look at him, to memorize every detail of his face, as much as she could — the curl of his hair as it fell across his forehead, the gleam of his glasses in the dim light, the eyes that were staring into her own, so resigned and yet full of wonder and disbelieving adoration. "I can't ask you to do that. Not for me."

"Ginny, I —" he started, hesitating, his voice breaking.

Ginny turned her hand palm up and intertwined their fingers, in a gesture so painfully reminiscent of their time together that it made her heart clench. "I know."

Because she did know. She could see it in his face, in his eyes, heavy with so many unspoken things.

She squeezed his hand. "I'll miss you."

I'll miss you, like he was only leaving on a short trip. Like he wasn't going to be gone permanently and forever. It was the closest to goodbye that she could bring herself to say. More than that, it was what Harry needed to hear — not goodbyes, never that, never something so final and definite.

"I wish we had more time," said Harry finally.

In that moment, Ginny wanted nothing more than to kiss him, to wipe away that sombre look, to stop the feeling of helplessness that swirled inside her when she looked at him, so weary and so broken by a war they were too young to be fighting —

And then Harry vanished. The memory was changing, and image after image raced through her mind, so vivid it blinded her to her surroundings. . . .

Until another memory took shape, formed, and stilled. It was Harry again, lying on the ground, staring at her with blank eyes — those eyes she loved so much, green and empty and unseeing. . . . All around her, there were spells being thrown, bodies toppling to the ground, the castle falling, cries and shouts and screaming — someone was screaming

"No —"

A parade of familiar faces, each one dead, dying, falling

"Don't —"

Fred. Colin. Hermione. Luna. Flitwick. Charlie. Mum —

"STOP!"

The images swam and vanished, fading until at last Dumbledore's office came into view.

Heart thumping wildly, Ginny realized she was sitting in front of Dumbledore's desk — had she been sitting here all this time, when their lesson began? — and she was gripping the arms of her seat so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. Dumbledore was kneeling in front of her, gently trying to pry her hands from their tight grasp.

"Ginny," said Dumbledore, his face pale and his eyebrows drawn in concern. "Are you all right?"

Her brain ached as though someone had been trying to pull it from her skull. Her throat felt hoarse and dry. Her lungs burned from the need to scream some more, to cry, to breathe —

"I'm fine," said Ginny, forcing the words to come out even and calm. "I'm fine. We — we should go again."

"Again? I believe we've had enough practice for today."

"But I can do it —"

"Ginny," said Dumbledore, in a tone that brooked no argument. "You need to rest."

Ginny wanted to glare at him, to argue — but he was right. She was too tired and too shaken, and she didn't think she could muster up a defence against another Legilimency attack.

"Okay," she grumbled, panting slightly. "Okay."

"Chin up, Ginny," said Dumbledore gently. "You've made remarkable progress for so short a time."

She shook her head. "It's not enough. I can't keep you out —"

"I think you'll find that it takes quite a lot to keep me out," he said reassuringly, his eyes dancing as he stood and sat behind his desk. "But you are improving and you have made an admirable effort. I do not doubt that it will be enough to shield your mind from a novice Legilimens, certainly enough for someone still learning the craft."

"But Riddle's better than that, Professor. I can keep him out but — he won't stop trying and if he catches me off guard, I can't —"

"Then we shall deal with him accordingly," he said sternly. "I understand your worries, Ginny, but you must allow yourself to rest. It will do you no good to keep expecting the worst."

"I thought you said we should prepare for the worst."

"Prepare, yes — but that doesn't mean we should treat it as inevitable."

"And if it is?" she said, almost challengingly.

"As I said, we shall deal with it accordingly."

Then he smiled, and again Ginny was caught off guard by how similar and yet so different — so young — he was from the Dumbledore in her own time. She wasn't sure she would ever get used to it, seeing all these similarities and differences, and it made her heart ache with longing for what she had left behind.

"Now," said Dumbledore. "Enough of this sombre talk. How are you, Ginny?"

"As well as can be expected, I guess. It's . . . not exactly easy."

"I imagine it wouldn't be. But how are you adjusting? Have you been making friends?"

She grimaced. "Oh, yeah, loads."

"I've noticed your continued absences in the Great Hall during mealtimes."

Ginny stared, incredulous. Was he really disciplining her about not eating?

"And I've noticed that you have not made any close friends —"

"Professor!" she cut in, feeling the blood rush to her face. "I'm fine, really —"

"Now, now." He held up his hand to stop her. "This is a very serious matter. Your mission is important, but I also wish for you to be happy and comfortable —"

She scoffed. "I can't. You've seen my housemates, Professor. I can't play nice with people who — who are going to raise fascists —"

"You know as well as I that friends don't have to be divided among Houses, Ginny."

"But we agreed that I have to lie low —"

"Lying low does not mean hiding away."

"I'm not —"

He cut her off with a stern, chiding look, and the words died in her throat.

She sighed. "What do you want me to say, Professor?"

"I want you to make more of an effort," he said softly. "Your life does not have to revolve around Tom Riddle."

Ginny stiffened. "It doesn't."

Dumbledore gave her a piercing look, eyebrows quirked as though saying, Then prove it.

"I've got detention with Slughorn," she muttered, slouching in her seat. "That's got nothing to do with Riddle. Does that count?"

Maybe it wasn't very appropriate, to be so sarcastic towards Dumbledore, but three months of planning, practicing, and training — three months of revealing to him every detail of the future, of sticking to their cover story — was enough to remove the pretence of formality between them. Whether she liked it or not, Dumbledore was her only ally, and the closest to a friend and confidant she had left.

"I was hoping for something more positive," said Dumbledore, his smile teasing. "But I suppose we have to start somewhere."


Dumbledore asked her some more about how her classes were going, what she and her classmates were doing in each one, and if she was planning on trying out for a spot in the Slytherin Quidditch Team. Ginny appreciated his concern, and she tried to answer each one without being too snide about her housemates.

"You don't have to mother me, Professor," she couldn't help but gripe, when he insisted that Quidditch might help her foster better ties and make amends with Malfoy, and some such nonsense.

"You are my niece," he reminded her, eyes twinkling. "I believe that I am duty-bound to mother you."

He had asked her about how her research on the Chamber of Secrets was going, and he shared with her what he had found. So far, neither of them had found anything they didn't already know, and they were no closer to finding a way to open the Chamber than when they began. Before Ginny could dwell on the topic any further, Dumbledore changed the subject, this time by lightly teasing her about the feedback on her performance from the teachers and about her afternoon detention with Slughorn.

Because naturally Malfoy had gone to tattle to Slughorn about what had happened on the first day, that bloody prat.

By the time Ginny left Dumbledore's office, it was almost time for that stupid detention. She trooped dutifully off to Slughorn's office, not at all eager to spend the next hour or so hearing about the Slug Club and his prodigies. Once was enough for a lifetime.

To her surprise, Slughorn wasn't there when she came in. Margot Droope sat on the table closest to the desk at the front, going through a stack of papers and wearing a pair of silver reading glasses. As Ginny shut the door behind her, Droope set the papers down and checked her watch.

"Right on time," she said. "You're here for detention, right?"

"Yeah," said Ginny, taking in the room. The office was smaller than the one she remembered from her sixth-year, where Slughorn had held his parties. The late afternoon sun was coming in the large windows, gleaming off the greenhouses the office overlooked, making it less stuffy than it should have been. "Where's Slughorn? Is he here?"

"Staff meeting," said Droope. "Seemed a bit disappointed about it too. He asked me to supervise instead."

Inwardly, Ginny rolled her eyes. Staff meeting, huh? Trust Dumbledore not to mention that, just to tease her some more about this whole thing.

"I didn't know prefects could do that," Ginny commented, as she sat on the table next to Droope's, close enough to see the papers she was holding.

Droope shrugged. "There's no rules against it. Depends on the teacher, I suppose."

"What about grading papers?"

She glanced up at that, smiling slightly. "Depends on the student."

"Hmm," said Ginny, for lack of anything else to say. She didn't know much about Droope, besides the fact that she resembled Hermione a little too much for Ginny's liking — always among the first to finish a task, always eager to impress their professors, always ready with an answer in class. Droope was Muggle-born too, according to the derisive, whispered conversations Ginny had heard from Walburga Black.

Ginny's detention, it turned out, was menial ingredient preparation for one of Slughorn's classes. Droope had Ginny wash her hands while Droope fetched a large basket of something that looked like blue pea pods and some bowls, then showed her how to shell the multicoloured peas inside. After a bit of supervision, Droope declared that Ginny knew what she was doing and, after reminding her to put the black peas and the shell in separate bowls, she returned to her own table and her work.

It was a surprisingly lenient punishment for what Ginny had done. Thinking even vaguely of it still made her feel awful. She had really been stupid, hadn't she? Letting Malfoy get to her the way she had. And now she had an enemy — three enemies, if she counted what had happened with the Black siblings yesterday — and drawn more attention to herself than she should have.

At least Dumbledore wasn't mad about it, just a little disappointed. Which was somehow worse, but there were far more unpleasant things she could have been made to do than shell peas as a punishment.

Like talk to Slughorn. That was her silver-lining right there.

The rest of Ginny's detention continued in silence, with Ginny busy shelling peas and Droope busy grading homework. The quiet was broken only when Ginny had run out of peas, and Droope went to the cupboards to fetch her some more.

"I'm not the only one who does this, you know," Droope said conversationally, as she placed the new basket of pea pods on Ginny's table. "This thing with grading papers, I mean."

Ginny wasn't sure what to reply to that. She watched, curious, as Droope averted her eyes, red staining her cheeks.

"It's not just this either," Droope went on. "Sometimes Slughorn has us prepare ingredients too, or we patrol in his place — little things like that. I don't know, it just seemed like you were —" she seemed to shrink in herself, her eyes fixed on the papers in front of her, "curious, that's all. It's the easiest way to get Slughorn's attention."

"I see," said Ginny, though she didn't see. She didn't understand what this had to do with her, or why Droope seemed to think she would be interested at all.

Droope must have heard the confusion in her tone, because she looked up, staring at Ginny with a scrutinizing look. Whatever it was she found made her sit up straighter, and though her expression remained mild and friendly, a brief flicker of something darkened her face, before she wiped it away with a chuckle.

"But you probably don't need it, do you?" said Droope.

"Sorry, I'm a bit lost," admitted Ginny. "Why would I need it?"

Droope snorted. "Black's been giving you a hard time, hasn't he?"

"Which one?" said Ginny dryly.

"Take your pick. And not just the Blacks — Malfoy, Selwyn, Flint, the whole lot of them."

"Those tossers? God, don't even get me started."

Droope looked stunned for a bit — Right, Ginny remembered, I need to watch my damn mouth — before she snickered.

"They're the worst, aren't they?" Droope agreed, and her smile seemed genuine. "Been like that for as long as I can remember. They don't make it easy, being —" she raised her hands to form air quotes, "a Mudblood."

Ginny frowned. "I thought we weren't supposed to use that word."

"But you've heard them, haven't you? It doesn't mean much, the first time you hear it. You get used to it after a while, but. . . ." she shrugged, her smile twisting into something more self-deprecating.

"Is it that bad?" said Ginny softly.

"Not always," said Droope. "The other Houses don't care, and not all Slytherins are going to make a big deal out of it. It helps if you've got Slughorn on your side."

Droope cast her a meaningful look, and Ginny was starting to see what Droope had been trying to say earlier.

"He won't pay you any mind, when you're Muggle-born — well, you're not Muggle-born, but the surname still matters, you see. Slughorn doesn't really care about this blood purity business, but it's still . . . it's still a part of their image. You need to prove you can be a part of that — that you are a part of that — if you want them to take you seriously."

Oh.

Oh, Ginny thought suddenly. She recognized it now, the something that had flickered on Droope's face before.

Bitterness. Envy. Disappointment.

It made sense. While Ginny knew she could never really understand what it was like, being a Muggle-born in a school like Hogwarts — and being a Slytherin, no less — she thought she could understand at least some parts of it. Not because of the cover story she was using, but because she had felt it before — the shame when she tried to hold her books together with spell after spell, the bitter envy she felt when she saw her friends' new robes and pristine clothes, the plunging disappointment when her friends seemed to forget that she didn't have the Galleons for an extra mug of butterbeer or another quill or even enough ink and parchment to spare.

Maybe it wasn't quite the same, but it was still that feeling of being not enough, the burning need to prove that she that she was, despite what she didn't have.

Maybe that was why Droope and Riddle seemed to get along so well — or well enough to partner and sit together in most classes. Riddle understood it too.

"I'm not saying this to scare you or anything," said Droope kindly. "But I thought you should know. The older Muggle-borns, they told us this back when we were in first-year. Said volunteering for Slughorn might help us. It's why Tom and I started doing it."

Ginny felt a cold, heavy weight settle in her stomach. "Tom?" she heard herself say.

Droope nodded. "Yeah, I told him to tell you about all this, actually. He hasn't yet, has he?"

"It hasn't come up."

"Typical." Droope rolled her eyes, but she looked . . . fond. "Should've known. He doesn't really like talking about it."

"Oh?"

Droope snickered. "Yeah, he gets a bit testy sometimes."

There was a gentle knock on the door.

"It's open!" Droope called out.

Of course, it had to be Riddle himself who strode inside the room. Of fucking course.

"Speak of the devil and he shall appear," said Droope, glancing at Ginny with a grin.

Riddle's eyebrows rose, but he smiled, charming and polite. "Talking about me again, Margot?"

"Oh, nothing too terrible, don't worry."

"Whatever she said, don't believe a word of it," he said to Ginny. Like he was joking — like they were friends.

Ginny forced herself to laugh, carefully looking at anywhere but his eyes. "We were just talking about Slughorn."

"Speaking of," said Riddle, approaching Slughorn's desk, "where is he? I was going to drop off my paper."

"Still at his meeting, probably," said Droope. She stood and reached out, trying to grab at the paper Riddle had placed on the desk. "What paper? The one due next month?"

Riddle snatched the paper out of her reach, with a smile that was unmistakably teasing. What the fuck.

"That's the one," confirmed Riddle.

"I can't believe you already finished that! I've barely even started on my outlines!" Droope huffed, crossing her arms in a gesture of mock indignation. "Merlin's beard, Tom, make us look incompetent, why don't you."

Riddle chuckled, and Ginny tried not to stare. It was one thing to be on the receiving end of Riddle's veneer of charm and gallantry, but it was another to witness it on someone else — all this friendly banter and easy smiles. No wonder he had most of the school falling at his feet.

"Well, I wanted enough time to revise," said Riddle lightly.

"Yeah, yeah," said Droope, waving a hand dismissively. "Want to help grade the second-years' homework? Bet we can finish it by the time Slughorn arrives."

Riddle checked his watch. "It looks like it's nearly time for dinner, actually. Slughorn might not be coming until later."

Droope made a face. "Well, this has been a waste of time then." She turned to Ginny, looking apologetic. "I should've just let you skip this whole detention thing. Sorry about that."

"I don't understand," said Ginny, frowning. "Wouldn't Slughorn know if you did?"

"Normally, yeah, but he didn't check up on us even once, and he seems to like you anyway so. . . . Honestly, I doubt he'll remember unless you remind him."

"It's easy enough to distract him if he does," said Riddle. "And there's always a way to turn it in your favour."

Ginny arched her brows. "Speaking from experience, Riddle?"

Riddle gave her a strange look, something almost like curiosity flickering across his face, before he inclined his head towards her. His lips curled, a convincing facade of mild amusement.

"It may have happened once or twice," he said.

"So you do get detentions," said Ginny, smiling back. "Never pegged you for the type." She looked away quickly, careful to keep her expression open and warm. No way was she going to give him a chance to see into her mind, not again.

Droope huffed with amusement. "Yeah, he's notorious." She took out her wand and murmured a quick spell, making the papers she had been grading arrange themselves on Slughorn's desk and the baskets and bowls of peas Ginny had been shelling return to the cupboards. "Anyone else starving? I'm heading to the Great Hall now."

"I'll join you," said Riddle. He turned to Ginny. "You should come with us. I've barely seen you during mealtimes."

Ginny tried not to grimace. Of course he noticed.

"I'm not really hungry," said Ginny, as nonchalantly as she could. "I was actually planning on going to the library. Get a head start on all the homework."

"Oh, well," said Droope. "I'll save you a seat, if you change your mind."

Maybe Droope had only said it to be polite, but Ginny felt touched by the gesture. She had missed it, sitting and chatting with someone in the Great Hall, talking over dinner about gossip and homework and other frivolous things.

Dumbledore's words that morning came to mind, unbidden — about making friends, about being happy, about making more of an effort. Your life does not have to revolve around Tom Riddle.

But Tom Riddle was right here, waiting for her answer, smiling politely. The thought of playing nice with him, all the while worrying about what she was saying, doing, if she was giving away too much, filled her with dread.

"Thanks," said Ginny, smiling back at Droope and glancing quickly at Riddle. "I'll see you in class."

Ginny grabbed her things, strode across the room, and seized the doorknob, giving one last smile over shoulder at Riddle and Droope.

"Oh, um," Droope blurted out, before Ginny could swing open the door. "It's Margot, by the way. I don't think I introduced myself before."

"Neither did I," said Ginny, laughing. "I'm Ginny."

Never mind that Droope — Margot already knew that, before they had even so much as exchanged a word between them. It was still nice, to do this little formality. Every friendship had to start somewhere.


Ginny hadn't meant to eavesdrop.

She hadn't been lying about going to the library — there was still so much that needed to be done, books and papers to look for and read, if she wanted any hope of opening the Chamber before Riddle could. But loud voices caught her attention, familiar enough to make her pause in her tracks.

"Calm down, Alphard," said a deep, petulant voice. "I don't see what all this fuss is about."

"I'm perfectly calm," seethed another. "You're the one not listening. I'm telling you —"

"You're being paranoid. Since when do you care about who Raoul hangs around with?"

"Since he started trailing after Riddle like some lost niffler!"

Ginny's stomach dropped. Turning her head, she quietly cast a Concealment Charm on her robes and a Muffling Charm on the sole of her shoes, and she followed the angry voices as stealthily as she could. The corridor where Alphard Black and Abraxas Malfoy stood was on the other side of castle, away from the Great Hall. It was empty — unsurprising, considering the hour — and the argument between Black and Malfoy seemed heated enough that neither noticed as she inched her way closer to them, peeking behind a granite statue of a dragon.

"Stop exaggerating," drawled Malfoy, rolling his eyes. "I'm sure it's not that bad."

Black tensed, his stance rigid. "You don't have any classes with them. You don't see —" he broke off, running a hand through his hair as he paced. "I'm serious, Abraxas. I wouldn't be bringing this up if I wasn't."

The pinched look Malfoy wore made his features seem even more pointed, and the resemblance between him and Draco Malfoy more pronounced. "Oh, I believe you're serious about it. That doesn't mean I think it's warranted."

"Don't you think it's concerning? That Raoul's hanging about his lot?"

Malfoy sighed as he grabbed Black's elbow, causing Black to stop mid-stride, his back to Ginny's statue. "You know what I think? I think Raoul's just in it for the grades. You've got O.W.L.s this year, don't you? As much as I hate to admit it, Riddle's smart. Raoul's probably just following him around to help him with the exams."

"Maybe." Black grunted, but he didn't sound convinced. "But I think —" he stopped suddenly.

"What?"

A beat passed. When Black finally spoke, his voice was so low that Ginny strained to hear him. "You've heard what Riddle's been saying to his cronies, haven't you?"

"You mean that crap from last year? About being the Heir of Slytherin?"

Ginny's heart sprung to her throat. She was so taken aback by Malfoy's words that she almost didn't hear it: hesitation. A tremor, a hitch in Black's breath.

"Don't tell me you actually believe that shit," continued Malfoy.

"Of course not," said Black, a little too quickly. "I'm only worried that Raoul might."

The corner of Malfoy's mouth curled up. It looked like he was trying to keep a straight face and failing. "Well, while I agree that their stupidity is contagious, Raoul isn't thick enough to buy that."

"If he is?"

"Then I'll buy you a pint and we knock some sense into Raoul. Stun him, if we have to. Not that it'll come to that, mind you."

Black sighed. He stepped away from Malfoy, letting Malfoy's hand fall from his arm, and twisted slightly in Ginny's direction, so that she could now see half of his face.

"Probably not," said Black dully. "Just . . . promise me you'll stay out of his way."

"From Riddle?" Malfoy scoffed. "Like I would ever want anything to do with that Mudblood."

A faint frown pulled at the corner of Black's lips. "Better not let his bloody followers hear you say that. Don't go around antagonizing them, all right?"

Malfoy tilted his head, an amused smirk on his face. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're actually scared of him and his fan club."

"Don't be daft," Black snapped. "I'm just saying it won't do us any good if we've got half of Hogwarts siding against us — all because you offended perfect Saint Riddle."

"He's an orphan without a single Galleon to his name. What harm can he do?"

"He's got more influence than you think."

"Here, maybe, but when we're outside? Money and blood are what matter, and he has neither. He may have everyone fooled now, but once we're out there, in the real world — none of that's going to mean anything. Mark my words."

"He's Slughorn's favourite," insisted Black. "That's still something."

"Then make sure you don't lose the old bat's favour. Easy enough."

"Promise me anyway. I don't want you going around making enemies — and I don't want to have to clean up your messes."

Malfoy heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Fine, if it means that much to you." He rolled his eyes again. "You worry too much, Alphard."

Black rolled his eyes right back. "Someone has to. You don't worry enough."

"I do worry," retorted Malfoy, wrapping an arm around Black's shoulders. "Only about the important things — like what's for dinner, and your sadly declining sanity —"

Black ducked underneath Malfoy's hold, but he was smiling a crooked smile, the tightness in his shoulders visibly relaxing. "And Quidditch, don't forget that."

"I wouldn't dare."

"Glad to know my mental state ranks so highly among your worries."

Malfoy gave a bark of laughter, before going off on a tangent about their Quidditch team as he and Black walked away. Ginny kept her back pressed against the stone dragon, waiting with bated breath until Black and Malfoy were out of sight.

But as their footsteps faded, as their voices disappeared into the silence of the deserted hallway, Ginny could have sworn that Black's gaze had lingered on the dragon statue, a considering look flashing across his face.