6 September 1942 — 11 September 1942

"Let him go, Ginny." It was Ron, one hand wrapped around her wrist and pulling her away from Harry, the other holding his wand, casting curses at passing Death Eaters. His eyes were glazed over in the spell light of the battle around them. "He's gone. You have to go now, Ginny. You need to let us go. You have to run."

Ginny awoke with a start.

She sat there, gasping for breath, as she took in the darkness of the room and the sleeping figures of her fellow fifth-year Slytherins. Eventually, she stumbled towards the bathroom and into the stalls, her tongue bitter with bile and dread. Leaning against the wall next to the porcelain bowl, she waited to see if she was going to vomit or not this morning.

Mornings were the hardest. They always had been, even when it was just the old recurring nightmares of Tom and the diary and the Chamber, with his taunting, vicious words replaying in her mind. And then, after her first-year, it was dreams of Dad, pale and weak in St. Mungo's. Of Ron, unconscious in the hospital wing. Of Bill, scarred and bleeding.

But now, after the battle, after Hogwarts fell — they had gotten worse.

Ginny couldn't remember what happened after she stumbled inside the Room of Requirement. One minute, she was trying to get to safety, and then the next, she was in the hospital wing, with Dumbledore — alive and so, so young — peering down at her, with a look of mingled suspicion and concern. She didn't know if it was coincidence that it had been Dumbledore who found her, or if it was simply the Room of Requirement's magic that had brought them together — either way, no one else had known about her arrival, and by the time the headmaster came to see her, she and Dumbledore had already concocted a story.

Not that it had been easy. Dumbledore glimpsed into her mind and believed her, but it was Ginny who had a hard time believing all this. Those first few days after he found her, she spent hours in the Room of Requirement, desperately begging it to take her back — back to her Hogwarts, to her family and her friends who may very well have been killed without her knowing.

But the Room of Requirement stayed bare and empty, and Ginny could do nothing but sob and rail against whatever magic had brought her here and had taken her life away. She screamed and threw spell after spell at the blank walls of the room, hoping that she could dent it, destroy it, and maybe that would bring her back home.

It never did, of course. Dumbledore had to sit her down and put into words what she had known but had refused to accept.

"You can't go back, Miss Weasley," he had said, clearly and softly. "There's no known magic that will allow you to travel forwards in time — it's too dangerous, you must understand. The future isn't set in stone, and it's constantly changing and evolving. If you were to go back, you're essentially going somewhere and somewhen unknowable."

Ginny wanted to protest — because she knew the future, she lived it, how could it be unknowable? — but she couldn't. Although Dumbledore was looking at her directly, his expression kindly rather than pitying, she couldn't bear to meet his eyes.

"Time is a tricky thing," he said. "For something as vast as the universe, it is not strictly linear. There are organized pieces, you could say — pockets of nonlinear time that touch one another. They are connected to so many others, so many possibilities, that it would be incorrect to define time as merely a progression of cause to effect. Every moment in our lives takes place in these pockets — and when you travel back a few minutes, a few hours, you still exist within that pocket. What you do in that time changes nothing. From the universe's perspective, those few hours are instantaneous.

"But from what I've come to read, from what I understand — if you travel far enough, you can go from one pocket of time to another. If you go so far back in time, it's a big enough leap that you can force the universe to rewrite itself — to force it to change. And if it does, it will connect to other pockets, other possibilities, and the future you once knew becomes the past, and another future will take its place."

Ginny let the words wash over her, dread pooling in her stomach.

"What if I — will I ever — ?" she tried to ask, but the sadness in Dumbledore's eyes was answer enough.

She could never go back. Her brothers, her parents, her friends, everyone. . . . She would never see them again.

White-hot anger leapt inside her. It wasn't fair. After everything she had been through — after everything her family, her friends had suffered — and now suddenly they were gone, and she never even said goodbye —

"Fifty years is a long time — a lifetime for some," Dumbledore had said, and something in his voice finally made her look up and meet his gaze. "It might even be enough to make a difference. Don't think of this as an injustice, Miss Weasley. Think of this as a second chance."

Ginny could believe in second chances. It was something to hold on to. Something to give her meaning.

But it didn't make the nightmares any less painful.

Every morning, as she sat dead eyed in the bathroom, Ginny would once again try to come to terms with the fact that she would be living with this for the rest of her life. Every morning, she would face the fact that she would never see her family and her friends again, would never know what happened to them, and every morning it would be just as awful as the last.

How long, Ginny asked herself, can I really keep this up?

She didn't know, but she knew that it would be worse somehow, if she gave up now. To truly give up and give in would only make everything they had sacrificed even more in vain than they already were.

From the other room, Ginny could hear the other girls' alarms going off, her signal that it was time to stop sitting on the floor feeling sorry for herself and get a move on. With a groan, she stood, stepped out, and looked at her reflection in the mirror.

Well, she'd had better days. There were dark rings under her eyes, her face looked paler than Malfoy's and twice as sickly, but she supposed she was still alive, which counted for something.

It had to.


Sunday morning found Ginny in the library, chewing over some sweets as she read. She had piles of books on old charms, curse-breaking spells, ancient artefacts — anything that might lead her to finding a way to open the Chamber. No luck still, and after three months of searching, she was beginning to think that the Hogwarts Library didn't have the answers she needed.

Still, it was something to do while she waited for her Occlumency lessons with Dumbledore, and then she could finally tell him what she had overheard between Black and Malfoy. Their conversation troubled Ginny, and though she didn't yet understand what it meant, she knew it was something she had to keep an eye on.

"You know," came a low, familiar voice, "food isn't allowed in the library."

Him again.

Ginny resisted the urge to groan aloud. It was moments like this that made her wonder why she had thought it was a good idea to sort herself in Slytherin. There were plenty of reasons, she knew, but she found it hard to convince herself when Riddle just refused to piss off.

"Really?" said Ginny theatrically, stamping on a smile and the innocent, do-no-wrong look she often wore when she got into trouble with Bill and Percy. "And what's the punishment if I were to get caught?"

Riddle gave a silvery laugh. He had a bag slung over his shoulder and was carrying an armful of textbooks.

"You'll get thrown out, with a detention on record, maybe," he returned easily. "Or it might cost you a few points, if I'm feeling particularly merciful."

"And if I were to offer you, say, half of my stash?"

"Maybe I can overlook it, just this once." Riddle gestured to the empty seat across from her. "Do you mind?"

Yes. The library was practically deserted — there were plenty of other tables for him to choose from, and a handful of other students he could bother instead.

"Not at all," said Ginny, still beaming.

"I didn't see you at breakfast today," said Riddle as he sat down. He was eyeing her things, quickly and discreetly, and she tried not to react, relieved she had the foresight to bring her textbooks for class and Transfigure the others into more harmless-sounding titles.

"I wanted to get an early start on all the —" said Ginny, pointing vaguely to her half-done essays.

"I didn't know we had this much homework already."

Ginny considered what to say, thinking very quickly. "It's not all homework."

"Oh?"

"I wanted to get caught up with the lessons."

"You've been doing a remarkable job, from what I've heard," he said encouragingly.

"Hmm," she said with a meek smile.

"Professor Slughorn won't stop singing your praises." He slid his chair closer, leaning in slightly. "It must have been hard, coming here, after not knowing about magic for so long."

Those not-questions again. Those damn prodding statements, trying to wheedle information. Riddle was waiting for her to correct him, for her to explain and tell him what brought her to Hogwarts, and he was buttering her up first with overt flattery.

Why can't he just bloody ask like a normal person?

Ginny cleared her mind like Dumbledore had taught her. "That's really nice of Slughorn to say," she said, in a tone that sounded shy, and looked away. As she did, she caught a flicker of frustration on Riddle's face, and she ducked her head to hide her amusement.

"You're all right here?" Riddle tried again. "Coming to Hogwarts so late, transferring here . . . it must have been quite an adjustment for you."

This one was less subtle now — tell me about your last school, he was saying, where did you come from.

"I'm adjusting just fine," said Ginny. "Thanks for asking."

Riddle frowned. "I'm not disturbing you, am I?"

"You're not," she said noncommittally, keeping her head down.

"Are you sure?" His brows furrowed, his expression worried. "Because I can't help noticing you're a bit — that is . . . terse . . ."

His voice trailed away delicately, his shoulders sagging as his features set in a look of embarrassment. Ginny was impressed in spite of herself, and if he somehow made himself spontaneously blush to complete the image of flustered awkwardness, she might even consider believing him.

"Am I?" She looked up then, careful to not look at his eyes directly. "Sorry. I guess I don't really know what to say since — well, you haven't exactly asked me anything."

If Riddle heard the slight sharpness in her tone, he hid it well behind his smooth smile. "Just making conversation."

"Go on then," said Ginny. "Clearly something's on your mind. You might as well let it out."

Riddle inclined his head. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, you've been trying to figure out the sordid details of my past. Just ask me so we can get it out of the way."

Riddle blinked, and Ginny knew he had to be appalled. She had called him out on his interrogation again, and the last time he had tried to save face by apologizing. She doubted he would pull the same trick again — his pride wouldn't allow it.

"Unless I'm wrong," she continued, grinning, when he didn't answer right away, "and I'm being horribly self-absorbed and narcissistic. Feel free to burst my ego."

Riddle recovered quickly, and he sent another smile her way. "You're not entirely wrong."

"What about? The ego or the bit about my sordid past?"

"You know which one," chuckled Riddle. "Am I really that obvious?"

"You're getting a bit predictable, yeah."

A flash of irritation crossed his face, and Ginny had to bite her tongue to keep herself from laughing.

"You don't mind my asking?" said Riddle. "You don't think it's rude?"

She shrugged. "It'll put the rumours to rest."

He seemed to consider his next words, his eyes on her. "They're saying you're Muggle-born."

"Some are saying that, yes," she agreed, nodding. "Is that your question?"

Another flicker of annoyance, almost too quick to spot. "Are you?"

"I'm half-blood," she said. "My uncle's not really my uncle, technically. My mum's related to his mum and it's all" — she waved her hand dismissively — "overlapping and confusing, so it's easier to just call him Uncle."

Riddle nodded, seemingly interested. "So you've — always known about magic?"

Ginny considered saying yes and leaving it at that, but she had probably pissed him off enough for one day. Might as well tell him, in case her evasiveness spurned him to attempt more Legilimancy probes or — worse — talk to her again and subject her to another one of these conversations. God help her.

"I was home-schooled before," she said, with an air of detachment like how Harry spoke of Sirius, or how Neville talked about his parents. "After my parents died, Uncle took me in. It's not safe anymore outside of Hogwarts, living in Muggle London, what with the war going on, and all those bombs and attacks. . . ."

Riddle seemed to stiffen at the mention of Muggle, but whatever it was he felt, he walled it away behind a sad, sympathetic look.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said quietly.

Ginny shook her head. "So you see, my story's really not so scandalous as being Dumbledore's secret lovechild. That's probably my favourite one."

Riddle smirked, the same teasing smirk he had given Margot the day before. "Personally, I preferred the story about you being a Grindelwald spy."

She scoffed. "Well, what about you? What's your story?"

"Me?"

"You asked about my sordid past, it's only fair you tell me yours."

"There's not much to say," he said coolly. "I grew up in the Muggle world, found out about magic, and here I am."

Ginny nodded, and pushed on, "Margot mentioned you were Muggle-born."

A dark look passed over his eyes, and Ginny emptied her mind and filled it with simple, happy, uncompromising memories. Quidditch, tea with Dumbledore, homework. . . .

"Half-blood," Riddle bit out with some difficulty, and he looked away.

Ginny wondered if this was a mistake. Would she be going too far, if she kept on asking? Margot had told her Riddle got tetchy when his background was brought up, but it was too late to back out now. Ginny needed to know if he had some inkling of his heritage, and if Riddle was going to force his company on her, she might as well make use of the time and gather information.

"So you're like me, then," said Ginny, with cheerfulness she didn't feel. "Wizard on the mum's side, yeah?"

"Yes."

How did you know? she almost asked. No, too obvious.

"Did you always know?" she tried instead.

"About magic?" said Riddle calmly. "No. Your uncle was the one who told me."

"I mean, about your —" mum's side was too personal, blood sounded like something Malfoy would say, "parents?"

Ginny tried not to cringe. Parents was too general and, she knew, too much of a sore spot for Riddle, from what she remembered of Tom.

A beat passed and then —

"No," said Riddle curtly, his lips pressed in a hard line. "I didn't."

Abort. She needed to abort.

A terrible stab of dread and panic surged up inside her chest. Acting on impulse, Ginny did the first thing she could think of — she grabbed her bag, opened it, and shoved it under his nose.

"Jelly slug?" she said. "But not all of them, mind. I'm pretty sure I only bribed you with half."

Riddle's eyebrows rose, his gaze flitting from Ginny to her smuggled bag of jelly slugs. She supposed she must have done something right, because the shadow on his face was gone as quickly as it came, as if he was suddenly remembering to put on his mask.

"Thank you," said Riddle politely, but he made no move to touch the offered sweets.

Silence fell as they returned to their books. Though Ginny set herself to focusing on her work, she was uncomfortably aware of Riddle sitting across from her, and she found herself stuck on the same page of her book, on the same sentence, for what seemed like ages. She tried to shove the unease out of her mind, and she made a show of flipping pages and writing nonsense on scraps of parchment, as she avoided Riddle's eyes and thought of an endless loop of Quidditch games in the Burrow.

A few more minutes went by. A quarter of an hour passed. Then half an hour. At last, Riddle excused himself — something about seeing to prefect duties before lunch — and left, all the while smiling that bland, polite smile. Ginny waved goodbye and watched him go, and she heaved a sigh of relief when he was out of sight.

Alone with her thoughts, the unease crept upon her again. Ginny tried not to wonder if she had been wrong in asking Riddle about his past, if she had made a target of herself by provoking him. She could only hope that he saw her now as some annoying, vapid girl with too many questions — and maybe he would finally, finally leave her alone.


Ginny returned to her room with the usual bone-deep tiredness that came after the end of her Occlumency lessons. It had gone about as well as it always did, with Ginny trying and failing to shield her mind completely, and Dumbledore insisting that she was improving. But whatever comfort she might have gotten from Dumbledore's assurances, were offset by her news.

"This is upsetting," Dumbledore had said, when she had told him of the conversation between Black and Malfoy, "but not unsurprising. Even with Tom's skills, he would never have been able to acquire as much followers as he has on magical talent alone."

"You think that's why Lestrange and the others — you think that's why they're following him?" Ginny had asked. "Because he's claiming to be the Heir of Slytherin?"

"I believe so," Dumbledore said sombrely. "I'm sure you've noticed by now, Ginny, that most Slytherins are unable to overlook a wizard's Muggle background — not without what they believe is sufficient cause to do so."

Ginny felt dread creep up her spine. If Riddle knew about being Slytherin's descendant, then. . . .

"So he knows. He knows about the Chamber."

"It's likely he does, but we have no way of knowing for certain until we open it ourselves."

"Or Riddle sets the basilisk loose."

Dumbledore looked thoughtful. "Why do you suppose Tom, in your time, chose to launch those attacks?"

"Because he wants to kill Muggle-borns?" she said tentatively. "That's always been his reason."

"But what urged him to do it, at the time and moment he did? What was the catalyst? Think, Ginny — from what you've seen of your housemates, from what you know of Abraxas Malfoy and Alphard Black, and the future of their families . . . what do you think may have pushed Tom over the edge?"

Ginny thought back on the conversation she had overheard — what Black had said, Malfoy's reactions. . . . It seemed strange to think that they could be so dismissive of Riddle now, when their families in the future would be Voldemort's most fanatic supporters. . . .

"Malfoy doesn't believe Riddle," said Ginny slowly. "He doesn't think Riddle is Slytherin's heir, and I reckon the other pure-bloods don't either . . . so Riddle's going to prove it. . . . He's going to attack Muggle-borns to prove that he's a proper Slytherin."

"Very good," said Dumbledore approvingly. "For now, of course, these are only guesses, but it isn't improbable to say this may have been his motivation. Now, can you think of any measure Tom could have taken to back his claims, the first time he tried to convince your housemates?"

This time, Ginny didn't even have to think of the answer. "Parseltongue."

Dumbledore nodded. "Again, this is only guesswork, but I believe that Tom revealed his abilities as a Parselmouth to a chosen few. Perhaps they are those whose loyalty he wishes to strengthen, or perhaps those that he wants to sway to his side — we don't know. What we do know is that he has kept it a secret from most."

"How do you know?"

"With how rumours abound among students, the whole school would have known about a Parselmouth in their midst, if Tom had shared his abilities outside his most loyal. In any case, we know that he intends to prove his heritage through the attacks, and once he does —"

"He gets Malfoy's support," said Ginny bleakly, "and then he'll have everyone in Slytherin following him."

"I wouldn't say everyone," said Dumbledore. "Surely there are those who won't be so easily swayed by a show of power."

"Maybe." Ginny thought of Margot — her resignation at being Muggle-born, and the bitterness simmering below the surface. "But everyone standing by Riddle now — they're the Slytherin outcasts. If Malfoy starts following him, I don't think there'll be anyone left."

"Don't underestimate them, Ginny," said Dumbledore. "There are more important things than power, and even those who value ambition can learn to see that."

But not enough of them will, she thought. If there were, Riddle would never have grown to become as formidable as he did.

"So what does this mean?" asked Ginny. "What do we do?"

"You won't like it," Dumbledore said, with a hint of amusement. "But for now, we can do nothing but wait."

While Ginny had understood, it still irked her. She had been doing nothing but wait — there was little she could do, without a way to open the Chamber herself, and now that she knew for certain that Tom knew he was the Heir of Slytherin. . . .

Ginny collapsed on her bed, feeling helpless as her mind wandered.

She still didn't understand Black. It was clear that Black believed Riddle, and yet he didn't seem to want to support Riddle at all. If anything, he was warning Malfoy, almost as if he was afraid of Riddle. . . . But why would claims of being Slytherin's heir terrify him so much? Did Black know how dangerous Riddle could be?

And who else did, if any? Were there others privy to Riddle's true nature, as Black seemed to? And who knew how many others, at this point, believed Riddle's claims?

Dumbledore was right. It was likely that Tom already knew about the Chamber. What hope did she have now, of destroying the basilisk before the attacks, when she had no way of opening that godforsaken place?

Everything that had happened because of the Chamber's opening — the students that were attacked, Myrtle Warren's death, Hagrid's expulsion — it would all be because of Riddle's misguided attempt to prove his worth. Because of his bloody ego.

The sound of laughter meandered in, jolting Ginny out of her thoughts. Margot and her roommates had entered the room, and they all sat together in the bed closest to the door, engrossed in conversation.

"Ginny!" said Margot, grinning, breaking away from the group when she saw Ginny sit up. "Where were you? I haven't seen you since yesterday."

"I was out in the pitch," said Ginny. It wasn't entirely a lie — she did go out to fly listlessly out in the pitch, unable to properly concentrate after Riddle left the library.

Briseis Burke perked up at that. Ginny remembered her vaguely from Potions, as the one who had giggled over her argument with Black.

"Flying?" Burke said. At Ginny's nod, she grinned, her teeth white against her dark skin. "Do you play Quidditch?"

"Chaser," said Ginny.

Margot wrinkled her nose. "Oh, Quidditch again. Everyone's obsessed with Quidditch."

"You're just jealous because you've never ridden a broom," said Odette Travers. Next to her, Wendy Crockett giggled.

Burke rolled her eyes at them.

"Brilliant," she said to Ginny. "So am I. You should try out next Saturday. Have you met the cap — um. . . . I mean, you have but — uh — I'm sure Abraxas has forgiven and forgotten by now. He'll give you a fair shot."

Ginny couldn't tell if she was being sincere or not. Burke and the others reminded her too much of the girls in her year who called Luna 'Loony' and stole her things, with all their simpering giggles and too-wide smiles.

"Sure," she said dully.

"Have dinner with us," said Crockett. "I don't think I've seen you during mealtimes. I bet you've got loads of stories about — er," she paused and exchanged slightly panicked looks with Travers. "Ireland, was it? Your last school?"

Ginny snorted. "Yeah. Ireland."

Crockett and Travers glanced at each other again, uncertain.

"Well," said Burke, clearing her throat and turning to her friends. "I heard from Peggy that Barbara saw Lucretia's snogging that Hufflepuff last night. Can you believe it? Lucretia!"

"Oh, but he's not so bad, I don't think," said Travers. "He is Head Boy."

"But still! A Hufflepuff — he's below her, honestly."

Margot winced, but the other girls were oblivious. They chattered away as they slowly filed out of the room, and Ginny felt her temper flare as she watched them go.

"What's wrong with Hufflepuff?" Ginny asked Margot, who was staring at the doorway with an embarrassed grimace.

"They're not Slytherin," Margot said, smiling apologetically. She moved towards the door. "You coming? You can tell us all about" — the corner of her mouth twitched up in amusement — "Ireland, if you want."

Again, Dumbledore's words came to mind, as if imploring Ginny to give them a chance. He didn't use those words exactly, but that was the gist of it.

She should to try, shouldn't she? She should at least give them the benefit of the doubt, despite the instinctive twinge of dislike she felt around them. And it wasn't like she could hide away forever, if they were going to be sharing a room for two more years.

Friends. You still know how to make those, don't you?

With a hesitant smile, Ginny followed Margot out of the room.


The week seemed to pass by like a blur, now that Ginny wasn't trudging to classes and going day by day with only herself for company.

Her roommates weren't so bad, once she got used to them, and they tried to include her in their conversations when they could. It was easy to feel left out, but she didn't blame them; it reminded her of her first-year with her Gryffindor roommates.

Her roommates then had become such fast friends that, as much as they tried to include Ginny, she couldn't break through the tight-knit friendship they had already formed. So she had sought friends elsewhere — Gryffindors in the years above and below her, classmates from other Houses, people who wouldn't recognize her as the quiet Weasley girl with the diary.

It was the same with Margot, Ginny realized. While Margot got along well enough with the other girls, she struck Ginny as someone who was used to being on the outside of their jokes. But when they walked along the corridors or met other students in the hallways, Margot was always smiling or waving at someone, people she would introduce to Ginny as fellow prefects or someone from her unofficial study group with Riddle.

Still, there was an easy friendship about the four girls — five, now that Ginny was here. Ginny wasn't a seamless addition to the group, but they were friends in ways that made her feel normal, like she hadn't felt in so long. In the way they talked and giggled over small, silly things, when the lights were out and the bedcurtains were drawn.

They complained about schoolwork and copied each other's homework. They gossiped and giggled over celebrities and cute boys and whichever couples were featured through the grapevine. They talked about Riddle too, in that same breathless, tittering voice.

"You fancy him!" Wendy shrieked one night, while Margot hid behind her Ancient Runes homework.

"I do not!" said Margot, reddening slightly.

"But you're always with him," giggled Odette. "You're always together in class, you're always talking to each other, and" — she waggled her eyebrows — "you have those nightly prefect patrols together —" she quickly caught the pillow before it could hit her face, cackling.

"Maybe he fancies you," Briseis chimed in.

Ginny nearly choked on air. Margot looked horrified.

"Oooooh!" said Wendy, beaming, warming up to the idea. "I bet he does! He's always asking about you, and he doesn't talk to any other girl —"

"He talks to plenty of people," said Margot.

"Not like he does with you."

"But he does with —" Margot began, glancing in Ginny's direction, but whatever she meant to say was lost amid all the teasing and laughter.

Ginny could see why. While Margot was always with Ginny when they were gossiping with their roommates or eating meals in the Great Hall, Margot would leave them to go to Riddle's side each time they had a class with him. Without fail, she would go to Riddle's table and together they would do whatever assigned work they had with quick efficiency, partnering up when they could and competing to earn the most points when they couldn't.

Though Ginny had noticed it before, she hadn't realized how well they worked together, how they were — by all appearances — friends. Good friends, even. It was only now that she was starting to see the details — how they checked each other's work during Charms, how they bounced ideas off of each other during Defence Against the Dark Arts, how at ease Riddle seemed when Margot was giving him pointers during Transfiguration.

Ginny had known, too, that Riddle was popular, that he had his own posse that followed him around everywhere he went, like a flock of sheep following their shepherd. But it hadn't sunk in until she saw how people gravitated towards him in the hallways, greeting him and making small talk. How friendly he seemed to everyone, exchanging pleasantries between classes and cracking jokes that made them laugh. He never seemed to approach anyone — everyone approached him, and when he spoke, they listened.

Even her roommates appeared to be friends with him. Each time they saw Riddle, the girls made a point of saying hi and making conversation, before the teacher arrived or some other student whisked Riddle's attention away. Often it was Margot, who would ask him about homework or some extra research. Other times it was one of his proto-Death Eaters — Lestrange was one of them now, and Ginny couldn't help but notice the way Black's expression seemed to darken when he saw them. And still others, it was —

Well, it was Ginny herself, though she certainly never tried to approach him.

It didn't matter that Ginny kept quiet. No matter who Riddle was talking to — whether it was Briseis, Wendy, Odette, or even Margot — he asked his not-questions, all the while trying to catch her eye until eventually her roommates noticed and tried to rope her in. Once, during Herbology, he had even gone so far as to approach her before Margot and the other girls could.

"I never did get those jelly slugs," he said. "I hope it's not too late to ask for them?"

Ginny had been so flustered that she could only gape at him — because what did he even mean by that? Was he making a joke about the jelly slugs she had offered that day in the library? Or was he referencing their previous conversations, when she had refused to answer him until he asked her bluntly?

She caught Black looking at her then, his gaze unreadable, and he only looked away when the professor arrived.

Black hadn't spoken to her since their last Potions class, not even during Muggle Studies, where they were the only two Slytherins in the room. But sometimes she would see him glancing at her, the way Riddle so often did. She didn't know if it meant that Black knew she had heard his argument with Malfoy, or if he had been doing it before and she had been too oblivious, too focused on Riddle to notice.

It made her uneasy, knowing she had another pair of eyes to watch out for. She consoled herself with the thought that Black didn't seem to want anything from her — he never said hi, never smiled, only looked. Maybe that was simply something he did, looking and observing. After all, he knew about Riddle — somehow — and preferred to act like Riddle didn't exist, even as his family and Malfoy and all the other elitist prats taunted Riddle and called him names.

When Friday came, Ginny entered the Potions classroom with some trepidation. With Margot off to Riddle's table and Briseis, Odette, and Wendy on their own, the only available seat was the one at the back of the room, where Ginny had sat a week before.

And where Black was already sitting, looking as morose and petulant as last time.

Ginny glanced at the table at the front. Raoul Lestrange and a boy she recognized as Mulciber, another one of Riddle's hangers-on, were talking amiably, heads bent together as they laughed, oblivious to Black's mulish glare.

"I would ask you if you mind," said Black as Ginny sat down, "but neither of us have a choice."

She arched her brows. "So you're talking to me now?"

"Why? Miss me?"

She made a face. "Don't flatter yourself, Black."

"Well, unless you've got something to confess," he said, and Ginny kept her expression carefully blank, "then I don't see why we need to talk to each other."

And that was that.

The lesson went on much the same as last time, with Slughorn enthusiastically going about his lecture and Ginny and Black too bored to pay him any attention. The potion of the day wasn't going to be made by pairs, which meant that neither she nor Black had any reason to interact.

At the end of the lesson, her roommates quickly bid her goodbye and left for their next class. Before Ginny could run after them — Margot was still talking to Riddle, and no way was Ginny going to get caught with him again — Slughorn had waddled to her table.

"Ah, Ginny!" he boomed genially, twiddling the ends of his walrus moustache and puffing out his enormous belly. "I was hoping to invite you for a spot of supper tonight. We're going to be having a little party, just a few of your classmates and some charming friends of mine from the Ministry — Ignatius Tuft, very nice fellow. Currently the Head of the Department of Security, I'm sure you've heard of him — and, of course, Alphard, you're always welcome to our get-togethers. I trust I'll be seeing the two of you tonight?"

Slughorn finished with a little bow towards Black, who returned it with a pained looking smile.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, sir," said Black.

"Excellent! And you, Ginny, I can count on you to come?"

"I don't think I can make it, Professor," said Ginny, putting on an apologetic frown. "I promised Professor Dumbledore I'll be having supper with him tonight."

"Oh dear, oh dear," said Slughorn, his face falling comically. "That's a shame, but — well, now, I suppose I could have a word with Albus and explain the situation. I'm sure I'll be able to persuade him to let you come. He understands, of course, how important it is to make friends outside of Hogwarts, in times like this. Yes, I'll see you both later! Oh — McLaggen! Just the man I was hoping to see. . . ."

He bustled away to the front, where a pair of Gryffindors were still packing away their potion-making kit.

Black grimaced once Slughorn was out of earshot.

"Lovely," he muttered under his breath. He turned to Ginny and said, "Guess I'll be seeing you tonight, Smith. Try not to hex anyone this time."

He was out of the door before Ginny could make a proper retort.

"Please tell me you're coming tonight," said Margot as they left the room. Ginny noticed Riddle falling into step next to Margot, and she did her best not to swear.

"I don't know if he'll be able to persuade Uncle," said Ginny.

"But it'll be fun!" assured Margot, in a high, imploring tone. "Please? I don't want to go on my own and — Tom, you're coming too aren't you?"

"I could hardly say no, could I?" said Riddle.

"Like you wanted to," snorted Margot. She turned to Ginny. "Tom here hasn't missed a single party since he got invited."

"I don't see why I have to come," said Ginny with a disgruntled huff.

"Because Margot hasn't missed a single party either and she doesn't intend to start now," Riddle explained, with that simpering smile Ginny hated so much. "It's not the most exciting way to spend the evening, but it will be a lot more tolerable if you came."

Margot nodded enthusiastically, but Ginny refused to be moved.

"I thought it was supposed to be fun?" said Ginny archly.

"It is," said Margot.

"When the guests smuggle alcohol," deadpanned Riddle.

Margot elbowed Riddle in the side, rolling her eyes. "At least think about it?"

Ginny gave a half-hearted shrug. "Uncle's got the final say."

It wasn't a definite yes, but Margot beamed anyway, and left for her next class after a quick hug and a promise to help Ginny with her robes.

Ginny glanced at Riddle out of the corner of her eye, resigned. A dinner with the Slug Club and another awkward conversation with Riddle was not how she wanted to end her week, but here she was again.

"Slughorn's parties aren't so bad," said Riddle as they made their way to Kettleburn's class. "Not a lot of people are lucky enough to be invited."

"Why does Margot want me to come then?" Ginny asked, a bit churlishly. "You've survived them before — I'm sure she can handle it again."

Riddle's answering smile oozed charisma, and Ginny's hand itched to hex it off.

"Well," he started, as if considering what to say, "it's all about who you're with. It's only fun when you're spending it with the right company."

She threw him a withering look. "Brown-nosing doesn't fit my definition of fun."

"That doesn't mean you're not the right company."

In a vague, out-of-body-experience sort of way, Ginny supposed she could appreciate how ironic this all was. To survive a near-death experience at eleven, to live through a bloody war, only to be flirted at by a future warmongering, egotistic overlord. But she was in no mood to appreciate irony — she just wanted one day where she didn't have to deal with Riddle and his attempts to invade her mind. Once was enough, and it wasn't an experience she cared to repeat.

"Hmm," said Ginny flatly. "Uncle's not gonna say yes, anyway. So my company, right or not, is going to be missed."