11 September 1942 — 12 September 1942
"What do you mean I have to go?"
"Exactly what it sounds like, Ginny."
"But what about practice?" implored Ginny. "My Occlumency still needs some work, and I'd rather do that than go to Slughorn's club."
"Professor Slughorn," Dumbledore corrected gently. "And if I recall correctly, we scheduled your lessons on the weekends, not Friday evenings."
"There's nothing wrong with practicing an extra hour or two."
Fawkes, who had been slumbering happily on his perch behind Ginny's seat, gave a soft squawk, sounding distinctly disapproving. Ginny threw him an apologetic look, before turning her attention back to Dumbledore, who hummed noncommittally as he continued marking papers.
"There is, if you're using it to turn down a wonderful opportunity," said Dumbledore, casting her a stern look over the top of his reading glasses. "Horace's intentions with his club may not be wholly altruistic, but it can help you build roots, make connections — things that may be helpful in the future."
Ginny tried to hide her wince. She knew Dumbledore meant nothing by it, but it hurt, still, to be reminded of what was in store for her future, however vague the concept seemed — that she was expected to take her N.E.W.T.s, graduate, work, and build a life here, as if this was where she had always belonged.
"You did say you wanted to be a professional Quidditch player, didn't you?" said Dumbledore, with an encouraging smile. "I'm certain Horace will be happy to introduce you to people in the field."
Ginny shook her head, trying to brush aside the pang of loneliness that swept over her. "Seems silly now, with everything going on."
"The war won't last forever," he said kindly. "And neither will your mission. There is a life for you outside of Hogwarts, and it is never too early to build it."
She snorted. "Is that what Professor Slughorn said to persuade you, sir?"
"He didn't need to persuade me much, once I informed him of my real plans for the evening."
Ginny's gaze darted away, embarrassed. "Ah."
"I don't appreciate being used as an excuse," said Dumbledore sternly, but his eyes were crinkling with amusement behind his glasses. It reminded Ginny of how her father looked when he reprimanded her, while trying and failing to hide his mirth at her antics.
"I'll warn you next time, Professor," she said, grinning.
Dumbledore chuckled softly. "It's still your choice to go, Ginny. I won't convince you to come if you don't want to."
Ginny perked up. "Really?"
"But I'm afraid the excuse you gave Horace has been disproved."
Ginny deflated.
"He doesn't have to know," she protested weakly.
"As I said, I already have plans."
"Important ones, sir? The sort that can't be changed for family?"
Dumbledore's smile turned rueful. "It does involve family, of a sort."
"Oh" was all Ginny could say, a hot, prickly feeling of shame rushing through her as she realized.
Grindelwald. So focused was Ginny on the war she knew, that she often forgot about the ones being fought now. It wasn't a topic Dumbledore liked to discuss, and he rarely ever broached it with her, but when he did, Ginny was always overcome with the feeling that she ought to do something — to offer her help, to tell him what she knew, to inform him of what little she had read about Grindelwald's war.
But the first time Ginny tried, Dumbledore had only shook his head, reminded her of how much she already had on her plate, and told her to focus on her mission.
"It's not your fight," he had told her then, and while a part of Ginny had wanted to protest, a larger part of her agreed.
Because what could she offer him in his fight, when she could barely handle her own? What could she give him, when all she knew were the bare basics of a war that people in her time had already forgotten? To her, Grindelwald and his war were just footnotes in history — but what comfort would that give to the man who was living in the thick of it, for whom history was the present?
"Sorry, Professor," said Ginny quietly.
"Quite all right," said Dumbledore, but there was a tightness around his mouth that wasn't there before. "Perhaps next time I should warn you as well."
"All right." She cleared her throat, a bit awkwardly, and stood. "Good luck, Professor."
"You as well, Ginny."
Her hand on the doorknob, Ginny hesitated. She had to say something, at least, even if he didn't want to involve her.
"And, er, Professor?" she said tentatively. "You're right. It won't last forever."
Fawkes let out a low, soft, musical cry, and the tense set of Dumbledore's smile seemed to ease.
"Have fun, Ginny," he said.
She grimaced. "I won't."
The twinkle in his eyes was back, and again, Ginny was oddly reminded of her father, when she used to grumble about doing her chores, and he would smile and tell her to run along and listen to your mother.
"Try," said Dumbledore.
"No promises," huffed Ginny, and Dumbledore's soft chuckle followed her as she left his office.
"Is all this really necessary?"
Odette, who was in the middle of modifying one of Ginny's robes, looked over her shoulder. Ginny tried not to recoil at the progress Odette had made so far — her once plain black robes were now a bright mustard yellow with frills.
"Unless you've got more presentable robes?" said Odette, eyebrow arched. When Ginny shook her head, Odette went back to her work with an imperious air. "Thought so. As if you could just go wearing your school robes to a party."
Ginny had been planning to. There were times when she had worn her school robes for Slughorn's dinners, when she had been too lazy to be bothered to put on anything else. Slughorn never seemed to mind then, and she didn't think he would mind too much now.
"No one's going to care about what I wear," said Ginny.
"It's your first Slug Club meeting," said Briseis, who was charming Margot's hair in an elaborate looking updo. "First impressions matter."
Wendy nodded eagerly. "You're so lucky. Slughorn always invites the best names. Oh, I've always wanted to go."
"Let's swap," said Ginny seriously, but Wendy only giggled and went about curling Ginny's hair.
When Ginny and Margot had finished with their makeup, Odette had finally settled on turning Ginny's robes into a short-sleeved red dress that fell past her knees, its colour matching her hair and lipstick. Margot was wearing a floor-length green dress and was struggling to find a pair of shoes to match when Wendy turned to Odette.
"What about you?" asked Wendy, oblivious to the sharp look Briseis cast in her direction. "Aren't you coming?"
"I wasn't invited," said Odette curtly.
"What? But he —" Wendy finally caught Briseis' meaningful look, and threw a quick, nervous glance at Ginny before falling silent.
"I guess dear Sluggy was looking to impress someone else," said Odette, her tone thick with disdain.
"He'll change his mind next time," said Margot reassuringly.
"Maybe," sniffed Odette.
"You should come," said Ginny slowly. "He won't notice."
"Oh, believe me, he will," said Odette, not quite meeting Ginny's gaze. "If you're one of his favourites. . . ."
"Well, I'm glad you're not going," said Briseis as she settled on the bed next to Odette. "You promised you'd help me with my Potions essay, remember? Can't do that when you're sucking up to Slughorn."
Odette relaxed, the tension in her shoulders easing as she turned to Briseis with a small, grateful smile.
Once Ginny and Margot had gathered their things, they made their way to Slughorn's office. It wasn't long before they heard the sounds of laughter, music, and loud conversation, growing louder with every step they took.
"This is going to make me sound like a prat," said Ginny as they neared the party, "but did Odette not get invited because of me?"
"It's not your fault," assured Margot. "Odette's right. Slughorn just wants to impress someone new."
"Who?"
Margot looked away. "She usually gets invited because of her uncle, Torquil Travers. Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He — er — doesn't really get along well with Professor Dumbledore."
"So it is my fault."
"You do sound like a prat," said Margot, with a playful nudge with her elbow. "But honestly? Odette's uncle hasn't been popular recently, what with how he's been handling the whole business with Grindelwald."
Ginny hesitated. "Does it bother Odette, not being invited?"
"It happens," said Margot softly. "She understands. Not everyone's important all the time — all because of old men and politics." She smiled, in a way Ginny supposed was meant to be reassuring. "Nothing to do with us."
But Ginny felt like it did. In a way, they were being used as pawns for Slughorn's personal gain . . . harmless personal gain, maybe, but still. She couldn't help but wonder how many people had to bow and scrape to get Slughorn's goodwill, and the connections that came with it.
When they finally reached Slughorn's office, Ginny was unsurprised to find it had been magically enlarged. The ceiling and walls had been draped with emerald and silver hangings, so that it looked as though they were all inside a vast tent. The room was bathed in the golden light cast by an elaborate chandelier dangling from the centre of the ceiling and the ornate lamps hanging along the walls.
But what did surprise Ginny was the dancing.
"I didn't know there'd be dancing," she said, awed. There hadn't been any during her time, not even during Slughorn's Christmas party. What had seemed like her roommates' needlessly complicated preparations, suddenly made more sense.
Margot gave her a puzzled look.
"There's always dancing," she laughed. "It wouldn't be much of a party without it."
"Ah, Ginny!" said a loud voice, and Slughorn appeared in front of them, a pleased grin stretching from ear to ear. "Come, come! I'd like you to meet a dear friend of mine."
There was no time to protest as Slughorn gripped Ginny's arm tightly and led her purposefully into the party. Ginny seized Margot's wrist and dragged her along.
"Ginny, and — oh, good, Margot, there you are — this lovely gentleman here is Eugène Canseliet, a very talented alchemist and dear friends with the famous Fulcanelli — oh, how is Fulcanelli these days? Doing well I hope?"
Canseliet, a skinny, balding man wearing wire-framed spectacles, turned to Slughorn with a bored look.
"I'm not at liberty to say," he said dully, with a slight French accent.
"Ah, yes, of course," said Slughorn, oblivious to Canseliet's tone. "Very secretive, these alchemists. But that is a part of the job, eh? Mr. Canseliet here is an apprentice to Fulcanelli, who is quite a legendary Unspeakable — and we know how prestigious that is."
Slughorn winked, and Margot took it as her cue. She grabbed Canseliet's hand and shook it enthusiastically.
"Margot Droope," she said, smiling winningly. "I'm a huge fan of your work — and Mr. Fulcanelli's too, of course."
Canseliet merely nodded. "Indeed."
"Your discovery of the uses of Projection Powder — and Mr. Fulcanelli's Dwellings of the Philosophers — were very riveting," gushed Margot. "The alchemical symbolism and Mr. Fulcanelli's lectures on Argot and Cant were fascinating, and I can't wait for his third book."
Ginny had no idea what was happening, but whatever it was Margot said seemed to impress Canseliet.
"You seem interested in the field," he said, looking her over with renewed interest.
"Oh, very much, sir. I hope to take it as a class next year, if it will be offered as an elective."
Slughorn looked pleased by the turn of events, as Margot and Canseliet talked in greater detail of Fulcanelli — whoever he was — and his work.
"Go on, Ginny," said Slughorn encouragingly. "Introduce yourself. I daresay Mr. Canseliet will be interested to hear your thoughts. After all, he's a big fan of your uncle."
"Er," said Ginny. "I don't think —"
But Canseliet had heard Slughorn, and he turned to Ginny curiously. "And who is your uncle?"
"This is Ginny Smith, Albus' niece," said Slughorn.
"Dumbledore's niece?" said Canseliet.
"That's me," said Ginny weakly. She glanced at Margot, who was now frowning.
"How is your uncle doing?" said Canseliet. His manner changed, suddenly boastful and ingratiating. "Still working with Flamel? We're quite close, you know. Brilliant man. We worked on —"
Slughorn bustled away as Ginny uncomfortably endured Canseliet's stories of his encounters with Dumbledore, his admiration of Dumbledore's accomplishments, his previous work with Dumbledore, and if Ginny planned on continuing Dumbledore's work.
"I haven't thought that far ahead," said Ginny. "I'm afraid I'm not particularly interested in Alchemy."
"Ah, what a shame," said Canseliet. "You could have kept it in the family, you know. Imagine — an apprenticeship with Nicolas Flamel! Would be quite something, eh? What about you, dear?"
Margot beamed as Canseliet turned to her, and Ginny took the opportunity to slink away. She made her way over to the other side of the room, until she found an empty seat in a corner, a safe distance away from the throng of guests. With Slughorn nowhere in sight, Ginny breathed a sigh of relief and watched the crowd.
Most of the students in the party were Slytherins, if not all of them. Ginny thought it was a bit odd. Back then, Slughorn — or, well, future Slughorn — invited people from all Houses to his parties, but maybe he simply didn't know enough students then, to have a get-together with only one House. Or maybe he intentionally invited only Slytherins today, because there wasn't enough space in the room to accommodate more guests.
Margot was now talking with a short, portly woman in expensive robes, who looked charmed by whatever it was Margot was saying. Canseliet was elsewhere, in the middle of a conversation with Black and Malfoy. Malfoy was gesturing animatedly, and Canseliet was seemingly engrossed. Black, Ginny noticed, barely spoke, but he was staring at Malfoy with a small, fond smile on his lips. Without his usual sneer, Black looked more boyish, and she could see some resemblance with his future nephew, like a younger, more handsome Sirius.
Riddle's posse, she noticed, had been invited too. Some were on the dance floor, mingling about with the guests, while others, like Lestrange, hovered around the refreshments table, in deep conversation. Ginny didn't recognize who Lestrange was talking to — some sixth or seventh-years, maybe. Riddle himself wasn't with them. He was —
Coming her way. Bloody, buggering hell.
Riddle was wearing a set of nice dress robes, modified to suit him but didn't quite fit as well as custom-made ones would have. Ginny wondered where he got them from, if he'd bought them himself or if he had to bully one of his so-called friends to get it. Either way, it was good spellwork, and Riddle had done it so well that no one would have noticed they had been altered at all. She did, though, because she used to do the same to her own clothes; she had long since learned that second-hand robes never seemed to fit as well, no matter how many charms was put on them.
"You came," said Riddle. He was carrying two goblets of pumpkin juice, and he handed one to her as he sat down. "I suppose Professor Dumbledore was persuaded?"
"Apparently, Slughorn made some convincing arguments," said Ginny wryly.
"I can't say I'm sorry to hear that," he said, with his usual smile. "Having fun?"
"Depends. Has anyone spiked the drinks yet?"
Riddle lifted his drink. "Care to find out?"
"Cheers," she said, and chinked her goblet against his.
It wasn't spiked. Unfortunately.
Riddle caught her frowning, and his mouth quirked upwards. "You seem disappointed."
"I don't know if I can handle the next few hours sober."
"Professor Slughorn saves the alcohol for special occasions," he said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "But there have been a couple of times where someone managed to sneak in firewhisky right under his nose."
"He didn't notice at all?"
"He never does. You should see him during his Christmas parties."
Ginny did see. She and Dean had spent the evening giggling at the drunken guests. Near the tail-end of the party, almost every one of the overage guests had been hilariously, blindingly sloshed, so Ginny couldn't be blamed for laughing out loud at the memory.
Riddle's expression shifted then, and something in his crooked smile and dark eyes, the bright fierce hunger on his face, reminded her of —
The mirth died in her throat, the drink turning dry and bitter on her tongue.
"I thought you'd be out there making your rounds," said Ginny with forced lightness, her eyes darting away. "Meeting everyone, I mean."
"I've met some of them," said Riddle, nodding. "Professor Slughorn has been kind enough to introduce me."
And you've, what, decided to rest your feet? Got tired of being fawned over?
Ginny forced her shoulders to relax, tilting her head to one side. "Slughorn must like to show you off, being the best in our year and all," she said, letting a slow smile lift one corner of her mouth.
He preened at her words, before he dipped his head with a meek smile. "He likes to introduce all of his students. I'm sure he must have introduced you to some of his friends."
"Just one," she said in a sweet tone that made her want to slap herself. God, it was so disgusting. "You've probably met more, haven't you? I bet you're popular at these things."
He shrugged, in a show of staged humility. "It's not my first time attending."
"They must be missing your company then."
A dark look flickered over his face, there and then gone again.
"Not as much as you might think," he chuckled, the smile returning as if it had never left. "Besides, I think I prefer the company here."
Ginny barely bit back a groan of annoyance. If he wasn't going to be deterred by a subtle dismissal. . . .
"Well, you're going to get bored in five minutes, because I'm not moving. I'm staying here until this whole thing ends."
Riddle arched his eyebrows. "You're going to stay here the entire evening? You're not going to — how did you put it? Make your rounds?"
"Nope," she said. "I'm staying right here."
He cast a bemused look at her. Surely he wasn't going to stay here with her, making the dreariest of small talk, when he could be out there meeting new acquaintances, forging connections. . . .
Margot emerged from the crowd, with bright eyes and rosy cheeks. She took an empty chair and dragged it so she was sitting in front of them.
"Don't tell me you've been sitting here all night," she said.
"I won't then," said Ginny.
"You should talk to the guests, Ginny. That's the point of all this, anyway."
"I thought the point was free dinner."
Riddle snorted behind his drink. Ginny could have sworn he was smirking into his goblet.
"Oh, hush," said Margot severely. "You know perfectly well what all this is for."
"Yeah, yeah," said Ginny, rolling her eyes. "Connections. I've been told it's a wonderful opportunity."
"You don't sound too happy about it," said Riddle, looking at her with polite interest.
Ginny glanced at him. Stupid not-questions again.
Margot was staring curiously at her too, so Ginny answered, in a noncommittal tone, "I don't like being fawned over because of Uncle. And I don't like owing favours either."
"So you've been hiding here?" said Margot, sounding disappointed. "You haven't talked to anyone?"
"I talked to Canseliet," Ginny pointed out.
"He talked at you. That doesn't count."
"Canseliet?" echoed Riddle. "The Canseliet? Fulcanelli's apprentice?"
Margot nodded. "Personally, I think he's a bit full of himself, and he absolutely won't stop droning on about Fulcanelli. Kept hinting at — oh, I don't even know, some new big discovery of his, but then Malfoy showed up —"
"Did he say what it was?" said Riddle, leaning forward.
"Top secret Unspeakable business," said Margot, with a pinched expression. "Malfoy stole him away before I could ask — big surprise there, right? I bet he's blabbed about it to Malfoy by now."
"Who is he, anyway?" asked Ginny. "I don't think I've ever heard of him."
"As far as anyone knows, he's the only one who's got any contact with Fulcanelli." At Ginny's confused look, Margot added, "Fulcanelli's this really reclusive alchemist. Very mysterious. They say he's actually immortal now, but" — she shrugged — "no one knows for sure. Except Canseliet."
"This research you mentioned," Riddle began, his elbows propped on his knees, "did Canseliet say —"
The first notes of a fast, lively song began to play, and Margot gasped excitedly. Riddle straightened in his seat, his forehead furrowed, and then the disgruntled look was gone in a heartbeat.
"Oh, I love this song!" beamed Margot. "C'mon, let's dance!"
"I don't know how," said Ginny, and she gestured to her heels. "I'll probably just trip on these stupid things."
Margot pouted and turned to Riddle. "Tom?"
"You know I don't dance, Margot," said Riddle with an apologetic look.
Margot sighed. "One of these days, you will. Party poopers."
Ginny laughed, and she shooed Margot off to the dance floor. "Go on! Have fun!"
It didn't take long for Margot to find a partner, a tall, thin man who had been talking to Slughorn earlier in the evening. Margot seemed to stumble through the song, the steps too fast for her to follow, but she was grinning widely, her face alight with laughter.
The last time Ginny had been at a dance like this. . . . Her mind wandered a long way from Slughorn's party, back to Bill and Fleur's wedding. It seemed so long ago now. She had thought it had been silly then, to have a wedding considering the war happening around them.
"Maybe that's the best reason to have it," Harry had said. "In spite of what's going on."
Ginny shook the thought away. Clear your mind. . . . Quidditch, tea with Dumbledore, homework. . . .
"Everything all right?" Riddle asked, his voice low, trying to catch her eye.
"Just fine," she said mildly. "Margot's having fun, isn't she? Is it always like this?"
He glanced sideways at her. "Always. It is a party."
"I thought it would just be a dinner."
"It's the first of a new school year. Professor Slughorn wouldn't have let it pass without some fanfare."
"A lot of fanfare." Ginny eyed the decorations, all green and silver. "I guess I kind of see now why Margot wanted to come."
"Something about these parties makes you believe you belong."
"Believe?" she repeated, giving him a quick sidelong glance. "Not, like, actually belong?"
His lips twisted into a half-smile. "As I said, it depends on the company."
It took a few seconds for it to hit her. Then realization dawned, and Ginny understood with sudden clarity, why Margot and Riddle were so eager to come to these things. Slughorn, for all his bumbling and good humour, was still someone who valued connections — and there was little Muggle-borns could offer, in that regard. Especially in times like these, with a madman determined to kill them off.
And with how Slughorn's favour seemed to shift so easily. . . . It made sense, that they would want to secure their place in Slughorn's club. With Ginny apparently poised to be one of the new favourites, of course Margot would want her there.
It seemed a lot to Ginny, these unspoken power plays. And for what — a sense of acceptance? Some semblance of belonging?
"What about you?" Ginny found herself asking. "Do you believe you belong?"
Riddle tilted his head, his gaze calculating, and it seemed to her that he was thinking quickly about her question.
"Sometimes," he said simply. A neutral answer. She couldn't tell if it was an honest one. "You?"
Sometimes, she wanted to quip, but a familiar twinge of sadness curled around her heart, squeezing tight. Inexplicably, what came out was, "I don't know if I want to, even if I could."
Riddle blinked, the only sign of his surprise. Before he could ask further, Slughorn was in front of them, and Ginny had never been more grateful for his sudden appearance.
"Tom, my boy!" boomed Slughorn. "There you are! There's someone you should meet — ah, Ginny, what are you sitting around here for? You ought to be dancing! There are plenty of gentlemen here who will be all too happy to — why, what about Mr. Black over there, eh? You get along quite well, don't you? Perhaps I should —"
Riddle cleared his throat discreetly. Slughorn startled, remembering why he was there.
"Oh, yes, Tom, I nearly forgot! Come, let's run along now. Mustn't keep Mr. Tuft waiting —"
Riddle followed Slughorn, with a sheepish-looking smile and a shrug that seemed to say what can you do, and they disappeared into the crowd. Almost as soon as Riddle had gone, Black dropped into his vacant seat.
"Smith," he said with a nod.
"Black," said Ginny, surprised to see him without the usual sulky look he wore around her. "Shouldn't you be mingling?"
"Shouldn't you?"
"Don't feel like it."
"There you have it then."
Silence. Ginny had no desire to break it, not when he was the one who approached her. She endured it for what must have been a minute — though it felt like it could have gone on for longer, with how Black didn't even so much as look at her — when Lucretia Black, elegant and statuesque in her deep blue dress robes, passed by them with a man on her arm.
"Brooding again, cousin?" she said brightly.
"Sod off," said Black, without heat.
"Son, you'd better scoot your girl around the dance floor, or she's going to find someone who can," said the bushy-eyebrowed gentleman with a wink. They left, Lucretia's tinkling laugh following behind.
Black wrinkled his nose, but he stood and offered Ginny his hand. "You heard the man."
Ginny stared. "Are you serious?"
"Turns out I have to be, if I don't want to be deprived of your charming company."
Ah, there was that sarcasm. She hadn't missed that at all.
"I'd rather not, thanks," said Ginny coolly.
Black sighed impatiently. Unlike Riddle who oozed casualness, Black seemed to be pushing the words out through gritted teeth. "We got off on the wrong foot, and I — may have said some things that were uncalled for. Consider this my way of making up for it. A do-over, if you like."
It didn't sound like an apology, and it didn't seem like one would be forthcoming either.
Ginny looked at him with narrowed eyes, and though Black shifted uncomfortably, he held her gaze, his hand steady. He didn't seem like he wanted to dance with anyone, much less her, but she got the impression that he wasn't leaving anytime soon either. Not until he finally spat out whatever reason he had for approaching her in the first place.
Curiosity won over. Ginny took Black's hand and let herself be dragged out to the dance floor. It was just her luck that the moment they were in the centre of the room, the swing piece faded into the air, replaced by a slow song. Black seemed mortified to hear it, but he steeled himself and placed his hands on her waist, arms extended as far as he could make it. Ginny wasn't sure if she was more offended or amused.
"I'm not going to bite, you know," she said, linking her hands behind his neck.
"No, but you do have a habit of hexing people," he said dryly.
They fell quiet again. Well . . . what now?
"You look nice," said Black reluctantly, after a few moments of awkward silence.
"Gee, how nice of you to say."
"Aren't you going to compliment me back?"
That startled a laugh out of her. "Find someone else to feed your ego, Black."
"I would, but Abraxas has been busy all night." Black nodded towards Malfoy, who was with Riddle, Slughorn, and a stern-looking wizard with a thin handlebar moustache.
The man could only be Ignatius Tuft, the Ministry man Slughorn had been boasting about the day before. Tuft was talking to the small group, but he was turned slightly to Malfoy, so that it looked like he was addressing Malfoy specifically. Ginny could see Malfoy listening with rapt attention and Slughorn delightedly nodding along, but with Riddle's back to her, she couldn't see Riddle's face.
"So, what's the deal with you and Riddle?" said Black conversationally, sounding more relaxed.
Ginny made a face. "There's no deal with me and Riddle."
"Sure about that?" He raised his eyebrows. "Riddle doesn't make a habit of talking to people, you know."
"Of course he does. He talks to everyone."
"They talk to him, not the other way around. Except with you." Though his expression remained the same, his eyes bore into Ginny, and she felt a certain disquiet. "Maybe I shouldn't be surprised no one's seen it yet. No one seems to pay attention to you, do they?"
Ginny scoffed. "Not to sound full of myself, but I'm going to have to disagree with you there."
Black shook his head. "They pay attention to Dumbledore. They pay attention to what you are to him — they're not paying attention to you."
She almost froze on the spot, and she fought to keep her features bland and impassive. "Whatever you say."
"I think they're missing the obvious. They're too caught up with your uncle, and they're too caught up with Saint Riddle, to see you. You're probably the best in our year and no one sees it."
"Me?" she said in a dismissive tone, even as dread flooded her at the certainty of his words. "I've been here for two weeks — I doubt I'm the best in our year."
"You're always the first to get the spells right."
"That's Riddle."
"Riddle does it first, sure, but you get it on the first try. Second, if the teacher's looking. You only ever do the spells correctly when everyone else has."
He was right.
He was right and how the hell does he know.
Ginny knew she got stared at a lot — it was expected, being the shiny new transfer student — but she didn't think anyone besides Riddle bothered to see past that. Even then, she was fairly confident Riddle didn't really, truly see through her facade. He was too focused on studying her, finding out about her past and connection with Dumbledore.
But Black? She didn't know what to make of him.
How long? Ginny wondered with mounting panic. How long had he been noticing her, without her even knowing?
"And I suppose you think you're above it all?" she said, in what she hoped was a calm, offhanded voice. "For noticing what no one has?"
"I like to think so," said Black, smirking. "You don't pay attention either."
Ginny met his eyes, trying not to betray a flicker of surprise. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you haven't noticed Riddle's been glaring daggers at us since we started dancing."
As if Black had timed it perfectly, the dance called for a turn, and Ginny caught sight of Riddle staring at them with a sharp, drawn look.
"So," said Black when she was facing him again, outright smiling now, eyes filled with laughter, "still think there's nothing between you?"
"Positive," said Ginny easily. She refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. "He probably just hates that he's stuck with Malfoy."
Black's amusement faded instantly.
"Slughorn's a moron," he said darkly.
"Why do you say that?"
"Tuft runs in the same circle as Abraxas' family." Black's expression turned grim, a frown creasing his face. "Slughorn should have known better than to introduce Riddle. It's going to blow up in their faces, just you wait."
Despite herself, Ginny felt a swell of pity for Riddle, and a vague sense of unease she couldn't shake off. "You think something's going to happen?"
"I think there's going to be a show," snorted Black. "Remember what I told you? Don't hex anyone."
Ginny glared, nettled by his tone. "What makes you think I will?"
"You've got a track record."
"It happened once," she snapped.
"It could happen again. You've got a temper on you — try to keep that in check."
"What — ?"
A bell rang, loud and sudden, and resounded over the room. Every person on the dance floor moved away at once, and Black slipped away amid the excitement. When the centre of the room was empty, the refreshments table flew to the now vacant space and spun. The faster it went, the more it grew and expanded, until it was a large circular table, bearing heaping platters of foods and sweets that could rival a feast in the Great Hall.
"Hey, let's get a seat," said Margot's voice, right behind Ginny. "I'm starving."
Margot pulled her to the table, where Black was already sitting next to Malfoy.
When all the guests were seated at the table, Slughorn beamed and stood.
"Welcome, all! As always, I'm pleased you were able to come to our little get-together, each and every one of you, my old friends and my rising stars. Now, I know we're all famished, so I won't delay any longer. But first — a toast!"
Everyone raised a glass.
"Here's to the first of our little parties," said Slughorn. "And may I all see you again until our last!"
There were murmurs of agreements and laughter, as they toasted, took a drink, then dug in.
The table erupted in a buzz of conversation. Beside Ginny, Margot was being regaled by one of the guests with stories of his travels in Asia. On Ginny's other side was another of Slughorn's friends, who seemed to be in a deep discussion with Riddle, and she was clearly blinded by his charm. With everyone else occupied, Ginny gladly focused on her meal and tuned out the voices around her. She would have been happy to ignore them all for the rest of the evening, if she hadn't heard that word.
Ginny looked up sharply, eyeing each of the guests to see who had spoken.
"You've got to be kidding me," she said, throwing the man a filthy look.
Margot turned to her, wide-eyed.
"Ginny," she said warningly.
Too late. Ignatius Tuft had heard Ginny, and he whirled to face her.
"I beg your pardon?" he said, in a tone of high umbrage.
Everyone fell silent.
"All that stuff you're saying about Muggles," said Ginny, struggling to keep her tone even. "About Muggle-borns. Sounds like Grindelwald propaganda to me."
There was a ripple of murmurs around the table, as Tuft's face turned red with anger.
"That is absurd!" he sputtered. "I — I don't support Grindelwald at all!"
"Sorry," said Ginny, not feeling very sorry. "But I don't see how calling Muggles and Muggle-borns lesser because they come from a world without magic — a world with its own advances — isn't Grindelward propaganda."
"Grindelwald wants to eradicate Mudbloods," said Tuft pompously. "I am merely pointing out a fact about them."
Ginny felt anger bubbling in the pit of her stomach. "It's not a fact! After everything the Muggles have accomplished —"
"What accomplishments?" barked Tuft. "Killing their own kind? The wars they've had? If you ask me, Grindelwald ought to end his crusade now — all these Muggles are going to kill each other anyway, and we won't have to worry about them any longer."
Her burning temper rose yet another pitch. "No one asked you."
Tuft's face flooded with angry colour.
"Watch your tone, girl," he glowered. "Just who do you think you are! Speaking to a Ministry official like —"
"Ignatius," hissed the woman next to Tuft, in a volume that was meant to be quiet, but was heard by all in the sudden silence. "She's Dumbledore's niece! You mustn't —"
"Dumbledore, you say?" Tuft snorted, loudly and dripping with derision. "Ah, that explains it. The bleeding heart must run in the family."
Margot stiffened and grabbed Ginny's elbow, as if trying to stop Ginny from getting to her feet.
"Don't," Margot warned quietly.
"A shame about your line," sneered Tuft. "Such powerful wizards — but weak. Weakened by the Muggle blood in you. It's turned you into cowards."
"We're not," Ginny bit out through clenched teeth. She was vaguely aware of Slughorn trying to diffuse the situation, but she wasn't listening to him — no one seemed to, as Tuft kept talking.
"Oh? They say your uncle is the only man who can defeat Grindelwald and end this war. But what is Dumbledore doing, hmm? Hiding behind Hogwarts' walls, too scared to face him —"
"Why don't you try and face him, sir, and let's see how you fare!" she retorted fiercely. "The Ministry has done fuck all to stop Grindelwald!"
There was a gasp, and Ginny fought the urge to roll her eyes. Typical. Of all the things to horrify them, it's the fucking swear word.
"We are doing what we can," stammered Tuft, turning radish-coloured again.
"You mean leaving Muggles to fend for themselves?" said Ginny scathingly. "Ignoring the massacres in Muggle cities? Pretending like they're not happening? What about the Muggle-borns caught up in the war? They —"
Low, mocking laughter.
Ginny turned slowly to Malfoy, blood boiling with fury. Black was gripping his shoulder, whispering vehemently, but Malfoy wasn't listening.
"I say leave them," said Malfoy, smirking cruelly. "It's not our fight. Mr. Tuft said it well: the war between the Muggles is a war of their own making. Why should we get involved?"
Ginny's hand inched closer to her wand.
"Not all of those deaths are because of the Muggle war," she said coldly. "Grindelwald uses it to cover his crimes."
"Can you prove that?" scoffed Malfoy. "People are dying every day, Smith — in our war and in theirs. Maybe it is the Muggle blood in you, caring about their war when we've got our own to deal with. Is that why your uncle refuses to fight?"
"I concur," said Tuft, glaring at Ginny. "Caring more about dirty blood than his own kind, and how quickly you defend him . . . shameful, simply shameful. . . ."
"We mustn't blame her though, Mr. Tuft," simpered Malfoy. "She's new to our world, you see. Still learning our ways."
"Ah, that explains it," said Tuft, and his face contorted in a look that was meant to be sympathetic. "Not your fault, dear, that you grew up in such dreadful conditions."
Don't hex him, don't hex him, don't hex him. . . .
"Of course," said Malfoy, nodding to Tuft with a mollifying smile. "They can't help it, that they grew up in such . . . conditions. Right, Riddle? You know all about that, don't you?"
There was a sharp intake of breath from Margot, as Ginny felt the blood drain out of her face.
Riddle turned to Malfoy, jaw clenched. Gone was his charming smile, and though his features were carefully blank, Ginny recognized the storm brewing in his eyes.
"Riddle," Tuft turned to him, and offered a kindly, patronizing smile. "Ah, you poor thing. You've come so far, at least, for someone with your deficiencies."
Riddle's gaze didn't falter. He kept his eyes fixed on Malfoy, his face still smoothly inscrutable. Next to him, his followers were looking at everything but the scene unfolding in front of them.
"Yes, and there's plenty of those deficiencies, isn't there?" said Malfoy loftily, brimming with condescension.
"Abraxas, stop," Black hissed, but Malfoy shrugged off the hand on his shoulder.
"But, with all due respect, Mr. Tuft," continued Malfoy, holding Riddle's gaze with an imperious sneer. "He hasn't come so far at all. He's still a Mudblood. He still lives in his Muggle orphanage, still carries his Muggle surname — and worst of all?"
"You shut your mouth, Malfoy," snarled Ginny.
"Still — no — bloodline."
Faster than anyone could react, Ginny was on her feet, wand pointed at Malfoy. "Oscausi."
At once, Malfoy's mouth was sealed shut.
"Bloody hell," said Black, drawing back as the guests around them came to life — some gasping, some staring with open-mouthed astonishment, and others muffling their laughter behind their hands.
Black quickly reversed the spell, and gripped Malfoy's shoulder again. "Abraxas, don't —"
But Malfoy had stood, his wand pointed at Ginny. "Stupefy!"
Ginny redirected the spell with a flick of her wand, and it hit the bowl of cream puffs at the centre of the table, causing it to explode.
And then all hell broke loose.
Suddenly everyone was on their feet, holding their wands, throwing hexes and jinxes at each other. Ginny kept her eye on Malfoy, blocking his spells and throwing her own, but she soon lost sight of him in the pandemonium. Before Ginny could go deeper in the rioting crowd, she felt a tugging at the sleeve of her robe. She turned, a hex ready on her lips.
"Let's go." It was Margot, holding her elbow and guiding her out of the room, head ducked to avoid the stray spells and food being thrown about.
The moment they were out of the room, they ran as fast as they could, heedless of the students loitering in the corridor, bumping shoulders with some and earning miffed shouts from others. They ran and ran until they reached an empty hallway and, out of breath, leaned against the wall as they tried to find their bearings.
"That —" panted Ginny, "doesn't normally happen, does it?"
Margot was bent over, hands on her knees. She looked up at Ginny with wide eyes, as if she couldn't believe what the hell she was staring at. "No."
Ginny stood straighter, trying to keep her breathing steady and even. "I had fun though. You were right about that."
Margot stared some more.
A beat. Two. Then they were doubling over again, their laughter echoing in the deserted hallway.
"You still want to go to the try-outs?" said Briseis, eyebrows shooting up to her hairline. "After you hexed the Quidditch captain? Again?"
"It wasn't a hex," said Ginny as she arranged the sheets and blankets on her bed. "It was a charm."
Briseis threw her a withering look.
"I'm still trying," sighed Ginny. "You said he'd give me a fair shot."
"That was before you hexed him for the seventh time —"
"Once. I hexed him once."
"Nuance."
Ginny huffed. "Look, I'm a great Chaser, okay? I'm not just saying that to be an arse — I'm bloody great at Quidditch and I want to play. If Malfoy's going to look at talent, he needs to let me try out."
"Quidditch isn't just about talent, Ginny," said Briseis reproachfully. "It's about teamwork. You need to get along with your teammates. And you? You're not getting along with Abraxas at all."
"Because he's a prat."
"You shouldn't have provoked him."
"I didn't provoke him. He was talking complete rubbish and needed to shut his mouth."
Briseis fixed her with a stern glare. "And you couldn't wait until after the party to give him a piece of your mind?"
"No," said Ginny blithely.
Briseis sighed. "Why didn't you stop her?" she said to Margot, who was at the foot of her already made bed, sitting cross-legged next to Wendy.
"I tried!" cried Margot. "I told her to stop!"
"You shouldn't have to tell me to stop," said Ginny. "No one should have been saying those things in the first place. You heard how terrible they were."
"But you shouldn't have let him get to you," said Margot earnestly. "He talks like that all the time. Almost everyone does."
Ginny whirled on her, incredulous. "And you just let them?"
Margot's face fell. She looked away as Odette, who had been sitting in front of her dresser and watching the conversation through her mirror, finally turned to face them.
"Okay, no more talking about Sluggy's party," said Odette as she set aside her comb, taking one last look at her curls. "Let's just go to — or you know what? Let's not go to the Great Hall for breakfast. We'll get something from the kitchens —"
"And why shouldn't we go to the Great Hall?" argued Ginny. "I'm not hiding from Malfoy."
"We're not hiding," said Margot in a placating tone. "We're just . . . waiting for the aftershocks to pass."
Ginny stared at each of her roommates in turn — at Margot's timid smile, Briseis' exasperated frown, Odette's impatient scowl, and Wendy's wide-eyed look.
"You can't be serious," said Ginny. "Are you all that afraid of Malfoy?"
"We're not scared of Malfoy, Ginny," said Wendy meekly, speaking up for the first time. "We're worried for you. You've got a target on your back now."
"From Malfoy?" Ginny scoffed. "I was never on his good side anyway."
Ridiculous, Ginny thought, to be scared of Malfoy. She had survived so much worse than that poncy tosser.
"Look," said Odette impatiently. "If Ginny wants to go to the Great Hall, let her. It's her funeral."
"Odette," whispered Wendy. "She doesn't know any better."
"She is right here," Ginny cut in, annoyed. "What don't I know?"
"C'mon, Ginny," said Margot, imploring. "Let's just go to the kitchens."
Ginny ground her jaw. "Fine," she grumbled.
They left their room and walked to the kitchens in silence. It was too early for there to be more than a handful of students out on a Saturday morning, but Margot, Wendy, and Odette breezed past them as if afraid someone would see them or catch their eye.
Or afraid to be seen next to me, Ginny thought as she watched her roommates walk briskly, a few feet ahead of her. Only Briseis kept a leisurely pace, walking beside Ginny.
"Are you really trying out?" Briseis asked again.
"Are you going to stop me?"
Brisies glanced at her with another withering look. "I don't think I could even if I tried. You really are Dumbledore's niece — too much Gryffindor in you. No offense."
"Was I supposed to be offended?"
"If you had any sense, yes," said Briseis, disgruntled. Scowling like that, she almost looked like Percy did when he'd catch Fred and George red-handed in one of their pranks.
The kitchens were empty when Ginny and her friends arrived, save for the house-elves who immediately dashed to their side to take their orders.
"Do you think Tom's going to come here?" asked Wendy, sounding concerned, once they had all sat down and received their food from the house-elves. "I mean, everything Abraxas said . . ."
Margot shook her head, frowning worriedly at her plate. "I hope he's all right. I can't imagine he'd want to go up there, after last night."
"Why wouldn't he?" said Odette as she stirred her coffee. "He's still got his friends, hasn't he? Nott, Mulciber, and all the rest."
Ginny couldn't help but scoff.
"Some friends they are," she said. "They didn't even try to defend him."
Margot looked away.
"They would have," said Wendy. "If they were anywhere else, they would have."
"So they only would if it's convenient?" said Ginny derisively. Not that she had expected anything less from a bunch of spineless Death Eaters.
"You shouldn't judge," sniffed Odette. "You don't get it."
"Explain it then," retorted Ginny, feeling her temper flare. "Because you're all acting like there's this big thing I should know about but I don't. Tell me! Tell me why it's such a big deal and why you're all so afraid of Malfoy."
"We're not!" snapped Odette.
"You're acting like it!"
"Breakfast!" Briseis cut in sharply. "We're eating breakfast. It's way too early to be arguing about Abraxas."
Ginny rounded on her, irritated at how calm she was. "Why do you call him that? Abraxas — like you're friends or something."
"Because we are, Ginny," said Briseis exasperatedly.
"How can you be friends with an arse like him? After what he said —"
"It's just how it is," said Wendy softly. "You don't understand."
Ginny threw her hands up in frustration. "There you go again! I know I don't understand — that's why I'm bloody asking! Why can't you all just tell me instead of tiptoeing around —"
"Because we can't," said Margot, speaking up at last, in an icy voice that stunned Ginny to silence. "There are people you can't cross, battles you can't fight. What happened last night is one of them. Maybe if it had happened in the common room or out in the field — then fine, fight him all you want. But yesterday? With all those people watching? People who could decide our future? We can't."
"So you just let Malfoy walk over you?" said Ginny in disbelief. "Because, what, some guy from the Ministry likes him and you still want to kiss up to that arsehole? After what he said about Muggle-borns? After what he said about Riddle?"
"You think Tom would have defended you, if it was the other way around? Defended me? He wouldn't, because he gets it. He knows this game, and he's not going to waste his time fighting a losing battle."
"I don't give a damn what Riddle does! That's not the problem here! The problem is you're letting bigots like Malfoy get away with —" Ginny stopped suddenly, as a dreadful thought came to mind. "Unless you actually agree with him."
"Of course not!" gasped Wendy, as Briseis and Odette glared at Ginny with pursed lips.
"Well, would you have defended Riddle?" said Ginny. "Or Margot?"
Wendy ducked her head, eyes falling back to her plate.
Margot's expression was as cold and hard as stone.
"No, they wouldn't," she said. "Because I don't expect them to. I don't want them to. And if it was them, I wouldn't have done anything either."
Anger and disappointment went through Ginny like an icy knife. "Friends defend each other. They protect each other."
"This is what protection looks like. You want to run headlong into duels, start useless fights, whatever — do that. But don't judge us if we don't because not all of us can. Some of us can't afford to."
Before Ginny could say anything else, Margot stood abruptly, dragging the chair with a loud, screeching sound, and stormed out of the room.
"Brilliant job, Ginny," drawled Odette, in the ringing silence. "You could have at least let her finish her coffee."
Ginny was too stunned to properly glare at her, gaping at Margot's now empty seat.
"Should we go after her?" asked Wendy worriedly.
Briseis shook her head. "Let her cool off first. We all need a time out, I think."
"Some of us more than others," sneered Odette.
"Not now," said Briseis, heaving another long-suffering sigh. She turned to Ginny. "You want to go to the try-outs? Fine. We'll do some warm-ups on the pitch before Abraxas gets there. Let's hope he'll see how good you are while we practice and change his mind."
"What?" said Ginny, surprised. "Now?"
"Yes," said Briseis, as she grabbed Ginny's wrist and tugged her to her feet. "You're right — there are some things we need to explain, if we want you to understand. Might as well do it now, because I don't think any of us are eating anything until this is over."
"Speak for yourself," muttered Odette.
Fun fact: Canseliet and Fulcanelli are, like Nicholas Flamel, real-life French alchemists. Fulcanelli has a reputation of being reclusive, to the point that no one knows his real identity or when he died.
As always, thank you so much for reading! If you got this far and want to see more, please consider leaving a comment and tell me what you think!
Next chapter, our characters deal with the aftermath of the disastrous dinner . . . but it's a toss-up. Whose POV do you want to see first — Ginny or Tom?
