12 September 1942 — 14 September 1942

Briseis was deep in thought as they headed down to the pitch. When they arrived, she made Ginny do some laps around the stadium as a warm-up, and they took turns snatching the Quaffle away from each other and lobbing it at the goalposts. They had been flying in lazy circles near the stands when Briseis finally asked, "Why did the Hat put you in Slytherin?"

A bit taken aback, Ginny shrugged. "Ambitiousness, I guess."

It might have been the truth, for all she knew. The Sorting Hat had insisted on putting her in Gryffindor, and it had taken a long while before she had persuaded it to place her elsewhere.

"You don't know what you're asking for, Weasley," the Hat had told her gruffly. "Slytherin is not where you belong."

"I don't belong anywhere anymore," she had replied obstinately, before threatening to burn it in Fiendfyre if it dared to put her in Gryffindor.

"Gryffindors can be ambitious," said Briseis. "So can Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. What makes Slytherin so different?"

"I don't know," said Ginny honestly.

"Because we're relentless. We do anything and everything to get what we want. Can you imagine the chaos, putting together everyone like that?"

Ginny tried, but the only chaos she witnessed in the past few days as a Slytherin were the ones she caused when she attacked Malfoy. Most Slytherins were simply too snobbish, carrying themselves with an aristocratic air that struck her as too old-fashioned. They probably thought getting into brawls was plebeian and below them.

"Define chaos," said Ginny. "You seem all right, for the most part."

"Exactly," said Briseis with a hard smile. "Because we've got a hierarchy that's keeping order."

Ginny made a face. "So a pecking order. Galleons keep people in line, is that it?"

"Money helps, but it's not that. That's not the hierarchy."

"Blood?"

"Blood and name — can't have one without the other. When you've got both, you're at the top. If you don't —"

"You just follow everything they say?" said Ginny sharply.

"Not all of us believe the same things they do, but they're the ones in charge."

She felt a stab of annoyance. "They're only in charge because you let them."

"It keeps the order," Briseis said grimly. "They have influence, Ginny. They have power."

"But the things they believe," protested Ginny, changing tactics, "all that prejudice and bias — can't you see how it's wrong?"

"Yes, but —"

"You said we're supposed to be relentless, but if we keep clinging onto biases that tossers like Malfoy believe in, we're closing ourselves off to so many possibilities. Who's to say what we could accomplish, if we're open to taking those roads?"

"We've managed this long, haven't we?" retorted Briseis.

"It can't last forever. One day, the world will move on and Slytherin will get left behind —"

Briseis heaved an irritated sigh. "What if we want to get left behind? You don't decide for us."

"Because I'm not in the top one percent?" said Ginny sarcastically.

"Because no one will listen to you," said Briseis firmly. "No sheep runs towards the wolf to stay alive."

"What do you want me to do then? You want me to run away? Hide?"

"I want you to compromise. You don't have to agree with Abraxas — you just have to not attack him."

"I can't let him get away with —"

"You have to," Briseis interrupted. "I told you: we're relentless. Ambition means making sacrifices, and sometimes that means tolerating people we dislike."

As if Slytherins know anything about tolerance, Ginny wanted to say, but held the words back with a grimace. She had argued enough with her friends already.

"You're lucky, you know," said Briseis. "You've got more leeway than most."

"Yeah," muttered Ginny. "Because of Uncle."

"You don't have the blood or the name, but you have family," said Briseis more sombrely. "But you can't keep attacking Abraxas and not expect him to retaliate. And you can't expect us to go after him with you. Especially not Margot."

"I didn't mean —"

"You implied it," she said sternly. "She doesn't have family like we do. She can't move against Abraxas."

Ginny huffed in exasperation.

"What about you?" she asked. She didn't mean for it to sound as accusatory as it did, but she did wonder; she knew well enough to recognize Burke as a pure-blood name.

"I don't have his influence. Neither does Odette. The most we can do is maybe keep him off your back for a while — and that's a big maybe."

"He'll listen to you?"

Briseis rolled her eyes. "We are friends, Ginny, even if he does act like a prat sometimes."

By the time Ginny and Briseis got off their brooms, it seemed half of Slytherin House had filled the stands, and there were many onlookers who weren't from Slytherin at all.

"Nervous?" said Briseis, when she saw Ginny staring at the crowd.

"Not really."

Briseis laughed. "That's the spirit."

"Are there always this many people?"

She shook her head. "There's probably a betting pool. Five Galleons says they're here to see Abraxas get back at you."

"Ten says it's the other way around," said a bored voice, and Black appeared at Briseis' side, looking more at ease than when Ginny had seen him last. "I reckon they're all here to see your legendary skills for themselves."

"Which one?" said Ginny, trying to sound as blithe as he was.

"It better be just Quidditch," muttered Briseis.

"If Malfoy shuts his trap."

"No promises there," said Black, smiling, and Ginny felt a wary foreboding. Thinking of their last conversation, she couldn't help but wonder what he was seeing now, and if it had anything to do with her at all — it had to, though Ginny didn't know what it was, let alone why. . . .

"Speaking of Abraxas," said Briseis, "how's he doing? I don't think I saw him this morning."

Black's smile widened. It almost looked teasing. "Are you asking as his concerned friend or hers?"

"Can't it be both?"

Black snorted. "Abraxas is in one of his moods again, but I wouldn't worry. It's got less to do with her and more to do with last night."

"What happened?"

He shrugged flippantly, though his words sounded slightly brittle. "He fought with Raoul."

Briseis' face fell.

"I'm sorry," she said, and reached out to squeeze his hand.

To Ginny's surprise, Black returned it and gave Briseis the same soft look she had seen at the party.

"It is what it is," said Black, blasé again. "So, you want to take that bet?"

Briseis chuckled. "I know better than to bet against you."

"Good luck," Black said to Ginny, then he loped with an easy grace, hands in his pockets, towards the throng of eager onlookers.

"He's not a bad guy, Alphard," said Briseis. "I know he didn't make a good first impression, but he's harmless. Keeps Abraxas in check too."

"I didn't know you were close," said Ginny.

Briseis laughed a softly sarcastic laugh. "Pure-bloods love their play dates."

A small horde of hopefuls had turned up, numbering less than there would have been at a Gryffindor try-out. Knowing how much image mattered to these people, Ginny thought it made sense — if blood and name meant as much as it did, then those without wouldn't bother. Less potential talent, but less competition too.

It also meant fewer people to hide behind, and Ginny's glaring red hair stood out so starkly that the Slytherin team spotted her the moment they arrived on the pitch.

"Get off the field," glowered Malfoy, marching towards her. "I'm not letting a fucking maniac on the team."

"Give her a chance," said Briseis immediately, stepping in front of Ginny so fast she hadn't even had time to open her mouth.

Malfoy's eyes widened. "Are you mad? If you think I'm going to let her try out —"

"You've got nothing to lose if you do. We need someone with good reflexes, and you know she has those."

There was a titter of laughter from the team, and Malfoy silenced them with a glare.

"I don't like wasting my time," he said, scowling.

"You're wasting time now," said Briseis calmly.

Silence hung between them as they stared at each other, not quite glaring, but neither willing to look away. Finally, Malfoy dragged his gaze over to Ginny, narrowed eyes tracing her small frame. His scowl deepened, but he said nothing to her as he turned to the scattered mass of people in the pitch.

"If there's anyone here not from Slytherin," roared Malfoy, "leave now!"

There was a pause as some people left the pitch, grumbling and laughing. Briseis breathed a small smile of relief and wished Ginny good luck before sprinting towards the team.

Chaser try-outs took nearly two hours. By the end of it, Ginny's limbs felt sore and strands of her hair had been set free from her braid. No one had expected her to outperform the other contenders, not even Briseis, and Ginny felt their stares as she touched the ground. The aspiring Chasers were looking at her in shock, and one had even thrown his broom to the ground and stalked off the pitch, swearing resentfully under his breath.

But despite knowing she did better than the others, all Ginny could think about was how it wasn't good enough. She might have scored more goals than anyone had expected, but it was less than her usual standard. To her, it felt pathetic and didn't hold a candle to her previous games.

"You're being too hard on yourself," she could imagine Dumbledore saying, with the same look her father wore when he was trying to be reassuring. "You did very well, all things considered."

Maybe it was true, but it didn't help. Ginny felt pathetic still. Weaker, even. That was to be expected, wasn't it? She hadn't played Quidditch in so long, not since before the Carrows. It felt like years ago, almost like a lifetime had passed. With a terrible pang, she realized that it might as well be, because the last time she could remember being happy on a broom was when Harry had —

God, what was she doing?

Why was she here?

From the moment Ginny had learned who the Quidditch captain was, she knew making the team was a longshot. She had wanted to try anyway, determined to show that prat Malfoy and his friends just what she was made of. Looking at them now, the team huddled together and arguing among themselves, a sneering Malfoy at their centre and an apologetic Briseis next to him, Ginny knew she never stood a chance.

Why did she ever think she did? Why did she even bother? As if these pure-bloods could have ever accepted her into the team — Ginny, who would always be an outsider. Who was she kidding, thinking that was ever a possibility? Thinking she could relive her glory days as Gryffindor Chaser, as if all that came after never happened?

It was over, those days of carefree sunlit afternoons, and she had been foolish to think otherwise.

Ginny tossed the Quaffle to Malfoy. Her eyes trained on his scowling face, she did the same curtsy she had given on the first day, keeping her head unbowed.

"Thank you for your consideration," she said caustically, then stormed back to the castle.


"Now, Ginny," said Slughorn. He leaned forward and placed his steepled fingers on the desk before him. "I'm sure you know why you're here."

"Yes, Professor."

Ginny listened to his lecture in silence, reminding herself that she needed to look as remorseful and contrite as possible, even with Slughorn's digressions and name-dropping. She did her best not to interrupt him, and she didn't object to the number of detentions he gave her. If anything, she was surprised she didn't get more than a week's worth, knowing how much she must have embarrassed him at his own party.

Slughorn was stern and serious as he spoke, but still had the same jovial air. It was a good sign. All she had to do now was bite her tongue, wait for it to be over, and —

Briseis' words had stayed with her since she left the try-outs, and Ginny was reminded of them again as Slughorn kept talking. A thought was irking her like a pebble stuck in a boot, and she had to get it out of the way.

"What about Malfoy?"

Slughorn blinked, startled at her interruption, and looked at her blankly.

"He's going to be punished too, isn't he?" Ginny clarified.

"Ah, yes — well," he stammered. "Of course, I intend to talk with Abraxas about yesterday's events. We can't let a thing like that happen again, can we?"

"So he's going to get detention?" said Ginny, rather more aggressively than she had intended. "Professor?" she added in an attempt to sound more polite.

"As I said," Slughorn said with dignity, "I shall talk to him about the what was said, and we'll ensure we won't have a repeat of the incident."

It wasn't a yes.

"How?" she said, growing increasingly annoyed. "I don't think the lesson's going to stick if all he's getting is a talking to."

His moustache bristled. "Abraxas is a clever boy, if somewhat . . . misguided. I trust he'll see reason."

"What about Tuft? Are you going to talk to him too?"

"Mr. Tuft is a highly respected official of the Ministry. I'm sure he didn't mean —"

"He meant it!" said Ginny, her voice rising. "They both did!"

Slughorn gaped. "Now see here, Ginny —"

"No wonder Malfoy's as bad as he is," she said hotly. "You're letting him get away with no more than a slap on the wrist!"

A flush crept up Slughorn's face.

"Miss Smith," he said irritably. "You should take care not to raise your voice at your professor."

"Do you even know what's going on in your own House?" she snapped. "This stupid rivalry between Riddle and Malfoy —"

"Miss Smith, please —"

"It's just getting worse and worse —"

"Sit down —"

"And you're encouraging it!"

"That is enough!"

Casting a hasty charm on the door, he stood up, nostrils wide and mouth very thin, and she stood too.

"I understand your anger," he said, practically trembling with rage, his face turning redder still, "but that is not the appropriate way to speak to your teacher."

But Ginny wasn't daunted. She felt so angry she didn't care what happened next. "What Malfoy did wasn't appropriate either, but because he's your rising star, he's not being punished for it."

"Miss Smith," Slughorn tried again, struggling to keep his tone level. "You're new to Hogwarts and that is why I've given you certain allowances, but that doesn't mean I will tolerate it when you speak out of turn."

"Malfoy spoke out of turn! Riddle didn't ask to have Muggle blood — he didn't deserve to be humiliated for it!"

"On that we are in agreement but —"

"Then why is Malfoy getting off scot-free?"

There was a gentle knock on the door. Slughorn turned to it with obvious relief, and Riddle entered the room. Before Ginny knew what was happening, Slughorn had left with no more than a pointed glare in her direction; suddenly she was alone again with Riddle, who was strangely quiet and withdrawn.

As he supervised her detention, Riddle made no attempt to strike up conversation as he usually did. His silence bothered her more than she thought it would, and when she could stand it no longer, she said, "So I guess I'm not going to any more parties after all."

"I suppose not," was all he said. He didn't even muster a smile.

Staring at his profile, it occurred to Ginny that this was the first she had seen of him since the party. She had known he would be angry, but she hadn't expected him to show it like this, with a quiet fury that seemed to have caught her in its orbit.

Had he heard her argument with Slughorn? Was that why? Did he have too little time to compose himself, so he didn't bother at all?

"When you were outside, did you hear — what Slughorn was saying, I —"

The words were out of her mouth when she remembered Slughorn had charmed the door. Riddle couldn't have heard, unless he had been outside before Slughorn had cast the spell. . . . And if he had, he would have tried to pry it out of her the moment they were alone. Mad or not, he wouldn't have been able to resist asking his clipped not-questions, not when the whole thing had been about him.

"Never mind," Ginny said, grimacing. Chancing a glance at him, she found him staring at her.

Ah, fuck. She was giving him ideas now. . . .

Her suspicions were confirmed when she felt his mind brush against hers. She swatted him away with memories of Slughorn's party, and he withdrew like a bothersome fly. There. Maybe that will —

"Ginny," said Riddle suddenly. "You don't like me very much, do you?"

Goddammit.

"What makes you say that?" she said with controlled calm.

"You call me Riddle."

Bloody hell. Had she always been so transparent? Of all things to give her away, it had to be that.

"I do," said Ginny, because there was no point in denying it. "It is your name."

"You're on a first name basis with Margot."

"I am."

"And yet you don't do the same with Black."

"Neither do you."

"We don't exactly get along," Riddle said levelly. "I'm sure you've noticed."

He was getting irritated with her, she could tell, and she tried to suppress her amusement. "Well, there's your answer. But, truth be told, I don't really know what you're asking . . . if you are asking."

Ginny thought it would get him to drop the topic, but it wasn't enough to deter him.

"Why don't you call me Tom?" he asked — actually asked.

The question so surprised her that she answered without thinking. "Bad memories."

"Oh?"

"I knew a Tom once."

Riddle stared, and he seemed as stunned as she was. "What happened to him?"

Ginny looked into the face that had haunted her for so long, dark eyes glinting with the same hunger, the same bloody curiosity. She didn't know what it was that made her say it — what wild recklessness possessed her to say, "He died."

He backed off after that, but she could still feel his gaze boring into her, burning with the need to look into her mind.

Ginny couldn't blame him. She understood his need to know, especially about her argument with Slughorn. She was the idiot who brought it up, after all.

More than that, she understood his anger. She could see now, if only a little, why he ended up the way he did. Who wouldn't be angry, after last night's mess? Who wouldn't crave power, after having so little of it? And what better way to assert it, than to have those who bullied and taunted him at his beck and call?

That didn't make it right — nothing could have made Voldemort right. Yet despite all that, Ginny knew she would have done it again, even if it was for Riddle. She would have done it for Hermione, who never asked to have Muggle blood either. She would have done it for Ron or any of her brothers, who never asked to grow up poor and be given second-hand everything.

She would have done it for Harry, who never asked for his fame and the expectations that came with it, who never wanted the jeers and pain he got for something he couldn't control.

It was the thought of Harry that made Ginny linger when her detention ended.

"It won't kill you to just ask me," she said. "Whatever it is that's eating you, you can ask instead of trying to get inside my head."

She didn't know, really, why she felt the need to say it. Knowing the git, Riddle had probably already guessed what it was that went down between her and Slughorn, but he deserved to know for sure. If it had been Harry, whose whole life had been defined by those around him, from stupid prophecies to even stupider rumours, she would want him to have something true, something more definite than his conjectures.

If nothing else, a bit of honesty might stop Riddle's attempts at invading her memories.

Riddle thought it over. He was probably judging her at the same time, but he was considering it. When he finally asked, she answered him truthfully.

"We were arguing about you. But I reckon you already knew that."

"Why?"

"I don't agree with how he's handling —" she hesitated. The wrong word could anger him, and she didn't know if Malfoy's name or any mention of the party would be one of them. "What happened," she said at last.

Riddle smiled tightly. She knew then that she had said the wrong thing, and she knew better than to push her luck. When he bid her a curt goodbye, a clear dismissal if there ever was one, she left without another word.


Dumbledore was disappointed. Ginny knew he would be, and she had prepared herself for it when she went inside his office. She was only half-ashamed of her earlier outburst, and she didn't at all regret her actions during yesterday's dinner, but none of that lessened the heaviness that settled in the pit of her stomach.

"When you suggested," he said quietly, "that the best way to fulfil our plans was for you to be placed in Slytherin, if possible, I didn't protest. I thought you understood what it would entail, as we both agreed it was imperative you avoid unnecessary attention. We both agreed we can't afford to have people looking at you or into your past too closely."

Ginny flinched. "We did, but. . . ."

"I understand why you spoke out against what was clear bigotry, but I had hoped that you knew how to weigh the cost of your actions."

Dumbledore had not raised his voice, he didn't even sound angry, but Ginny would have preferred him to yell; this cold disappointment was worse than anything.

"I do," she said, her stomach full of hot, bubbling guilt. "I know, I just — I couldn't just sit there and do nothing."

"You didn't have to do nothing, Ginny. There was more than one course of action to take. There often is, if we take the time to look for it."

Silence fell between them again, the most uncomfortable silence Ginny had ever experienced with Dumbledore; it seemed to go on and on, punctuated only by Fawkes' soft squawks as he geared up for a restful sleep. Ginny felt strangely diminished, as though she had shrunk a little since she had entered the room.

"I'm sorry," she said earnestly. "I wasn't thinking. I should've — I should have known better than to risk everything."

"Your heart is in the right place," said Dumbledore, more kindly, "but you can't lose sight of what we've set out to do. You will have to choose, Ginny. Always weigh the means against the ends."

Ginny understood — really, she did — but it was hard to put into action. She had never been one for hesitation or second-guessing, but now it was expected of her — and she was starting to see why. It wasn't just because she was in this time, in this unfamiliar Hogwarts, but because she was in Slytherin, where everyone looked and judged, where worth was based on blood and name.

Had she been wrong, in asking for Slytherin? Had the Hat made a mistake, in agreeing to her request?

But it couldn't have. The Hat must have seen something in her that convinced it to go along with her plan. . . .

Compromise, that was what Briseis had told her. It was what Dumbledore wanted from Ginny too.

But it felt wrong. . . . How could she make concessions for people who were so hateful, so biased, that their prejudice started wars? How could she look at these people in the eye and meet them halfway, when too many died because for their intolerance?

But then, how could she blend in and accomplish anything, if she didn't try? These people were Slytherins — they weren't raised the way her parents raised her, and they didn't act the way she had been taught to act. What she thought was noble, they called foolish. What she considered cowardice, they saw as protection.

To them, ambition meant something different.

Maybe bravery did too.


Dumbledore's words still weighed heavily on her mind when Ginny returned to the common room. She found Margot sitting near Ginny's favourite spot by the window, nose deep in what looked like a Muggle novel.

"Hi," said Ginny tentatively.

Margot nearly jumped, her glasses slipping down her nose.

"Hi," she mumbled. "I thought you'd be upstairs."

"Were you avoiding me?"

"No," she said quickly. "I mean . . . maybe. Sort of. I — I was studying, actually. With Leonard and the others — er, I don't know if you remember them."

Ginny could vaguely recall the assortment of schoolmates Margot had introduced to her in passing. "Your study group?"

"Yeah," said Margot. "I thought Tom would be with them but —" She started fidgeting with the pages of her book, looking troubled. "I reckon he wants to be alone."

"Look," said Ginny carefully, "I'm sorry, about the stuff I said this morning. You were right. What I did was reckless, and I wasn't thinking and I . . . I shouldn't have attacked Malfoy. I shouldn't have gotten mad at you for trying to get me out of trouble."

"You were right too," said Margot softly, after a long moment. "The things Tuft said — what Malfoy said — I've had years to get used to them. I shouldn't have expected you to get it just like that. I know you were just trying to defend Tom and me."

Ginny glanced at her uncertainly. "So . . . we're okay?"

"Yeah, we're okay."

Margot grinned nervously at her, and Ginny grinned back.

"I promise I won't do anything stupid like that again," said Ginny.

"That's a big promise."

"I'll try not to," she amended. "And if it does happen again, I promise I won't drag you down with me."

Margot tried to look serious, but she was struggling to stifle her smile. "I wish you wouldn't have to drag yourself down at all."

"I'll get there — maybe. Don't underestimate little baby steps."

Margot laughed. "How was try-outs?"

Ginny told her, and Margot listened with interest, despite understanding little of the manoeuvres and impressive feats she shared. Ginny returned the favour when Margot excitedly told her about her afternoon, which she had spent working on an Arithmancy project with Leonard Wright. It was moments like this that Ginny couldn't help but be reminded of Hermione.

Margot had just finished with her story when she noticed Riddle enter the common room. When she approached him, a brief flash of annoyance appeared on his face before he replaced it with his trademark smile. Ginny didn't need to listen in to know what he and Margot were talking about; it was obvious enough in Margot's guilty looks and nervous shuffling.

Their whispered conversation didn't last long before Riddle stepped away from Margot and headed towards his dormitory. As he did, he glanced in Ginny's direction, and she saw the odd look that flickered over his face, the puzzled confusion that sometimes slipped past his false smiles. For the briefest of moments, with his face was caught in the soft lights hanging overhead, there was something almost familiar in the faint crease between his brows and the slight frown on his lips. . . .

Ginny buried the thought, quickly and ruthlessly.

"So," she said to Margot, "Leonard's the one in my Muggle Studies class, yeah? I know you've introduced me, but I keep mixing their names up."

Margot, who had been staring after Riddle with a worried look, turned to Ginny with a smile too wide to be convincing. "That's Edward. You haven't talked to him yet, have you? I don't think he'll leave you alone when you do — he never shuts up about Quidditch. . . ."

They went up to their room, talking about other meaningless things, and neither mentioned Riddle again.


"Thank you for your consideration," Ginny said with a bitter smile, as everyone watched with bated breath, waiting to see what she would do next. . . .

They were waiting to see what she would do next, Ginny realized as Slughorn dragged her to Canseliet. They wanted whatever prestige they could get from her name, from her uncle. They couldn't see that Margot was right there, and she had so much more to offer than they knew. . . .

Margot was laughing as she danced, her steps a second too late. Ginny was struck by a sad nostalgia at the sight. It was at once alien and familiar. . . .

Bill's eyes were filled with tears of joy as he danced with Fleur, his smile so wide that he looked every bit as handsome as he did before his scars. . . .

Ginny couldn't help but wonder if this would leave a scar. It was a stupid thought — what did it matter if there was a scar? No one would see her anyway, because she was —

Ginny hoped no one had seen them dance. Poor Neville was embarrassed enough as it was, but she was quick to assure him that it was fine, that she didn't care that he had stepped on her again. . . .

She didn't care that she had stepped on it again, these puddles of water that were soaking her shoes and robes. Because Tom didn't care. All he cared about was —

All she cared about was scoring that goal. She wasn't going to let Malfoy ruin Quidditch for her. She was going to win —

Tom was going to win. She tried to struggle against his hold, but they were in front of the sink now, and her hand was moving, reaching out to touch the small engraving —

Ginny reached out to touch the small engraving Luna had made on their shared desk. She was much too bored to pay attention to their professor, who was droning on and on about something or another. She wasn't entirely sure, she didn't understand it —

She didn't understand it, what she was saying, but it felt familiar. She had said it before, because Tom did, and he was inside her head, and it was all her fault. People had gotten hurt and it was because of her and now the Chamber was opening and Tom was going to kill her and no, no, no, how could she have let this happen, she shouldn't have trusted him, she shouldn't have, and no, please, Tom, don't

The room stretched out at the corners, then shrank back in again before finally blurring all over — and suddenly Ginny was back in Dumbledore's office, breathing hard as though she had been running. Dumbledore was peering at her with worry, and even Fawkes' intelligent eyes were filled with concern.

"I think that's enough for the day," said Dumbledore.

Ginny shook her head. "I wasn't able to keep you out."

"It was a remarkable effort nonetheless," he said gently. "You're getting better."

"You always say that."

"It's always true. You're able to shield your thoughts and surface memories, and that's no easy feat."

She sighed, trying to keep her frustration in check. "Then why does it feel like I'm getting worse?"

"I think you know why."

Ginny did, and she shifted guiltily in her seat. She knew she could keep Riddle out, as long as he didn't push too much or delve too deeply into her mind. It was the memories she tried her hardest to bury that she couldn't conceal. Each time she caught a glimpse of them, panic and fear would take over, and she would lose all control.

"I've been meaning to ask you," said Dumbledore softly. "That is to say, I've noticed you seem to be struggling with certain memories . . . and with one in particular. . . ."

A cold wave of dread swept over her.

"I thought you were going to ask about try-outs," she tried to joke.

"Do you want to talk about the try-outs?"

"Not really."

But she didn't want to talk about the Chamber either.

Dumbledore was looking at her with kind, troubled eyes behind his glasses, and she knew he wanted to say something important, but didn't know how. It would be a painful conversation, whatever way he said it. There was no sugarcoating anything when it came to the Chamber.

Before Dumbledore could say anything, they heard a loud thud from outside the room. They exchanged glances and went out to check — after all, with secrets like hers, they couldn't be too careful.

They found a boy leaning against the wall as if in pain, his shoulders and legs shaking, a heavy tome splayed on the ground. Dumbledore didn't hesitate to approach him, and Ginny didn't realize it was Riddle until he got to his feet.

"Tom here seemed to have a dizzy spell," said Dumbledore at her questioning look. "I thought it best to invite him in."

Riddle did look peaky, though the colour had returned to his face by the time he agreed to Dumbledore's invitation. He seemed determined to pretend nothing was wrong, and Dumbledore was equally determined not to.

Could he have been feeling ill this whole time? Was that why neither Ginny nor her friends had seen him since yesterday?

At Dumbledore's dismissal, Ginny threw him another curious look, but decided to head on her way. Whether or not Dumbledore had realized it, he had given her an out to what would have been a terrible reminiscence, and she couldn't tell if she was relieved or disappointed.

Not that she wanted to talk about the Chamber — far from it. She had barely talked about it after her first-year, and no one had ever brought it up with her. The last time she ever thought of it in detail had been in her fourth-year, when Harry had been hiding in Grimmauld Place, angry and afraid of something he didn't understand. But Ginny, taut and trembling, did and she made sure he damn well knew it.

"Lucky you," she had told him coldly.

"I'm sorry," Harry had said, and she knew he meant it. So when he asked, she told him, more gently than she intended, and smiled at his quiet relief. She had thought then that she would be angry and afraid too, if she carried the weight he did.

She carried it now, and she had long since learned that it was easier to be angry than afraid. . . .

Reaching a dead end, Ginny looked up and realized — she had been so caught up in her memories that she hadn't paid attention to where she was walking. This wasn't the entrance to the Slytherin common room. This wasn't even the way to the dungeons.

This was Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

A sudden chill passed over Ginny. She had avoided this bathroom and this corridor since her first-year, and she had continued to avoid it when she had arrived in this Hogwarts. She knew she would have to go in eventually but . . . she hadn't thought — she couldn't —

Her breath came in short gasps as she forced her feet to move, to leave, to run.

But she couldn't — she was stuck here, in front of this bathroom, the entrance to the Chamber, her limbs frozen and unable to cooperate. It wasn't unlike before, when she had been eleven and stupid and too quick to trust. Tom had guided her here, led her to his place in the middle of the night with sweet lies and whispered promises. She hadn't been in control of herself then, and she hadn't realized what he was doing and where she was going.

She didn't feel like she was in control of herself now, as if the diary still had its hold on her. . . .

Could it be? Was it still in control? Was Tom still here?

Maybe he had never really left . . . maybe he was still inside her head, biding his time so he could whisper his serpent song in her ear . . . and then the Chamber would open again and Slytherin's monster would slither out and there would be no Harry to save her and her skeleton would lie in the Chamber forever —

Ginny closed her eyes. You're being ridiculous. Tom is dead. There is no diary — there will never be a diary. . . .

After several long moments, she finally opened her eyes, her heart pounding in her ears. Staring at the empty corridor, she half-expected Tom to appear, his handsome face twisted in dark glee.

But he wasn't there. No one was. It was just her, lost in memory of a memory.


Harry sprinted towards her, dropped to his knees on the smooth Chamber floor, and flung his wand aside.

"Ginny — don't be dead — please don't be dead —"

Ginny felt him grab her shoulders and turn her over, his warm hands brushing her hair away and cradling her face. She wanted to answer him, to hold his hand and confess to everything, but she felt so, so cold. Try as she might, she couldn't move, couldn't find her voice — all she could do was shiver and shiver.

"Ginny, please wake up," Harry muttered desperately, shaking her.

"He won't wake," said a soft voice, cold and familiar.

Ginny sat up. She wasn't in the Chamber anymore.

Everywhere she looked, there were people bathed in spell light — fighting, running, dying. As she floated along, she realized she was fighting too. She was pushing further towards the Great Hall, trying not to think about the body spilled out on the stones.

You knew what he was doing . . . you let it happen. You let him die.

They should have had more time, more than the scant, few weeks they had gotten. We could've had ages . . . months . . . years maybe. . . . Too many should-haves and what-ifs for too short a life.

And then her mother fell. Fell and didn't get up.

Raw anger shot through Ginny, fury thrumming through her veins. Everything else faded away. All she could see was the man at centre of the battle, of this whole goddamn war, striking and smiting all within reach.

Tom Riddle.

Voldemort.

When you cast an Unforgivable, you have to mean it. Feel it. As she burned with rage, she knew it was enough — more than enough — and she let it build and build until she could feel it crawl over her skin, the power crackling at her fingertips.

She stepped forward, her wand raised, the curse on her lips —

Ginny woke up, a scream lodged in her throat. Without pausing to think, she was scrambling towards the bathroom, heart pounding in her chest as she heaved into the toilet. So it was one of those mornings then.

Brilliant.

She thought it was morning, at least. She didn't check the clock at her bedside, and there were no windows in the dungeons to give her a glimpse of the sky. Whatever the time was, she knew it was too early for her to be out of bed, and too late for her to go back to sleep. Though she didn't feel rested at all, she knew from experience she wouldn't get any shuteye after that particular dream. How could she, after seeing that chalk-white face up close, those dark red eyes, hearing all the screaming —

Breathe. Just breathe. Dumbledore's voice filled her head, calm and soothing. Clear your mind . . . breathe. . . .

When her breathing had returned to its normal rhythm, Ginny went to the sink and washed her face, eager to rid herself of all evidence of nightmares and bad memories. No use sobbing about it now. She might as well get an early start on the day — maybe exercise for a bit, fly a few laps around the pitch before breakfast — so she got dressed and grabbed her broom, before going down to the common room.

The last thing she expected to see when she got there was Riddle. He looked like he was still wearing yesterday's robes, his hair unusually rumpled.

"Good morning," he greeted, pausing when he saw her. "You're up early."

"Good morning," said Ginny. "I wasn't expecting anyone else to be awake."

"I just woke up myself," said Riddle with a self-deprecating smile. "I must have lost track of time and fell asleep here."

Smiling.

He was smiling.

Had he gotten over whatever it was she had done to offend him, enough to put on his mask again? He couldn't have. . . . No one would get over such a public humiliation so quickly, especially not someone like Riddle, who valued his reputation too much to pretend like nothing had happened.

"Last minute homework?" she asked, trying not to sound suspicious.

"Just doing some reading," he said, still with that bloody smile. He moved towards the staircase, and suddenly she found she couldn't let the conversation end there.

"Riddle, wait," she blurted without thinking, before he could head up to his rooms. "Are you angry?"

He frowned, in a show of concern and curiosity. "Why would I be angry?"

Ginny almost didn't reply; he knew perfectly well what the answer was. She hadn't wanted to be the one to broach the topic, but she wanted it out of the way more than anything. If she was going to have to suffer his presence — and there was no escaping it, she had accepted it now — she didn't want Slughorn's party to hang like a cloud over their heads.

"Because of what happened with Malfoy," she said carefully.

A muscle in his jaw twitched, though the expression on his face didn't change. After a beat, Riddle said, "Yes, I am."

Well.

She didn't know what she had been expecting, but his honesty caught her off guard. "At who?"

"I should think it was obvious."

"At me, then."

He tilted his head as if in thought. "Why would I be angry at you?"

"I've been told what I did isn't how things are done," she said, a bit derisively.

"Not really, no," he said lightly. "Why did you do it?"

"I should think it was obvious."

The corner of his lips tugged upward, belying the irritation she knew he was feeling.

"Latent Gryffindor genes?" he said teasingly.

"Doing the right thing isn't exclusive to Gryffindors."

"Your method, though, is something they would likely do."

"Yeah, but you weren't asking about the method, were you?"

He studied her for a moment, and not for the first time, she wondered what was going through his head. "You didn't answer my question."

"I did — you didn't answer mine."

Riddle lost his smile. Ginny had seen cracks in his mask before, but this was the first time she had seen him without it completely, his facade stripped away and the anger underneath laid bare, staring at her with dark eyes on pale marble.

It should scare her, and maybe a part of her was, but she found she wasn't cowed.

Ginny met his gaze squarely. She had seen those eyes before, in the ghostly visage of the boy who betrayed her, in the monstrous face of the man who killed her should-have-beens — and she had beaten them both.

"I did it because it was the right thing to do," she said. "Someone had to do it, and I didn't see anyone standing up to volunteer."

I did it, she didn't say, because even an arsehole like you didn't deserve what happened.

"What Malfoy said," she went on. "Don't let it get to you. Blood doesn't define who you are. Muggle, half, pure — none of that matters."

Riddle's face was still purposefully blank, but she could have sworn it had lost some of its hardness. "You're the only one who thinks so."

"But it's true! There are so many great witches and wizards out there who aren't pure-bloods. You don't even have to look far to find Muggle-borns who are more than gifted and deserving to be — who should be treated as equals. There's you, there's Margot, there's —"

Ginny faltered, suddenly realizing that she didn't know any other Muggle-borns. Merlin's beard, she only knew one. . . .

Riddle noticed, and he smirked at her. On anyone else, she would have thought it was the beginning of a smile. "You ran out of names, didn't you?"

She huffed, irritated. "I'm new here, remember? I don't exactly have a long list of acquaintances like you do."

"Of course. I completely understand."

His smirk widened until it curled at the corners. It was definitely a smile now, and Ginny knew he was judging her, maybe even laughing at her. She felt too incensed to continue with the pep talk — clearly he didn't need one. Why she had bothered to give it in the first place, she didn't know. Fucking prat.

"Right then," she said stiffly. "See you in class, Riddle."