17 October 1942 — 21 October 1942

Her bedroom was the way Ginny had left it, as small and bright as she remembered. There was a Weird Sisters poster on one wall, a picture of Gwenog Jones in the other, and a desk full of photographs Colin had taken of her and her friends throughout the years. The desk stood facing an open window overlooking a sunlit orchard and a sky that went on forever, blue and broad and endless.

She had learned how to fly in this orchard. She had stolen her brothers' brooms and practiced when no one was watching her. She knew this view as well as she knew this room and this crooked house and the familiar silhouette waiting for her outside, the lone figure in the unblemished canvas.

Ginny was walking before she even realized it, and soon she was in the orchard sitting cross-legged next to him, the sun-warmed grass tickling her skin. Sunlight came through the leaves and draped itself around their shoulders.

It was so peaceful here. She had never felt more content, more at ease, even as an odd weight settled in her chest.

"Harry," she said, because it was him, looking at her like he always had. She would recognize him anywhere, even without his glasses and the famous scar.

"I hope you weren't expecting anyone else," he said.

"I had a list, actually. Your name was probably there somewhere."

Harry laughed, and Ginny felt the weight building. She had missed the sound of it more than she realized.

"You're not really here," she said sadly. "This is a dream, isn't it?"

"It might not be."

"It is. I refuse to die leaving something undone."

He smiled. "You haven't changed at all."

"I think I have," she admitted, as memories of the past two months slid through her mind — all the compromises she had to make, the hurtful words she had spoken, the anger and weakness that had gotten the better of her time and again.

"You're still Ginny," said Harry, his fingers brushing against hers. "That's all that matters."

There were so many questions at the tip of her tongue, so much she wanted to ask him. Ginny didn't know if the answers would have mattered at all, but if this was a dream — if this was nothing more than her memories and longing mixed, stirred, and bottled up in her mind — then she would take whatever comfort it could offer her, whatever reassurances her subconscious had conjured for her.

"Did it hurt?" she asked. The thought had haunted her for a long time, one of the many that crept up in her nightmares and in the moments she let her mind linger on what she had left behind.

"It was like falling asleep. My parents, Sirius, Remus — they were with me until the end."

Ginny couldn't say how it helped, but it did. It made her breathe a little easier, knowing Harry hadn't died alone and afraid. She hoped it meant Fred hadn't either, that wherever he and Mum and Colin were, they were happy and at peace.

"You were there too," said Harry, and he said it like a confession. "I thought of you. I should have told y —"

She didn't let him finish, silencing him with a kiss that felt so real and yet not at all, a strange in-between that filled her with a longing nostalgia for all their could-have-beens.

"I'll see you again," said Ginny fiercely. She didn't know if her resolution — because that was what the weight was, tethering her to where she knew she was needed — could hold if she heard him say it. "When this is all over, I'll see you and you can tell me then. Not here, not when we don't . . ."

She struggled to find the words, but Harry understood. He always did.

"We should have had ages," he said wistfully.

"We should have," she said, returning his smile with her own, soft and regretful. "I wish we had more time."

Sunlight scattered across his cheekbones, illuminating the look he gave her, the one he reserved only for her, and Ginny wondered when she would see it again. Not for a long time, she hoped. There was still so much waiting for her, and maybe it wasn't peaceful or easy but it was something.

Alphard, Dumbledore, Margot, her friends — they were glimmers of light in a world at war, reminding her that there could be more, that it could be better.

"You're going to do amazing things, Gin," said Harry, and it was both a hope and a comfort. "I'll miss you."

It wasn't a goodbye, and that was all right — they had never been one for goodbyes.

His voice seemed to linger as she felt everything fade away. The scent of apple blossoms in the air. The dry grass tickling her skin. The sunbeams dripping down through the leaves.

The blue sky shattered, falling around her as the world rearranged itself, and Ginny opened her eyes.


When Ginny came to, she knew at once that something was wrong. She knew it wasn't her ceiling that she was staring up at, that the mattress she laid against wasn't hers, that the blanket draped over her was the wrong colour.

Panic rose within her, making her bolt upright, but her limbs were heavier than she remembered, and her sudden movement sent a wave of pain rushing to her head. Vaguely, she registered the hands easing her gently back, helping her sit up. She tried to turn her head to the side, but her limbs weren't working properly, as though they were made of wax, and the movement took more effort than she expected.

For a frightening moment she couldn't feel or remember anything, and then she heard a voice nearby, forming words that were familiar and calming.

Dumbledore.

Her memories flooded back. . . . After she and Dumbledore had stammered out their apologies, they had viewed her memories of the Chamber in his Pensieve. Seeing it all again had left her so shaken that Dumbledore sent her back to her dormitory. He would open the Chamber himself, he assured her, and she knew he would spend the rest of the night viewing the memory until he could speak Parseltongue well enough to confront the basilisk.

But Ginny had been unable to sleep. She tossed and turned in her bed, still heavy with guilt, and she wondered if it had been enough to change anything. Would Dumbledore be able to do it in time? Would he be able to kill the basilisk before Riddle could set it loose on another Muggle-born student? If he didn't, would it lead to another Petrified body or would it be more permanent?

So she had slipped out of her room at midnight, when her roommates were fast asleep, and crept through the silent castle armed with nothing but her wand, Gryffindor's sword, and her jittery nerves. As she did, she couldn't help but marvel at how Alphard knew her so well in the short time they had been friends — he had known before she did that she was going to do something utterly stupid and self-sacrificial.

Maybe the words they shared by the fireplace had been a goodbye after all — but a goodbye to what, Ginny hadn't known until now.

After she had Stunned Riddle, she had cast a Patronus to report to Dumbledore, but she couldn't remember what she had said. . . . The nerves, her injuries, and all that had happened must have caught up with her. She must have given in to her exhaustion and passed out on the Chamber floor. . . .

"You came," said Ginny.

Dumbledore smiled, his weary face tinged with relief. His hand touched her arm, and it hurt, how real it felt, and she had to swallow the sob building in her throat.

"Of course," he said, with the faintest note of reproach. "Though I would have preferred it if you had informed me sooner of the change of plans."

"I didn't want to wait. I was — I've been selfish. If it were Harry, he would have —"

"You're not Harry. You are Ginny Weasley, and you are possibly the bravest person I have come across, in all my time here at Hogwarts."

Somehow, Ginny managed to smile.

"Now you're just flattering me, Professor," she said with a passing attempt at levity. "You have a lot of people to meet still."

"You could have died, Ginny," said Dumbledore. There was no anger in his voice, only unveiled worry, and she suddenly remembered he had lost people too.

If she had died, she would have been yet another coffin to bury.

Ginny felt a stab of guilt. She had entered the Chamber not truly caring what could have happened to her. It didn't feel like an act of bravery now, lying here in the hospital wing and knowing there was so much that needed to be done, so much she had left unfinished.

Odd, how she never realized what it meant, how much she had left to live for, until she had almost lost it in the Chamber, under the fog of Riddle's Imperius.

"Is it all over?" she asked.

Dumbledore's gaze turned to the bed directly across from hers. There, with only a hallway separating them, was Riddle, seemingly asleep and looking as battered as she felt.

"Not yet," said Dumbledore.

The feeling of that other place was fading, and Ginny knew she would miss it the way she missed everything about her home. She tried to hold on, to remember every nuance, but there was a part of her that was . . . content, almost.

I'll see them again.

But not yet.

Ginny knew what had to come next.


It was hours later when Dumbledore left her bedside. By then, it was well into the afternoon and Riddle was already awake.

Neither of them had their wands; the headmaster had confiscated them and intended to return them once the fiasco with the Chamber was resolved. Ginny tried not to let it worry her. She and Dumbledore had prepared what she would say, and if Riddle was rash enough to attack her now . . . well, she didn't grow up roughhousing with six brothers for nothing.

Riddle was staring at her the way he so often did, the furrow between his brows deepening with each passing minute. Ginny knew he was trying to read her mind again, but it was a lost cause. Dumbledore had cast every protection spell he knew on her bed, shielding her mind from Riddle's invasiveness.

Finally, Riddle seemed to give up and glared at her darkly.

"Who are you?" he said. "What are you?"

Ginny didn't answer. She had prepared for this too.

"The memory I saw. . . . It was in the Great Hall."

Memory alteration was too complex and too unpredictable, dangerous not only to the person at the receiving end but also to the one casting the spell. Ginny and Dumbledore didn't want to risk it, knowing it could go wrong all too easily, but they knew there were other ways to keep secrets.

"There were students in their uniforms." Riddle's voice was harder now, lower and set with resolve. "They weren't fighting Grindelwald's men."

Ginny waited. She could see the cogs whirring in his head.

"That was the future."

It was a gambit . . . there were only so many possibilities that would fit what he saw. . . .

"Yes," she said.

Fear flared suddenly in his eyes, but the expressionless shutter slid back into place just as quickly. "You're a Seer."

They had counted on this; everything hinged on it. With a powerful Seer waging war across Europe, his face so often in the papers, it wasn't an illogical conclusion to jump to.

"I don't have to answer you," said Ginny, struggling to keep her expression impassive. She needed to deflect, to let him believe she was uncomfortable and trying to change topics — which, in all fairness, she was.

"I deserve to know," said Riddle, scowling rather ominously.

"I don't owe you anything. You tried to kill me —"

"And you did more than try."

There was a question there, one he was too afraid to ask.

"Will," corrected Ginny. "If you really want to get technical, it hasn't happened yet."

Riddle winced. It was barely there but she saw it, as clearly as she could hear the trembling dread in his voice. "How?"

"Power comes with a price."

He scoffed. "Spare me your moralizing."

"You wanted to know, Riddle," she said firmly. "Magic leaves traces. What you saw? That's what happens when you play with Dark Magic."

"Grindelwald does the same, and yet he doesn't look like a monster."

"He isn't exactly as pretty as he used to be." She had seen pictures of Grindelwald, both in history books and in Dumbledore's memories during their early Occlumency lessons. What Grindelwald looked like in his youth was a far cry from what she saw on the Daily Prophet. "The price for Voldemort just happened to be steeper."

The irony wasn't lost on her when Riddle flinched at the name. There was a wildness in his eyes, the same naked fear she had seen in the Chamber when she had disarmed him. He had never looked more his age, more vulnerable, than in that moment, when his eyes had flickered to the dead basilisk and the realization that he had lost had dawned on his face.

"How long?" he said. "How long before . . . a year? Two? Less?"

He's not Voldemort, Ginny had thought then, and she could see it now. Tom Riddle was just a boy — he wasn't good or kind, but he was human. She knew, logically, that Voldemort hadn't always been a remorseless monster, but actually seeing it first-hand, being reminded of it, was a jarring experience.

"It's not set in stone," she said as gently as she could. "That doesn't have to be the future."

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say, because Riddle was suddenly back to his scowling self. "You could have saved yourself the time and left me in the Chamber to rot — but you spared me out of pity."

Ginny felt irritation prickle across her skin.

"Not everything's about pity," she said, exasperated. "It was a kindness. Don't act like you've never heard of it — I know you've seen it before because you just tried to kill her!"

"You have never shown —"

"I meant Margot, you idiot!"

Riddle looked indignant at that. Of everything she said, it was being called an idiot that offended him most. It probably said a lot about him, if everything else wasn't already a heaping stack of glaring red flags.

"I didn't try to kill her," he said irritably.

"You sicced a basilisk on her!"

"If I wanted her dead, she —"

"Funny," she said coolly. "You wanted me dead and here we are."

There was a soft cough. Ginny's head whipped around so quickly she felt an ache in her neck.

"I can come back," said Alphard, his wide eyes travelling from Ginny to Riddle and back again. He was clutching a small potted shrub with soft pink blossoms, which was crooning softly in the sudden silence.

"We're not allowed visitors," sneered Riddle.

Alphard pointedly kept his gaze away from him.

"Dumbledore said you asked for me," he said to Ginny. Behind the slight tremor in his voice, he sounded a little flattered.

Riddle scoffed, but both Ginny and Alphard ignored him as Alphard sat down and placed the potted plant next to her bed.

"What did he say?" said Ginny.

"Barely anything," said Alphard. "He told us you were all right, so of course everyone's saying you're actually dead."

She snorted. "And naturally you're here to confirm the rumours."

"Naturally," he echoed wryly. He gave a soft amused noise when his eyes landed on her hair, which must have been a veritable bird's nest if he was looking at her like that. "You look lovely as ever."

She grimaced but decided to ignore the comment. The state of her hair wasn't exactly a priority, after the night she had. "Are we really not allowed visitors?"

"The staff's still trying to figure out what happened. They don't want either of you to leave until they do."

"So you're not going to break me out?"

"Sorry."

"Nooooo . . ." she dragged out the syllable long enough for Alphard to roll his eyes.

"You'll live," he said dryly. Then he dropped his gaze to her blankets, hesitating. "You had everyone worried."

Ginny didn't know what to say to that. She doubted Alphard would accept paltry reassurances, and a simple I'm fine would just be another barefaced lie in an already long list.

She knew that what she had just done to Riddle — letting him come to his own conclusions, not denying or agreeing with anything he said about the memories he saw — wasn't unlike what Alphard had done to her. It seemed silly now that she had been so mad at Alphard for it, that she had been willing to cut him out of her life, when they were more alike than she realized.

She would have balked at the thought before — any comparison to a Slytherin would have — but all she really wanted now was to tell him the truth. It was clear to her, more than it had ever been, that she wasn't the only one trying to make the best out of what they had.

"I know," said Ginny.

Alphard glanced up at her then, and she wasn't sure what to make of the way he was staring at her. He cleared his throat, and the moment was gone.

"I figured you might get bored so . . ." He took out a small book from the pocket of his robes.

"A children's book?" said Ginny as she read the cover — The Tales of Beedle the Bard.

The potted plant, which had been so quiet that Ginny had forgotten it was there, suddenly glowered at her, its flowers rapidly shrivelling and falling to the floor.

"Why is your plant hissing at me?"

"It's your plant. Remember the Herbology assignment?" At her blank look, Alphard said, "Well, no wonder it hates you so much. Did you name it, at least?"

"Why would I name it? It's a plant."

"It's got feelings, Ginny," he said with mock outrage. "I thought it would cheer you up."

"That thing needs cheering up." For the life of her, Ginny didn't know why it was so angry, its remaining blossoms now brown and dry. "Most people would just bring roses."

"Roses? Like flowers?"

Alphard was looking at her like she had smacked him over the head with a Quaffle. Having in fact conked Ron with a Quaffle, way back in fourth-year when he'd been struggling as Keeper, she was familiar with that particular expression: slightly pained, mostly dumbstruck.

"That's what roses are," said Ginny, trying to suppress her amusement.

"Er, just so we're on the same page," he said, sounding alarmed, "when I said you looked lovely — I mean that in general, you know?"

"Yeah, I thought so."

"Because you are — I just don't fancy you, is what I'm getting at —"

"Well, I should hope n —"

"Not that you're not pretty, but you're just not attractive —"

Ginny's mouth dropped open. From the other side of the room, she could hear Riddle trying to muffle his laughter with a coughing fit.

"To me, I mean," said Alphard, suddenly a little desperate. "I'm sure blokes like Riddle think you're plenty attractive —"

The coughing fit abruptly stopped.

"Alphard," said Ginny, "please shut up."

"I'm just saying —"

"Merlin's beard, I was kidding about the roses!"

She shouldn't have brought it up at all. It wasn't like she fancied Alphard or anything, but hearing she wasn't attractive from an undeniably handsome boy her age wasn't exactly good for any girl's self-esteem.

"Oh," said Alphard, sounding pleased. "Good."

He started telling her about everything she had missed throughout the day. The portraits had apparently seen Dumbledore bringing Ginny and Riddle to the hospital wing, and by lunchtime most of the school had suspected they had been Petrified. Some speculated that it had been worse than that, and Dippet's insistence on keeping visitors away had only fuelled the gossip.

"There's something you're not telling me," accused Ginny, noticing the way Alphard tried to stifle his smile when he mentioned the rumours.

"I don't think you want to know," he said, looking far too amused for her liking.

But she could guess what he was getting at. Ginny might have tuned out all the stories about her since the start of the term, but she couldn't escape her friends' knowing looks, especially Briseis' disapproving scowls.

Alphard left when the matron reminded him it was almost time for supper. Alone with Riddle again, Ginny carefully avoided looking in his direction and turned her attention to the book Alphard had brought.

The Tales of Beedle the Bard had been a fixture of her childhood. Her mother had the told her and Ron the stories herself, almost every night when they were kids, and Ginny knew the stories by heart.

Alphard's book was old, its spine cracked and the pages creased and brown. It looked like something she would have found in the library or a second-hand bookstore, battered and ancient as it was. With nothing better to do, Ginny flicked idly through the pages before something caught her eye — a scrap of parchment pressed inside, marking the chapter of 'The Warlock's Hairy Heart'. She thought nothing of it until she saw Alphard's looping handwriting.

Don't tell Riddle.

Before Ginny could wonder what it meant, the double doors flew open, and Dumbledore, Dippet, and Slughorn came striding towards her and Riddle.

There would be time to worry about Alphard later. For now, she had more pressing concerns.


For as long as he could remember, Tom had felt like a half-finished puzzle. It was as though an empty space had been lodged somewhere inside his chest, and he didn't have the pieces to fill the gap. There had been moments when he thought he could complete the puzzle — when he had met his father, when he had learned about magic, when he had discovered his heritage.

But all those pieces meant nothing now, with the basilisk dead.

Tom wandered the same halls that he had always known, sat in the same classes, and yet it was as if he had lost something vital in the Chamber. It wasn't just the basilisk, but everything it stood for — Voldemort, his future, his legacy. . . .

The faculty still continued to look for the perpetrator, but Tom knew they would eventually stop. There were no leads, no evidence, and the knowledge that the basilisk would never again Petrify another student would lull them into complacency. In their eyes, the scare was over, and it was only a matter of time before they put an end to their search, as if it was a mystery that would never be solved.

As if it had never really mattered in the first place.

See what Voldemort really amounted to, Tom?

Unsurprisingly, his followers were confused by the turn of events, and they confronted him after he returned from the hospital wing. He had to conjure up a story, that he had changed his plans at the last minute, to keep their suspicions at bay.

"Dumbledore knew about the monster?" Lestrange asked.

"I'm afraid he did," said Tom, letting his frustration show. "He suspected my involvement in the attacks."

"But did you really have to kill the basilisk, Tom?" said Mulciber in a high, whining tone. "We could have ordered it to target Dumbledore. That would have gotten him off our backs."

Tom didn't know which he loathed more — Mulciber's use of we as though he had any right to the basilisk or the next words he had no choice but to say.

"Dumbledore is powerful," said Tom through gritted teeth. "Who's to say he couldn't have stopped the basilisk on his own? No, it would have been too risky — for all of us."

Tom didn't need Legilimency to know they weren't convinced, and he feared he would lose them as easily as he lost the basilisk.

But the news that the creature behind the Petrifications had been found and killed had spread quickly the next day. The details were confused, but many were now turning to Tom with curious and even admiring glances, and he could see that the attention had helped lessen his followers' doubts. Tom would have been relieved, but knowing that all the attention he had been getting was because of Smith was maddening.

When Dippet, Dumbledore, and Slughorn had arrived in the hospital wing to question Tom and Smith about what had happened to them, Tom had resigned himself to his fate. He was ready to confess to what he had done, with alterations so as to make the whole incident sound like an unfortunate accident, but he knew there was no escaping it.

They were going to expel him. He would never set foot on Hogwarts again, and the thought filled him with dread. The best he could hope for was to not get sent to Azkaban.

And then Smith told her story — that Droope's Petrification had unsettled her so badly that she had sought to kill Slytherin's monster herself. Tom, she claimed, had caught her sneaking out of the common room and tried to stop her, but they had found the Chamber and came face to face with the basilisk.

Throughout Smith's tale, Dumbledore kept his face blank and inscrutable. Nothing ever slipped out from that unreadable expression, and Tom knew he could sense it — the truth, the shame. Before Dumbledore, Tom was transparent, a mirror, and it was a disease in him to know this.

They had planned this story, Tom realized. They had planned every detail of it — though he couldn't fathom why they would.

"This doesn't explain your injuries," Dippet had said, skeptical. "Dark Magic was cast with your wands."

But somehow, somehow, Smith kept going with the lie, meeting Dippet's gaze dead on.

"We weren't sure how to kill it, Professor," she said in nervous, regretful tones. "We used all the spells we could think of, but most of it rebounded on us."

"And the sword of Gryffindor? How did this come into your possession?"

"The Summoning Charm, sir. Uncle told me about the sword's magical properties and . . . well, I had hoped it would help us."

"And indeed it did!" Slughorn chimed in, clearly taken in by Smith's tale.

But Dippet remained doubtful and turned to Dumbledore.

"Dark Magic, Albus," he said lowly. "She used an Unforgivable."

"They saved the school, Armando," said Slughorn. "Surely we could overlook it? It was a dangerous situation, after all, and they nearly died in the act —"

"That is precisely what I'm getting at, Horace. This whole affair could have been avoided entirely if they had only informed the proper authorities."

"I didn't have proof, sir," said Smith in a shaky voice. "I didn't think anyone would believe me and I — I was afraid I'd be blamed for the attacks. I know I should have said something sooner. If I had, maybe Margot wouldn't have . . . it was all my fault."

At that last word her eyes filled with fresh tears and she began sobbing madly. Dumbledore conjured a handkerchief, so smoothly it might have come out of his pocket.

Dippet melted. His expression, which had been torn between anger and worry, finally settled on the latter as Slughorn started murmuring comforts to Smith.

"Is this true, Mr. Riddle?" said Dippet.

All eyes turned to Tom. Through the handkerchief held to her nose, Smith's snapping dark eyes looked over the white cloth, and there was nothing Tom could do but say yes.

Though they believed Smith's story, Dippet was adamant neither she nor Tom could go unpunished. Slughorn was eager to supervise them both, insisting it was his responsibility as their Head of House, but Dumbledore was quick to disagree. From the way Smith had to hide a grimace at Dumbledore's suggestion, it appeared she hadn't been informed about this addition to their plot.

Either way, they had little say in the matter, and Tom had found himself with a month's worth of detention with Dumbledore, while Smith had hers with Slughorn.

Monday evening, his first detention, was spent cleaning the Transfiguration classroom without magic. Tom had little trouble with it — the real punishment was having to show obedience to the man he loathed almost as much as his Muggle father. For his part, Dumbledore was as strict as ever, watching Tom closely with a composed gaze as they stewed in silence.

Tom was nearing the end of his task when his eyes drifted to the phoenix perched by the windowsill. Fawkes was more decrepit looking than the last time Tom had seen him, with patches of missing feathers all over his body.

Dumbledore caught Tom staring and said, "Are you quite familiar with wandlore, Tom?"

"Not particularly, sir," said Tom dully. "But I am familiar with my wand's properties."

"I take it you are aware that you have a rather curious wand."

Tom wondered if Dumbledore intended to bring up Smith's wand. He had noticed when Dippet had returned them that his and Smith's wand were both made of yew. At a glance, they looked alike, and it was no small wonder that Dippet had been fooled into believing it was Smith who had cast the Unforgivable.

"All wands are curious, sir, from what I've been told."

"Do you know where the core of your wand came from?"

Tom was about to admit he didn't know when Fawkes flew from the window to Dumbledore's desk.

"Your phoenix, sir?" said Tom, surprised.

"A curious coincidence, isn't it?" said Dumbledore placidly, stroking the phoenix. "His Burning Day will be due soon."

Tom felt the corner of his mouth twitch as he realized. Dumbledore, seeing his reaction, gave him a questioning look.

"The name, sir," said Tom. "You named him after a Muggle revolutionary."

Guy Fawkes Day was almost upon them. Every year before he had gone to Hogwarts, Tom went up to the roof of his orphanage to view the bonfire and the fireworks. For one night, his dreary world was lit with these flames, like bursts of light illuminating all the grey and shadow. Here in the wizarding world, fireworks never flew for that Muggle memorial, and so many November 5ths had passed him by unnoticed.

"Ah, yes," said Dumbledore, with a ghost of a smile. "A little joke of mine, though very few have caught it."

He refocused his gaze on the fireplace, where the fire was slowly dying, and he waved his wand. Instead of simply blazing the fire back up, he turned a pile of papers into firewood and lifted it himself.

"I was once a revolutionary myself," he said ruefully as he carried the wood by the fireplace and began to stack them in. "We're quite lucky that revolutions can fall."

The smile faded, replaced by a thoughtful and oddly regretful look.

"You know, Tom, you remind me very much of a wizard I once knew."

Tom held back a sneer. Story time with Dumbledore had not been on the agenda.

"Sir?" he said, keeping his voice mildly curious.

"He was talented," said Dumbledore, "ambitious, clever — too clever, I should say, and he knew it as well. He knew he was destined for great things."

Still standing by the hearth, Dumbledore wasn't looking at Tom anymore, gazing at the ceiling or perhaps memories only visible to him. His face was firelit, stark in the chiaroscuro.

"People were captivated by him and sought to share in his glory. He used it to his advantage, and eventually he went too far and lost his allies. . . . But for a man with his drive and power, it was but a temporary setback. Even now, people flock to him and are taken in by his words and his charm."

"Who is he, sir?"

Dumbledore exhaled, too short and too sharp to be a sigh. "Take a guess, Tom. You certainly know his name."

Tom thought furiously. As much as he didn't want to humour Dumbledore, he hated to seem ignorant. Of course, this was Dumbledore — his story was probably allegorical or, more likely, his own history framed as a parable. It would fit the man's narcissism and belief in the mysteries of magic to try to sway a child from his own path.

"You, sir?"

Dumbledore's smile, if it could be called that, was grim. "Not quite, though I can see how you might draw that conclusion. I was, however, referring to Grindelwald."

Tom stiffened. He had known Dumbledore was bound to bring up the incident with Smith sooner rather than later, but he hadn't expected the man would do it by accusing him so bluntly of being a budding Dark Lord.

If Dumbledore was done dancing around it, then Tom saw no point in maintaining his genial facade.

"Why did you tell her to lie?" said Tom coldly.

Dumbledore had returned to his desk and was now looking at Tom over his steepled fingers. "You have to be more specific, Tom. Ginny and I have told many a lie, but the story of what occurred in the Chamber of Secrets was not my doing."

"Why did she do it, then?"

"I'm afraid you will have to ask her yourself. May I suggest that when you do, you refrain from asking her in public? You have seen Ginny's proclivity for duelling first-hand, and I should hate for there to be another incident."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "You're trying to protect her."

"From what, if I may ask?"

"You know what," said Tom sharply. "From me."

"Why do you suggest that she would require protection from you?"

Dumbledore's eyes were hard and cold, like chips of ice, and for the first time Tom saw some of the similarities Dumbledore claimed with the Dark Lord.

"Is that all, sir?" said Tom, and he returned to his dormitory when Dumbledore said nothing else.

That night, when Tom fell asleep, he was back in the Chamber with Smith standing in front of him, his wand in her hand. There was only the look on her face and the terror that this was it, this was all that he was — this single, silent, panicked moment where his heartbeat stuttered in his chest.

In the dream, Smith didn't hesitate to kill him.


Smith was around too often. Tom couldn't tell if it had always been like this and he had simply never noticed, or if the attention was more smothering now after the incident. She never approached him, but somehow she managed to be too close in her silent and aloof manner, and it felt as if she was always standing over his shoulder, ready to kill him and yet faltering.

But she never was. Smith acted as if nothing had changed, and Black was at her side when he wasn't with Malfoy and she wasn't with her roommates. When she looked at Tom, the few times she let her gaze meet his, they still had that same challenging gleam, and it appeared she was waiting for him to act just as he was anticipating her next move.

Three days after their duel, Tom had lost his patience, and he waited for Smith in the common room. If her friends thought it strange that he was offering to walk her to breakfast again, they kept their thoughts to themselves.

"I have questions," said Tom, when the girls had left him and Smith alone.

Smith rolled her eyes. "Well, good morning to you too, Riddle. How did you sleep? Oh, me? Yeah, just fine, thanks for asking."

"Are you done?" he said, annoyed at how calm she was.

"Done with this, yeah."

Then she brushed past him, her eyes fixed steadily ahead of her, making him dog at her heels as they departed for the Great Hall.

"You can't expect me to just let this go," he said, falling in stride with her. "That was my — that was Voldemort's future. I have every right to know —"

"You don't — they're my memories —"

"About my future. What's the point in making prophecies if you just keep them to yourself?"

"That's not how it works," she said, her voice rising heatedly.

Tom felt his own frustration rising. "Then how does it work?"

"Prophecies don't always come true. You can't rely on them. You can't let them dictate what you do —"

"Then what do you suggest I do? Pretend it never happened? Ignore that I didn't see that thing in my future?"

Even he could hear the hysterical tone underlying his words. It infuriated him even more, that he'd been unable to mask it, but it made Smith pause.

She scrutinized him for a moment before seemingly arriving at a decision. She grabbed his wrist and, with quick, purposeful strides, dragged him to an empty corridor and into an alcove.

"Take a look then," she said, and Tom raised his wand before she could change her mind.

He was met with the horrifying image of a pale, red-eyed corpse, its features too grotesque to even be called a man. Accepting without quite believing, Tom stared into the face of the creature that would be his future — him, Voldemort. There was nothing to see there, only darkness in the shape of a face: alien, worthless, dead.

Tom shoved against the memory, trying to escape it, searching for more — Hogwarts, nothing more than a ruined husk . . . the charred remains of his sanctuary, his home . . . the cobblestones littered with dead bodies, unfamiliar faces —

No, not entirely unfamiliar. . . . The tall, red-haired boy who was tugging Smith away . . . there was enough resemblance between them that Tom knew they must be related . . . your brother, perhaps?

Tom felt Smith flinch, and the twinge of panic was all he needed. Her control loosened, only just, but it was enough of a distraction for Tom to push forward —

The dead boy with glasses . . . somehow, he was the key . . . he was important, and Tom needed to know why. . . . Smith hadn't fought back until Tom had seen him, and he must have been important enough that she tried to hide the memory of him lying dead in a battlefield that looked so much like Hogw —

"Protego!"

Tom staggered back. He felt his back hit the stone wall as his wand flew upward, away from Smith — and suddenly his mind was teeming with more familiar memories — he was no older than ten, sitting alone in a dark bedroom, speaking to the small snake wrapped around his arm . . . Droope was reading from her textbook, her face illuminated in the firelight as they practiced . . . his father, the look on his face, that rainy day by the bus stop —

Tom shoved her away, wrenching the memory back and burying it deep in the recesses of his mind.

"I never said you could look at my memories," he hissed, willing his hands to stop shaking as his grip on his wand tightened.

Smith was panting slightly, and she looked as surprised as he felt. Still, she said glibly, "It's not very nice, is it, having someone else in your head?"

"What was the point of showing that to me?"

"I wanted to be sure."

She was watching him, her face devoid of expression, and her eyes bored into him, a spark of something he couldn't name flitting through them briefly.

"You don't want that future, do you?"

He scowled. "Why would I? Why would anyone?"

"It's a fair question. You did choose to — will choose — might choose —" She broke off, her forehead creased in frustration, then sighed heavily. "Oh, you get the picture."

Tom didn't. Because that couldn't be it — that couldn't be what Voldemort was destined for. . . .

If Smith hadn't found the Chamber, hadn't killed his basilisk, would that have been his fate? To die at her hands in — what, a year from now? Less than that? Smith didn't look any older from the vision he saw . . . would he really have died so soon?

Would he still? Was that still his future, even without the basilisk to aid him?

Smith was staring at him, and it looked like she was trying to make up her mind about something. After a while, she said, "Three questions — that's all I'll answer."

"Three?" said Tom, indignant.

She gave him a long-suffering look that made him bristle. "Oh, calm down. I'd actually like to eat something before I have to sit through Binns' lecture. If I tried to answer all your questions, we'll be here all day."

"So you'll let me ask you again —"

"Are you sure you want to ask that?"

Tom clenched his jaw, but he weighed his words carefully. His questions couldn't be too vague, otherwise her answers might be as well . . . but if his questions were too close-ended, then she might answer with a simple yes or no, and he would just be wasting his time. . . .

"Why did you lie to Dippet?" he said at last.

He was half-expecting a cheeky remark, but Smith looked sombre.

"They would have expelled you if I told them the truth," she said gravely. "Obviously going back to the Muggle world isn't an option for you, and the wizarding world isn't a picnic either, not when it's about to combust over blood and old grudges."

Tom glared. Of course she wasn't going to make it easy . . . of course she wasn't going to give him straight answers. . . .

"You wanted to keep an eye on me," he said accusingly, "you and Dumbledore both."

"That too," she conceded. "But you can't honestly tell me you'd prefer Azkaban over a couple of detentions."

"Why not just kill me? That's what you're destined to do — does the time and place really matter if you're fulfilling the prophecy?"

If Smith said that she didn't know, that she pitied Tom, that she'd been unable to bring herself to do it, then Tom was going to scream and finish what they had started that night and every night since in his nightmares.

Smith made a face. "There's no such thing as destiny. The future can't be found in tea leaves or tarot cards or the breadcrumbs you accidentally drop on your plate. Why should they decide what happens to you? They're not in charge of your life.

"You're brilliant, Riddle, but you're wasting all of it by being a right git. You're too caught up trying to impress the wrong people for all the wrong reasons, when you could have been so much more if you just tried. . . . You're not Voldemort yet, and you don't have to be —"

"I could have been," said Tom bitterly, because no matter how Voldemort might have ended up, he had almost tasted it — worthless glory as it was, he had almost had it with that basilisk.

Smith frowned, her brown eyes flashing. How was it that contempt sat so well in those eyes? More than happiness, more than grief, it was contempt and righteous anger that suited her so well.

It was almost sad that Tom found it comforting, because at least it was something he knew, something he had come to expect from Smith.

"I think even you know it would be a bloody waste," she said. "I don't like you, Riddle, but I have to believe that you can be better than you are now. You've already seen what will happen if you don't, and I don't want that future. I have to believe that things don't have to be the same."

It was such a Gryffindor sentiment that Tom couldn't help but scoff. He should have known it would all boil down to this — an overinflated notion of chivalry. She really was too much like Dumbledore.

"That's why you spared me?" said Tom scornfully. "To be my deliverance? Have you come to absolve me of my sins?"

"I can't give you absolution, Riddle," said Smith carefully. "That's not up to me."

"Then what is this? Pre-emptive redemption?"

Smith's lips curved into a mirthless smile. "I don't believe in redemption. The way I see it, there's only the choices we make and how we're bound by them. The future you saw — Voldemort made all the wrong choices. That doesn't mean you have to."

The heaviness of her words hung in the air between them, and Tom found he had nothing to say. Somehow, though they were said with just as much force and resolve as everything she had said to him, they sounded less contrived than the rest, and the weight of them felt like a puzzle piece slotting into place.

"I can't make your choices for you," said Smith. "That's not my responsibility."

"Then what is?"

She tilted her head up, studying him again. For a moment, it looked like she was going to answer, but then she swept out of the alcove and into the corridor. "Three questions, remember?"

"You've already answered more than three," he pointed out. "What's one more?"

Smith shrugged and began walking in earnest to the Great Hall.

"At least another minute away from breakfast," she said. "Do keep up, Riddle."

She peered up at him as they walked, waiting for him to say something in response, but what else was there to say? In her own way, she had given him what he needed — a reason that wasn't based on pity.

It was in that moment Tom realized he didn't hate Smith. Perhaps it was because of what she was, of what she knew, but he didn't hate her the way he hated Dumbledore, Malfoy, Mrs. Cole, and so many others. Tom didn't know what it was he felt, this hollowness within him, but perhaps it was . . .

Perhaps there was something resembling kinship.

Tom truly didn't know what else it could be, if there was even a word to describe it, but it felt as though Smith had stepped into his soul and, though she found it lacking, she hadn't ground it out beneath her heel. She had seen potential amid all the things she found distasteful, and she had thought it was worth keeping alive.

That night in Tom's nightmare, when Smith held him at wandpoint, she didn't deliver the death blow.


"Is this going to be a thing now?" said Smith, when she found him waiting for her the next morning.

"Good morning to you too, Smith," said Tom dryly. "How did you sleep?"

To his surprise, the corner of her lips quirked up in a smile, before she caught herself and started walking. Tom fell into step beside her and said nothing right away. He waited until they were in a sufficiently populated corridor — not too crowded that they could be overheard but filled with enough people that Smith would hesitate to cause a scene.

"I spoke to Professor Slughorn yesterday," he said casually. "The Mandrakes are almost ready, and he estimates the Restorative Draught will be ready by the end of the week."

Smith turned to him, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"This is about Margot," she said shrewdly. "You want to make a deal."

Had she known because she had predicted it or was he truly that transparent to her? Tom didn't know which option irked him more.

"Hmm," he said. "If you're amenable."

"Let me guess," she drawled. "You want me to keep answering your questions, and in exchange you'll leave Margot out of this thing between us?"

"Thing between us," he repeated, amused. "You do know how that sounds, don't you?"

Smith rolled her eyes. "You bloody well know what I mean. And I'm not doing it — I'm not an idiot, Riddle. How would I know you'll keep your word?"

"The same way I would know you're telling the truth."

That caught her attention, and she glanced at him again in askance.

"It's a fair enough bargain," he said, and watched her as she considered.

It was more than fair, really. Tom knew he could keep his end of it — he was certain he would have no need to involve Droope in any of his plans for the foreseeable future, and he could always adjust accordingly without her — but he had no means of knowing if Smith would. He would have no way to tell if she was being truthful with her answers, but her lies were better than nothing at all; he would need to trust in his intellect and intuition to decipher her answers, whatever they were.

"Okay," said Smith after several moments. Before Tom could feel a thrill of victory, she barrelled on, "But only if you leave Alphard alone."

A flare of irritation shot through him. "And why would I bother with that inbred?"

Smith scowled. "Don't call him that," she snapped. "And I don't know why you do anything at all, but whatever it is, I don't want you dragging Alphard into it."

Tom was tempted to say no, purely to spite her.

"Fine," he said, a bit sourly. "He hardly matters to me."

"So it's not such a loss, is it?"

They were nearing the entrance to Great Hall when Smith turned to him again.

"One question," she said. "I'm starving so you better make it quick."

Perfect. Tom had only one question he needed to ask, and he had been ready for it since he had looked into her mind.

"Who was the boy in your memories? The one with the glasses and —"

But he didn't need to finish. The words were barely out of his mouth when Smith drew in a sharp breath and looked away.

"He was my . . ." she began, her voice breaking. Tom watched her face crumple, her chin wobbling, her lips pressing together in a thin line, trying to hide the evidence of some pain he didn't understand. She stared at him, then whispered, "His name was Harry."

Without waiting for Tom to respond, Smith turned on her heel and entered the Great Hall.

As Tom ate his breakfast, he pondered over her reaction. Smith sat with her friends, her back to him, and resolutely kept her gaze from his direction so that all he saw was the back of her head. It was clear he had touched a nerve, thought what it meant, he had yet to find out.

But Tom could be patient. He didn't see enough of her memories to discern what they meant, and he knew too little details about her to be certain of the working theories he had.

He knew she hadn't been lying about his future — what he saw felt too real to be a lie, and it explained so much of why Smith acted the way she did towards him.

He knew that the boy — this Harry — mattered a great deal to her and, from the way she had reacted, had died not too long ago, in a battle that had set a castle ablaze.

He knew that he — no, that Voldemort would die at Smith's hand, and it would happen as Hogwarts fell around them.

Smith had never made sense to him, and each new discovery about who and what she was brought only more questions, more confusion. It would take time before he could truly understand her, before he could untangle all the contradictions and mystery that surrounded her, and he knew this was a matter he simply couldn't rush. She was no ordinary puzzle — she was stranger and more exceptional than that.

She knew Voldemort's future, and more importantly, she was a part of it. If his guess was right, though it was too soon to say if he was . . .

Somehow, through some means Tom had yet to understand, the future he had seen in her memories wasn't just his future.

It was also her past.