I can't stress enough how sorry I am to keep you guys waiting! For anyone still following this fic, thank you so much for your patience and for reviewing/reaching out to let me know you enjoy this self-indulgent yarn of mine. Your encouragement helped pushed me to get this story going again. For those who discovered this story during my break, welcome! I hope you enjoy this very, very slow ride.

Shout out to your-girl-is-lovely for the beautiful edits and greenglassmountain for the wonderful drawings! Check out my tumblr, if you guys want to see them!


2 November 1942 — 22 November 1942

Monday arrived all too soon, and Ginny braced herself for the inevitable storm of gossip and teasing that awaited her. Maybe she was — what was that Muggle saying? — making a mountain out of a mole hill. Maybe being around Riddle so much had contaminated her with his narcissism. Either way, she could have sworn she heard Wendy squeal when she sat down next to Riddle during first period.

"Before you say anything," said Ginny, forcing her voice flat, "this isn't my fault. You won't believe me anyway and throw a tantrum about it, but still."

Riddle turned to her with narrowed eyes. He had been talking to Lestrange and Marius Mulciber, who glanced at each other uncertainly before scurrying back to their table.

"What did you do?" he said.

She sighed. "Why does everyone think it's always me that's up to something? I've kept out of trouble, haven't I?" At Riddle's look, she amended, "I've tried to keep out of trouble."

Riddle scoffed. "From what I've seen of your attempts, I'd hate to witness what you're like when you're not trying."

Before Ginny could retort, Margot entered the room. Ginny half-expected her to be frozen in indecision, but Margot, without a hitch in her step, kept striding — right past her table with Riddle to sit next to Alphard, who rather stiffly scooted over to make room.

Riddle's eyes narrowed even more at their exchange.

"You told her," he said, between his teeth.

"I didn't," said Ginny coolly. "Congrats, Riddle, she picked up on the anvil-sized clues you've been leaving."

He didn't sputter — because of course Tom Riddle wouldn't do something so common as sputter — but it was close. "What clues? There are no clues. No one could have known —"

"Well, she did, so —"

"You told her," he repeated, his voice low, his tone all accusation. "You've upended my plans and now you're trying to turn her against me —"

"You did that when you targeted her," retorted Ginny. "If you're looking for someone to blame, don't point your finger at me. I'm the one trying to fix your stupid mess."

Riddle's lips thinned, as if he was sizing her up. "How did she know?"

"She figured it out. She said it could have only been one of us who did it, but apparently I'm not Slytherin enough to be the culprit."

Something about her words seemed to startle him, because he drew back, his sneer slipping. He glanced at Margot, who was now trying to talk to a tense-looking Alphard, and his attention stayed there for the rest of the class. Ginny elbowed him in the ribs twice to get him to stop staring, but Riddle was so distracted that he didn't even bother to tell her off. He just kept looking straight at them and staring straight past them all at once.

Riddle didn't talk to her again until the end of Charms, when Margot left the room with Alphard and her friends.

"When did she tell you?"

Ginny grimaced. She had been hoping he wouldn't ask. "Halloween."

Riddle scowled. "And you didn't think to tell me?"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, but we were getting along so well."

And it was true. They had been sort of getting along — by their standards, at least. They hadn't sniped at each other over the weekend, and Riddle had even kept his usual insults to himself. She had been half-hoping things would stay that way, that their conversation in the Chamber would be the start of a truce of sorts.

So much for that.

"I was following her lead," said Ginny. "Margot was . . . well, she hasn't been acting any different, has she? I don't think she wanted you to know."

"You're telling me now."

"Because you would have known something was wrong eventually. Might as well get it over with."

But Riddle wasn't listening. He had turned to look back at Margot's new table, his brows furrowed, thinking, like he was miles away. He looked a little . . . Ginny wasn't sure how else to describe it, but she thought he looked a little lost. It was the way he looked when he found the dead basilisk and when they had spoken in the Chamber. As if he truly didn't know what he was going to do next — and Riddle always knew. He thought of every possible eventuality, he made backup plans for his backup plans.

The quickest way to get under Riddle's skin, she knew, was to present him with something so wholly unexpected that even he couldn't predict it. He was angry, Ginny had known he would be angry, but she hadn't thought he would be . . . this. Whatever this was.

"This doesn't change anything," said Ginny, her tone carefully neutral. She touched his arm lightly to get his attention, and Riddle tensed up almost instantly. He turned his gaze to her, and she quickly withdrew her hand. "What we agreed on, that still stands."

"And if I refuse?"

"It was your idea, Riddle. I've kept my end of things. Why stop now?"

Riddle gave her a long, measured look. His dark eyes darted around her face, apparently taking in information she was unknowingly revealing, and Ginny found herself a little afraid of his answer.

But not of him. Never of him, not anymore, and that was important. Riddle couldn't scare her again if he wanted to, if he tried. She had made her peace with the fact that she chose this, chose to give him a second chance, and if he fucked it up then she was going to be the one to kill him.

"Nothing fits," he said at last, his expression guarded. "The more I know about you, the less it all makes sense."

Ginny opened her mouth to ask what the hell he was talking about, but Riddle stood and strode away without a backwards glance, his robes billowing behind him.


If she didn't know any better, Ginny would have said nothing had changed.

None of her friends thought anything was amiss; they were too used to Margot avoiding the common room and taking refuge in the library to think anything of it. As far as they were concerned, Margot had taken it upon herself to — in her own words — give Ginny and Riddle a nudge in the right direction, and that was that. It was a bit unnerving, really, how well Margot and Riddle kept up the pretence of friendship, how easily they smiled at each other and exchanged pleasantries for appearance's sake.

Riddle, being Riddle, blamed Ginny for the whole thing. He had taken to ignoring her during their walks and whenever they were in class, only speaking to her when he knew people were watching. By now, Ginny had seen enough of Riddle's mercurial mood that she wasn't fazed by his silent treatment. She would have welcomed it, if it wasn't so exasperating.

Why couldn't he just drop the facade and make up his mind? Was he going to talk to her or not? Was he so furious that he wasn't even going to hold her accountable for her end of the arrangement?

It wasn't that Ginny wanted him to talk to her, or that she wanted him to keep asking about her past — but she much preferred knowing where they stood, instead of dealing with his sulking.

Stupid Slytherins and their stupid reputations.

Alphard, at least, was faring better with his new partner than Ginny was with hers. He had only nice things to say about Margot, though Ginny wouldn't have known it by watching the two of them. He spent most of their classes together whispering with and passing notes to Briseis, who sat in front of them, and seemed disgruntled every time Margot raised her hand and drew the teachers' attention to their table.

"I like her fine," he said adamantly, when Ginny had asked him in Muggle Studies. It was the only class they had together where they didn't have to worry about Riddle's prying stare.

"Do you?" said Ginny. "Margot says you've been a bit of an arse."

"Droope's too nice to say something like that."

"Pretty sure it was implied, when she said you've been ignoring her."

"I haven't been," mumbled Alphard. He looked away, grumbling something under his breath about not having anything to say to Margot. He looked so uncomfortable that Ginny took pity on him and lightly flicked his ear.

"Just say what's on your mind," she suggested when Alphard turned to glare at her. "You had no problem with that when we first met."

"That was different," he groused, as he rubbed his ear. "You hexed Abraxas. Those bogeys followed us around the whole night, I'll have you know. Ruined Burgie's robes too. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get rid of them?"

Ginny grinned at the memory. "He deserved it, you have to admit. If you can talk to me after all that, then you should be able to make small talk with Margot just fine. You've known her longer than I have — there's got to be something you can talk about."

"We've got nothing in common."

"You've got plenty in common."

"Name one," he huffed. "Knowing about You-Know-Who's murderous tendencies doesn't count."

It took everything she had not to burst into laughter, and she ended up making a strangled, choking sort of noise that had Alphard snickering in amusement. Edward Turner, across the way, threw them a warning look.

"Speaking of," said Ginny when Edward had turned back to the lecture, "what does Riddle's friends think about all this? I can't imagine him telling them about Margot."

"He doesn't need to," said Alphard. "They're happy about it, Raoul and the others. They never liked Droope to begin with."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course they don't. Arseholes."

Alphard didn't say anything for a moment. He glanced around the room; Silverton had her back turned, writing some dates on the board about the Muggles' Great War, and Edward was frantically copying them on his parchment.

"I haven't found Raoul's book yet," he said in a low voice. "I reckon Riddle gave it back. From what I can tell, he hasn't been looking into it like he used to. Maybe he's lost interest?"

Ginny shook her head. "About that? Trust me, Riddle's not going to lose interest."

"All right, so he's put it on the back burner then. He's been reading a lot of Divination books, these days. Apparently it's for his detentions."

She felt herself tense. "Are you sure?"

"He could be lying," said Alphard thoughtfully. "But why would he lie about that? Riddle doesn't take Divination. He dropped it when he found out Professor Cassander liked Abraxas better."

Ginny swallowed her reaction, covering with a laugh. She must have done a poor job of it, because Alphard frowned at her. He drummed his quill against the table, flicking specks of ink over their blank parchment.

"Should we be worried?" he asked quietly.

Should they?

Dumbledore hadn't said anything to Ginny about his detentions with Riddle — and frankly, she hadn't thought to ask. It wasn't her job to keep track of Riddle's every move.

And how much trouble could it be, researching Divination? It was all nonsense, anyway, and she doubted Riddle was going to find anything terrible. Dumbledore wouldn't have encouraged it if he thought otherwise.

"I'm sure Uncle will tell me if something's wrong," said Ginny eventually.

At any rate, it was Margot she was more concerned about. Ginny had seen Margot so scarcely since Halloween that she had the sinking feeling Margot was avoiding her too. Though their friends didn't bat an eye, Ginny felt her stomach twist uncomfortably every time Margot slipped away and ran off to the library. It reminded Ginny of those last weeks of her first year, when her brothers weren't quite sure what to do with her.

They hadn't been subtle about their hovering, she remembered. Ron told her terrible jokes and flashed her uncomfortable grins she couldn't return. Percy sat with her during her meals, blustering more than usual in that brisk, obnoxious way of his that meant he was worried. The twins tiptoed around her, disturbingly quiet and solemn when she was near, not pulling pranks at her expense when they normally would have.

Ginny had hated it. She had hated how they had crowded around her, ready to fight her fights, to be her shield, when the damage had already been done. She had resented them a little for it, for paying attention too late, for trying to make up for lost time by smothering her all at once.

Now she found herself wondering if this was what they had felt. This guilty weight in the pit of her stomach, this feeling of helplessness she didn't know how to ease.

Because as much as Ginny hated to see her friend draw away from her, she didn't know what to do for Margot now. There was nothing Ginny could say to make it better, and she knew Margot wouldn't appreciate her mothering or whatever trite platitudes she had to offer.

Harry would know, Ginny thought.

Harry, with his awkward smiles and Exploding Snap cards. He hadn't known what to do with her either, but he had done his best, just as her brothers did, and somehow it had been enough.

"Look, if you need to talk about it," said Ginny, the first chance she got, "if you want to talk about it . . ."

"There's nothing to talk about, is there?" said Margot, her mouth twisted in a pained looking smile. "And it's like you said — it won't happen again. Professor Dumbledore will make sure of that. So it's over now, isn't it?"

But Ginny knew, better than most, that it wasn't as simple as that. It never was.


The first Quidditch match of the season dawned on a cold, windy morning. Though the sky was a dreary grey, it didn't dim the exuberant mood that greeted Ginny and her friends when they entered the Great Hall. The Slytherin table was louder than usual and erupted into cheers whenever a member of their team arrived. Loudest of all was the welcome Malfoy received, which he returned by waving and bowing grandly.

"Prat," said Briseis with a fond smile. Her smile widened when Alphard, who came in with Malfoy, bounded over and wished her luck on the game.

"No escort today?" said Alphard to Ginny.

Margot quickly looked away and asked Briseis to pass the sugar.

"Don't start," said Ginny testily. "If you're going to take the mickey, they" — she threw a glare at Odette and Wendy, who were giggling madly — "beat you to it."

"Next time then," said Alphard lightly. "I was going to ask if you knew where Riddle ran off to. Abraxas does so love an audience."

Ginny bristled. "Malfoy's got plenty already, hasn't he?"

"But it's not the same, I don't think. I'm sure he'll miss having Riddle glare at him from the stands like usual."

He said this with a flippant air that made Ginny wary, even as Briseis tutted and rolled her eyes at him.

"Don't you go encouraging him," said Briseis. "You know better than to gang up on poor Tom like that."

"Oh yes, poor Tom," scoffed Alphard. "It's a wonder he's survived this long, with everyone so concerned for his welfare."

Margot, who had been quietly sipping her coffee, snorted into her mug.

"Anyway," he went on, turning to Ginny, "last I heard, he was going to spend the day in the library. No team spirit, that one. Thought you'd want to know."

"I'm not his sitter, Alphard," said Ginny, scowling, as Odette and Wendy started to giggle again. "I don't need to know everything he does."

"Hmm," said Alphard sceptically, his gaze flickering to Margot.

Walburga Black came up behind him before he could say anything else. She too offered Briseis some encouragement before dragging Alphard away, pausing only to return Odette and Wendy's hellos and walking past Ginny and Margot with her nose in the air.

There was a beat of awkward silence before Briseis, in a rather loud voice, pointed out the new Chaser, Armaan Chandra, who was striding over to Malfoy. Ginny recognized him as the bulky seventh-year who had stormed off the pitch during try-outs.

"He's not terrible, mind," said Briseis, as the table burst into another round of rousing applause. "But I'd rather you were playing with us. Abraxas thinks so too, but he'd sooner pull his own teeth out than admit it."

She left to go to the changing rooms not long after. By then, the ceiling of the Great Hall had turned darker, and soon rain began to pour, becoming heavier and heavier as the crowd thinned out and hurried towards the Quidditch field. Such was the anticipation for the match that the whole school turned out to watch as usual, though they had to run down the lawns bent double against the bitter wind.

When Ginny and her friends had settled in the Slytherin stands, she realized with a pang that the Gryffindors were directly opposite them. It felt odd, to not be sitting with them, to be clad in green and silver rather than red and gold. Stranger still was knowing that she had no friends there — not even Hagrid, who she had been avoiding since the start of the term.

But then, it would have hurt more, wouldn't it, if she had gone to Gryffindor like the Sorting Hat had wanted. There was nothing there for her now, and the harsh familiarity would have only pained her.

There was no time to dwell on it; both teams were walking out into the field, and the cheers that burst from the stands were almost as loud as the howling winds. The enthusiasm was so infectious that it didn't take long for Ginny to join in. Even Margot, who had been grumbling about the rain splattering her glasses, got to her feet when the players shot upward and into position. For all her complaints about Quidditch, there had been no need to pry her away from the library to attend —

Ginny froze. Alphard's warning — for it was a warning, however miffed she was at how he delivered it — suddenly came to mind. Looking around her, she saw that everyone was wearing green-and-silver scarves, hats, and gloves. There was Alphard with his sister and his cousin Orion up in the top row . . . near them was the rest of Malfoy's usual circle . . . some seats away was Riddle's small gang of cronies, including Lestrange . . .

But not Riddle.

He had never cared much for Quidditch, Ginny knew. It had been a point of contention between her and the diary, back when she thought something as stupid as that was Tom's most grievous sin.

Still, Ginny had expected Riddle to come, if only for the sake of his reputation. After all, his followers were here. The entire school was here. Dumbledore was also in the stands, so surely Riddle couldn't be busy with his detention. . . .

"Looking for someone?" said Wendy.

"Nothing," said Ginny, hastily turning back to the pitch. "No one. I'm just taking it all in."

Wendy frowned sympathetically. "It's not too strange, is it? You're supposed to be out there with them . . . and you spent so much time practicing too. . . ."

Ginny gave her a wan smile in return. She did miss Quidditch, enough to say she didn't mind Malfoy's gruelling drills. Practicing Defence with Alphard wasn't quite the same.

"No use crying over spilt milk," she said, and they raised their binoculars again.

The teams were so evenly matched that nobody was able to score until almost half an hour into the game. Slytherin was the first to score, but it wasn't long before Gryffindor caught up and matched them goal for goal.

"I'm getting dizzy, looking back and forth, back and forth," laughed Wendy.

"I can't see anything at all," sighed Margot, wiping her glasses for umpteenth time.

The weather only worsened as the game went on. The winds were strong enough to blow the younger players off course, including Gryffindor's Seeker, a scrawny second-year named Jonathan Reyes, who was darting all around like a particularly excitable sparrow. Slytherin Seeker Carolyn Fawley, who had taken the time-tested strategy of flying high above the other players and circling the pitch, came close to swerving into the path of a Bludger after a sudden gust of wind — much to the outrage of the Quidditch commentator.

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT, SINGH? ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL MY SISTER?"

"Mr. Fawley!" growled Professor Merrythought.

"Sorry, Professor," said Cain Fawley unapologetically.

"How has he not fallen off yet?" said Wendy, awed, as Neil Lament swung upside down from his broom to beat a Bludger furiously away from Carolyn. "He's thin as a rake!"

Odette laughed. "Almost makes you glad Raoul and Abraxas fell out when they did, doesn't it?"

"That's a terrible thing to say," admonished Margot.

"But true," said Odette, shrugging. "Don't you remember Briseis complaining all the time last year? He was awful. Bet she's relieved he got kicked off — reckon Abraxas is too, if he wasn't so upset about all the other stuff."

"Raoul Lestrange used to be the Beater?" said Ginny.

Odette turned to her, surprised. "You didn't know? Aren't you friends?"

"Where'd you get that idea?"

"Well, you spend so much time with Tom —"

"When are they going to catch the Snitch, do you think?" said Margot suddenly, peering skyward.

"You can't predict something like that —" Ginny tried to explain.

"— Gryffindor in possession," Cain Fawley was saying, his voice ringing through the stadium. "My dear Captain better not miss this shot because I bet on this match and I still owe Lee three galleo — yes, Professor, this is all very important information . . . no, it isn't nonsense, it's all — oh, now you've made me miss a goal —"

Gryffindor cheers filled the cold air, with howls and moans from the Slytherins.

"I don't think they've found it yet," said Wendy distractedly, her eyes caught on the skirmish above, where Armaan, who was now holding the Quaffle, had almost collided with the Gryffindor Beaters. "At this rate, we're going to be here all day."

"OI, TURNER! MY HOUSE-ELF CAN HIT A BLUDGER BETTER THAN THAT!"

"You're not thinking of leaving, are you?" said Odette, frowning at Margot.

"Of course not!" said Margot hastily. "But this is all getting a bit tedious, isn't it? The scores are so close they're not going to matter — and there's no point to the game besides catching the Snitch —"

"But the Snitch isn't the point!" gasped Wendy.

"— and Slytherin has the Quaffle — again — because some people would rather be snogging behind the greenhouse than practice — yes, Santiago, I'm talking about you —"

"FAWLEY!"

"Oh, you just don't get it," said Odette, shaking her head, and Ginny silently agreed.

"This can't be any worse than your Muggle games," said Wendy in a more conciliatory tone. "What's it called? The game with the insect?"

"Cricket," corrected Margot. "But that doesn't involve flying hundreds of feet up in the air or getting knocked off brooms —"

"HIT SOMEONE ELSE, MORONS!"

"Or overprotective brothers?" said Ginny wryly, as Carolyn narrowly dodged an incoming Bludger.

"Now that's just universal," said Margot. "I'm sure my brother would throw a fit if I played either."

"Probably because you'd be lousy at it," said Odette.

"I'd fare better if the rules made sense."

"Quidditch makes perfect sense!" cried Ginny and Wendy at once.

"— a spectacular save by Keeper Lucretia Black, whilst maintaining her equally spectacular hair. How does she do it? That's the question on everyone's mind — especially Chaser Zabini, who can afford the new Silver Arrow but not a sense of humour and is — yes, Professor, I'm getting there — now in possession of the Quaffle —"

As the game dragged on, Ginny found her attention drifting. Somehow every train of thought led back to Riddle — his newfound interest in Divination, why he was hiding away in the library, what the hell he was planning. . . .

It was too naïve to hope he wasn't plotting anything at all, but she had thought for sure Dumbledore's detentions would at least delay him. . . . Or perhaps Dumbledore was delaying him, and this supposed research really was a distraction. . . .

But why Divination, of all things?

How many times did she have to tell Riddle that the future wasn't set in stone? How many times, before it got through his thick skull?

And didn't Dumbledore say the detentions were supposed to be about his research? Since when did Dumbledore care about Divination?

"— back to Burke — she's going to sc — and the Gryffindors have taken the Quaffle!" Cain shouted, nearly two hours into the match. "A neat pass to Captain Dhawan, who passes to Chiu, back to Santiago — who drops it. Santiago dropped it. Hands up who's surprised —"

"Fawley, I am warning you —"

"But you saw it, Professor! I'm only stating facts! He was — wait a moment — is that — ?"

A murmur ran through the crowd as Carolyn Fawley dived like a falcon. Ginny sat up, roused from her thoughts; she could see a streak of gold hurtling downward —

"REYES, YOU NITWIT, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Though the same couldn't be said for Jonathan Reyes, who had exhausted himself in his excitement and kept missing the Snitch now dancing behind him. Malfoy was shouting at his Chasers to keep playing — Gryffindor was ahead by twenty points, and if Carolyn didn't catch it in time —

But he needn't have worried. Carolyn hurtled back toward the ground, the Snitch held high in her hand, and a storm of cheers and applause broke out from the stands.

As the spectators poured onto the rain-washed grounds, Ginny was jostled by the crowd and separated from her friends. It was only when she had reached the entrance hall that she found Odette and Wendy, who told her that Margot had gone to commiserate with Edward Turner and her Gryffindor friends. They looked distinctly nonplussed, but they brightened considerably when a passing group of Slytherin sixth-years exuberantly yelled, "Party down in the common room!"

And so they went.

The moment they entered the common room, they were met with a roar of celebration. Several hands pulled them into the room — schoolmates Ginny had never spoken to, but they didn't appear to care with whom they shared their excitement. Exchanging baffled grins with her friends, Ginny allowed herself to be shunted forward into the revelries.

"Oh, they have the little nibbles," said Wendy brightly, as they passed by a house-elf carrying trays of little cakes. "I love the little nibbles."

A little while later, they found Briseis surrounded by a mob of people congratulating her. Among them was Alphard, who had enveloped her in a hug so tight that he lifted her off her feet.

"Here we go again," Odette said to Wendy, who was biting the insides of her cheeks to keep herself from laughing.

Ginny averted her gaze, feeling faintly embarrassed to see the flustered, soppy expression on Briseis' face. A short distance away, Lucretia Black was threatening to dock points as she berated Ronan Rosier for bringing in a case of firewhisky.

"There are children here!" said Lucretia shrilly. Behind her, a pair of second-years was trying to pry the case open, but Malfoy shooed them away before they could.

Ginny looked around for Margot — this was the sort of thing she was expected to take care of, as prefect — before remembering where she had gone. This thought was immediately followed by Ginny remembering the other Slytherin prefect in her year, but she determinedly brushed it aside. She wasn't going to let Riddle dampen her spirits.

So Ginny ducked towards the drinks table, grabbed a bottle of butterbeer, and moved freely among the celebrations. She congratulated Carolyn and teased her about her brother's commentary, laughed with Armaan about Malfoy's exhausting practice drills, and even exchanged curt nods with Zabini. To her surprise, a red-faced Neil Lament approached her and mumbled something about her Bat-Bogey Hex before hurriedly dashing back to his friends.

Ginny had just extricated herself from a gaggle of girls too curious and excited about her relationship with Riddle, when Malfoy wandered over.

"Looks like we didn't need you after all," he drawled.

"Looks like it," said Ginny blithely. "Good game, Malfoy."

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. "Was that a compliment?"

She snorted. "Don't get used to it. If anything, Carolyn did most of the work."

"That she did," he agreed, and sounded rather proud about it. "She thought it was a shame, you not being on the team. They all did, really."

"Even Zabini?"

Malfoy glanced at Zabini, who was handing Briseis and Odette a bottle of butterbeer each.

"Nice flying, Zabini," Odette was saying.

Zabini smirked. "Nice enough to go out with me, Travers?"

Odette tapped her chin thoughtfully.

"No," she said after a long pause, then she tossed her hair over her shoulder and left Zabini gaping after her.

Briseis caught Ginny's eye, grinned, then said something to Zabini that made him glare at Ginny and stomp away in a huff.

"Probably not him," said Malfoy, chuckling. "But since you're on reserve, I'd say it's a happy compromise."

Ginny's eyebrows furrowed. "Dippet said I was off the team."

Malfoy shrugged. "You're Slughorn's darling. They'll forget all about this basilisk business by the next game, just you wait."

"That's . . . awfully nice of you."

"Don't get ahead of yourself," he said in a bored and lofty voice. "It's not a guarantee you'll even play."

"Still," she said, wary but hopeful and not a little bewildered. It seemed to be her default, when it came to these Slytherins. "You don't have to — well. Thanks, Malfoy."

Malfoy shrugged again, then stepped around her to go to Lucretia and Carolyn, who were now talking to Odette.

Throughout the party, Ginny tried to talk to Alphard, but it seemed his sister wasn't keen on letting him out of her sight. Walburga Black and his cousins hovered close to him when he wasn't with Briseis or Malfoy. Twice Alphard caught her staring, and he gave her a sheepish smile before letting himself be ushered away by his friends.

"Don't think I didn't see you back there, being all judgy again," said Odette much later, when Ginny had given up on talking to Alphard and retreated to a quieter corner of the common room.

"I wasn't being judgy," protested Ginny. "I just think you can do better than that smarmy git."

"It's just a bit of fun," said Odette breezily. "Zabini's nice to look at, isn't he? Not quite as nice as your Tom, but he's coming along all right, don't you think?"

"Riddle's not my anything!" said Ginny hotly, but Odette pretended not to hear her as she walked off to help herself to more butterbeer.

It was just her luck that, in the same moment Odette vanished into the crowd, Ginny saw Riddle with an armful of books, heading towards the door to the boys' dormitories. As if feeling her eyes on him, he paused midstride and turned, meeting her gaze. Without thinking, Ginny leapt to her feet, about to go after him, when she saw a mane of bushy dark hair from the corner of her eye.

It was Margot, the bare stone wall sliding close behind her.

With a sinking feeling, Ginny darted forward, wove her way through the crowd, and hurried towards Margot.

"It's fine, Ginny," said Margot, blinking back tears.

"But if he's done anything —"

"Nothing happened. We just talked."

Ginny glanced towards Riddle, who held her gaze for another moment then swept off to his dormitory.

"I'm here if you need me, all right?" said Ginny.

"Tom used to say that too," said Margot dolefully.

Ginny stiffened.

"Not that you're —" stammered Margot. "I only meant —"

"No, I know what you mean."

Ginny almost gave her a pat, generic answer, something nice about how Riddle would never bother her again, how this whole thing didn't matter because it would all turn out for the best. But all her nightmares, her memories of blood and ink and feathers, wouldn't let her.

"I had someone like that once," said Ginny carefully. "I told him everything, and he always listened. As if he truly wanted to listen. But he — he lied to me too and he —"

She stopped abruptly. I'm not explaining this right, she thought, and tried again.

"My dad, he liked to tinker with Muggle things, tried to mix them with magic. Most of the time it blew up in his face. Used to drive Mum mad, but Dad — he always said never to trust something that can think for itself, if you can't see its brain."

"What does that mean?" asked Margot.

"No idea," said Ginny, laughing a little. "I think it's about finding out how things work. It must've been why he was so fascinated with Muggles and the things they come up with, even when they're broken. Motors, bulbs, all sorts — useless junk, basically."

Ginny paused. Margot was twisting her scarf in her hands, but she was listening, and Ginny took her continued silence as permission to go on.

"But Dad, he didn't think they were junk. Some things are never the same again, no matter what you do to fix them, but he thought it was worth a try anyway. Because some broken things can be fixed, and if they can't, you can make them into something new. Not always better, sure, but something different, and Dad says — he thought that could be beautiful too."

Margot didn't say anything right away, so Ginny led her to the table where the house-elves had placed trays of pasties, sweets, and chips.

"Want one?" offered Ginny as she took one of the pumpkin pasties.

Margot frowned. "What was the point of that?"

"Of food?"

"Shut up," grumbled Margot, but a small smile crept across her face.

"What I'm trying to say is," said Ginny, biting the crust of her pasty, "Dad was right, and I've never forgotten it."

"You think I should fix things with Tom?"

"Merlin, no," said Ginny vehemently. "You don't have to fix anything with him, Margot. You don't have to forgive him — you shouldn't have to forgive him at all."

Margot took an involuntary step back, her eyes wide. She looked so startled that Ginny drew a deep breath, set her pasty down, and inwardly counted to ten.

"The only person you have to forgive is yourself," she said, more calmly, when she was done. "Sounds trite, I know, but it's true. I blamed myself for what happened with — my friend, but there's not much I can do about it other than try and move forward. If I try hard enough, maybe I'll stop feeling responsible. Or maybe I'll always feel responsible, but I have to keep trying anyway. Maybe someday that'll work."

"And if it doesn't?" said Margot softly.

"Then it doesn't," said Ginny. "But at least I tried. There's a someday, somewhen, and if I have to believe in anything, I'll believe in that. That's what second chances are all about, aren't they? And I don't mean for Riddle."

Second chances, she had learned, weren't just for other people. "Sometimes the hardest person to give them to is yourself," Dumbledore had said to her. It was the sort of nugget of wisdom she hadn't appreciated then, when her grief had been so heavy that it had felt like the only real thing in the world. She still carried it with her, but every day made it — not easier, exactly, but just a little more bearable. Every day the shroud that covered her mornings, that made the skies dark even when the sun shone, felt less and less stifling, its hold dwindling away little by little.

And that was good, wasn't it? Her family, everything she left behind — they existed in the past tense now. Time would always march on, and it would be daft to dig her heels in and keep clinging.

"But I should have known, shouldn't I?" said Margot gloomily. "Maybe if I'd known about it sooner, maybe I could have — I should have —" She broke off, her chin wobbling, and she cut her eyes away.

"You shouldn't have to do anything," said Ginny gently. "It's not your fault. Everything Riddle did, everything that came after — that's on him. It's no one's fault but his own."

"But I keep thinking, what if —" Margot let out a small sigh, nothing more than an emphatic breath, as she fidgeted with her scarf again. "I wish he wasn't here," she said, her voice now barely above a whisper. "But I'm — not happy, but I guess . . . relieved, that he still is. That's stupid, isn't it?"

Ginny smiled tightly. "Not really, no."

Riddle had nowhere else to go, and Margot knew it. If only caring about someone was as easy as flipping a switch — maybe then they would be spared from all this grief.

Ginny offered her a pasty and said nothing else, because there was nothing else to be said. She felt as though they had reached an understanding that didn't need to be put into words, and she had to desperately cast these thoughts aside before she drew any more parallels to her time with Tom.

Fortunately, Briseis found them moments later and steered them back to the celebrations. Surrounded by her friends, amid their laughter and a seemingly limitless supply of butterbeer, it was easy to forget everything else, and again Ginny resolved to put Riddle out of her mind.

She would worry about it in the morning.


Riddle was waiting for her in the common room the next day, as though nothing had happened. Ginny sidestepped him and sat by the fireplace, daring him to object. It was Sunday, which meant most of their fellow Slytherins were in the dungeons catching up with their homework, and she knew Riddle was as reluctant as ever to make a scene.

"What now?" he said impatiently, as he perched on the sofa next to her. "Do I have idiot tattooed on my forehead or something?"

"It wouldn't be a bad idea," said Ginny, "give everyone a fair warning, anyway."

The corner of his mouth twitched, though whether it was in amusement or annoyance, she couldn't tell.

"This is the part where you laugh," she said when he didn't reply. "Or you can try saying something just as clever."

He settled for a scowl, his usual expression these days, and folded his arms across his chest. "That was clever?"

"Aww, see? I knew you could do it."

"Cut the pleasantries, Smith. What do you want?"

Ginny sobered at once. "What did you say to Margot?"

Riddle gave her an unimpressed look, as if he had expected the question and was irked by her predictability. Which was absurd, coming from him, oblivious prick that he was.

"Nothing that concerns you," he said peevishly.

She scoffed. "I think everything concerns me right now, when it involves you."

"It almost sounds like you care."

"Not about you, I don't."

"Ask her yourself, if it matters that much."

The problem was Ginny already had, but Margot refused to say a word. With their friends close by, Ginny knew she wouldn't be able to get any answers out of Margot, nor could she try to force it out of her. Riddle, on the other hand . . .

"I'd rather hear it from you," she said. "What were you doing yesterday?"

Riddle quirked an eyebrow. "I thought this was about Droope."

"Just answer, will you," snapped Ginny.

"I was in the library," he said slowly, with the frustrated tone of one stating the obvious in the face of unrelenting stupidity. Which was much like his typical tone, only slightly more so. "I didn't realize I needed your permission to do my Runes homework."

"Your homework," she repeated doubtfully.

"I've been pressed for time, thanks to your uncle."

"Helping him with his papers, I've heard. How is it?"

"Scintillating," he said in such a dry tone that, if he had been anyone else, Ginny would have laughed.

"Well, what about Margot?"

"I didn't seek her out, if that's what you're implying."

"You must have said something to her — don't pretend you didn't."

There was a loud twittering noise behind them; a group of fourth-year girls was whispering and giving them unsubtle glances. Riddle, looking amused, inclined his head towards the exit. Ginny glowered and, wordlessly, they stood and left the common room.

"I tried to convince her it was a misunderstanding," said Riddle, as they set off down the deserted corridor.

Ginny gaped. "How the hell is getting Petrified a misunderstanding?"

He let out an exasperated sigh. "Are you going to let me speak or not?"

Rolling her eyes, she pretended to zip her mouth shut and waited for him to continue.

"When you said you were 'fixing my mess', I thought you intended to change her mind, tell her she came to the wrong conclusion." He glanced at her and, as if sensing her next question, added, "No, I didn't tamper with her memories — there would be no point. She would simply piece it together again, if either of us acted remotely suspicious. She knows no one could have done it but me."

Ginny stared at him, trying to gauge if he was telling the truth. "I could have told you that — I did tell you that."

"Given your track record, is it so surprising I didn't believe you?"

"Oh sure, because you're such a saint, aren't you?"

This was met with sullen silence. Riddle was walking with stiff, rapid strides, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets; he was regarding the flagged stone floor with fixed intensity.

"So that's it?" said Ginny after a while.

"She wanted me expelled," said Riddle in a pensive tone. "Still does. She'd see it through, if need be, but she trusts you to keep me in line." He raised his head and looked at her. "Black trusts you too. You have them wrapped around your finger."

Her eyes narrowed. "What are you on about?"

"This has all worked out quite well for you, hasn't it?" he said sourly. "You must be so relieved. You don't need to keep secrets from them anymore."

Riddle pressed his lips together into a hard line, and Ginny knew better than to interrupt, even though she had questions pressing to be asked.

"They don't know everything, clearly not as much as I do, but you've told them just enough that they'll trust you. They trust you enough to stake their lives on your word." His mouth twisted as if he'd tasted something bitter. "Your faithful followers, together at last."

"It's not like that," said Ginny sharply.

"Isn't it?" he said darkly. "They'll follow you anywhere, do you realize that? You've known them for a matter of weeks, but you have their loyalty. They'll do anything you ask with little prompting."

Though she met his gaze with ease, there was something else in his eyes now, some spark that she felt didn't quite belong there.

"Because they're my friends, Riddle," she said firmly. "If I have their loyalty, it's because they have mine."

Riddle stopped walking, and so did Ginny. The double doors of the Great Hall were just up ahead, and she could see students flooding out, filling the entrance hall with the buzz of laughter, chatter, and clinking plates.

"She came to you," said Riddle, more to himself than to her. "They came to you, the both of them. I thought this was all Dumbledore's doing, and that you were just playing along, but it's the other way around, isn't it? It always has been."

Ginny didn't have the slightest idea what that meant, let alone how to respond to it, but she was saved the trouble — Riddle suddenly turned and walked back to the dungeons. She scowled, tempted to holler at his retreating back not to leave in the middle of a conversation — again — but a group of Hufflepuffs, Ignatius Prewett among them, were peering curiously at her, and Riddle was walking too fast for her to keep up.

Fine. Whatever. She wasn't going to chase after him.

Ginny entered the Great Hall alone, silently cursing Riddle for being a bloody dramatic git who couldn't be normal to save his life. Briseis, Odette, and Wendy were still there, their half-eaten breakfast forgotten as they discussed their Hogsmeade plans. Ginny was about to ask them where Margot was when she realized what Odette was saying.

"Hold on," said Ginny. "You've got a date already? Don't tell me you said yes to Zabini."

"Give me some credit," sniffed Odette. "I do have some taste."

"Some."

"Oh, hush you."

"Are you really not going to tell us who it is?" said Briseis.

"And have you make fun of me for the next two weeks?" said Odette, without a trace of embarrassment. "No thank you. What about you, Ginny? Got a date of your own?"

"Funny you should ask," said Ginny calmly, as she grabbed a plate of toast. "I do have a date."

Briseis and Wendy sat up, looking astonished.

"Really?" said Wendy excitedly.

"With the shelf of cauldron cakes at Honeydukes," said Ginny.

"Boo," said Odette loudly. A nearby seventh-year nearly dropped his mug in alarm; he threw them a dirty look, making them snicker.

"Any Hogsmeade plans yourself?" Ginny asked Briseis and Wendy.

"Unless someone decides to ask me," said Briseis, with morose sarcasm, "I'll be spending that weekend picking out new quills. Oh joy."

"Ooh, I'll come with," said Wendy. "I ran out of Self-Correcting Ink in Divination and I want to see if Scrivenshaft's has it in. . . . Come to think of it, I need to get a new crystal ball too — I broke mine when Margot and I were practicing."

"Bounced it too hard, did you?" said Odette.

"I got startled, is all," said Wendy, now blushing. "Thought I saw something red and got spooked — it means danger, you see — but Margot said I was just seeing the candles. . . . Oh, do you think we can get her to come with us?"

Briseis shrugged. "What else is she gonna do? If she's not busy with her study date with Wright —"

"Study group," Ginny corrected absently, chewing on a piece of toast.

"— then I bet we can drag her out of the library. By the ankles, if it comes down to it."


November was fast drawing to a close. Mornings brought with it icy drafts and hard frosts that matched the cold shoulder Riddle continued to give her. Ginny wondered if he was going to be like this every day until they graduated. Trying to picture Riddle as he was now, leaving Hogwarts to start his senseless campaign of bigotry and destruction . . .

It was almost laughable to think that this was what was lurking underneath Voldemort, when he was acting so petulant and moody like a —

Well. Like any boy his age, really. Though obviously the circumstances weren't quite so ordinary.

Riddle was so good an actor that it didn't occur to Ginny that anyone would pick up on his surliness. But the day before the Hogsmeade trip, as Ginny was congratulating Nancy Kincaid and the Ravenclaw Quidditch team for their win against Hufflepuff, Nancy pulled her out of earshot of her team and asked about Riddle and Margot.

"Are they fighting?" said Nancy timidly. "I don't mean to pry, but it's just that Tom hasn't been coming to our study group, and Margot's acting like it's all fine."

"Riddle's probably busy," said Ginny, with all the nonchalance she could muster. "Detentions with my uncle and all. I reckon he just doesn't have the time."

"Margot said that too, except I don't think I've seen them talk in weeks. Properly talk, and not this . . . hi-and-bye thing they've been doing. Tom still speaks to us, yeah, but Margot never asks about him, doesn't bring him up at all . . . that's never happened before, with those two."

"He's just busy," insisted Ginny.

But Nancy didn't look convinced. "I think he's avoiding her — or maybe she's avoiding him, I can't tell. I know it's not really my business, but Margot . . ." Her face crumpled with concern. "She's sad, sometimes, when she thinks we're not looking. It's always been Tom that she goes to for that sort of thing. She won't even tell Leonard."

Ginny's stomach slipped several notches. There was no way she could explain it all without sounding absolutely mental, and so she said something vague about talking to Margot, knowing even before the words left her how unlikely it was that Margot would open up to her.

When Nancy departed, Ginny went up to the library, stalking towards Riddle's hidden table. She was a little unsure why, but she supposed if there was anyone who ought to know about her conversation with Nancy — and, apparently, how much he had underestimated his Muggle-born friends' cleverness — it was Riddle.

Ginny found him behind a mountain of books, bent over what appeared to be a very long essay. Riddle had already filled half a roll of parchment, which was dangling from the edge of the table. Something inside her shifted uneasily at the sight of his familiar handwriting, at his ink-stained fingers, but she pushed it down and eyed the alarmingly large pile of books in front of him.

Arithmancy . . . Transfiguration . . . Ancient Runes . . . but nothing on Divination or the Dark Arts, nothing that looked like it belonged in the Restricted Section. . . .

Satisfied, Ginny sank into the chair across from Riddle, who started and blinked up at her. It was a second before he seemed to register where he was, then he straightened, shot her a contemptuous look, and resumed writing, his posture as rigid as the suits of armour that lined the castle's corridors.

"Nancy was asking about you," said Ginny, unperturbed. "She's noticed you and Margot haven't been talking."

"And?" said Riddle. "Isn't that what we agreed on?"

It was, but if Ginny was being honest, she hadn't really thought it through when they made their deal. She had been so focused on Alphard and Margot that she hadn't considered what Riddle's friends would think — or what her friends would think. Maybe if she had run it over with Dumbledore, they could have come up with something more sensible.

"Do you miss them?" asked Ginny. It had been nagging at her since she had seen that odd expression on his face when Margot first began ignoring him, but it wasn't until Ginny spoke with Nancy that she remembered. "Talking to them, I mean. Do you miss it?"

"It hardly matters," said Riddle distractedly, still scribbling away. "You've made it clear I can't approach Droope, and she's clearly using them as a barricade."

She gave him her severest frown. "Stop that. They're people, not a bloody wall. They're supposed to be your friends."

"Don't be naïve, Smith," he said lazily, peering at her over the tip of his quill. "It doesn't suit you."

"All right, fine, so they're not your friends, but they're the closest you've had to one. You and Margot, you've been — acquaintances or allies or whatever you want to call it — you've known each other for years. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"What do you expect me to say? That I've grown fond of them? That I'm sorry for what I did?"

"Are you?"

Riddle gave her a withering look.

"Right," sighed Ginny. "I don't even know what I'm asking, honestly. I guess I just . . . I can't imagine sharing so much of my life with someone, and then not caring at all when they leave."

"They were useful, I won't deny that," he said indifferently, buried in his essay once more. "I was with them because I needed to start somewhere. You of all people should know better than to presume it was anything more than that."

"Is that really all there is?"

There was a pause. Then Riddle laid down his quill and looked up, his face perfectly blank. "I've disappointed you."

Ginny shook her head. What a strange thing to say, she thought.

"I wouldn't say that," she said, carefully weighing her words. "More like . . . I can't imagine it. I can't imagine not caring."

Riddle said nothing. He stared at her for a moment and managed to give the strong impression that he didn't like what he saw.

Eventually he stood and took out his wand. With one sweeping motion, the books on his table flew back to their shelves and his quill, inkwell, and now rolled-up parchment stowed themselves inside his bag. In spite of herself, Ginny couldn't help but admire his spellwork.

"But I don't get it," she said, as Riddle swung his bag over his shoulder. "If it doesn't matter to you, then why are you still brooding?"

"I do not brood," he huffed, clearly doing his best to look serious and indignant and failing miserably.

Ginny snorted as she followed Riddle out of the library. Thankfully, he had slowed his pace instead of storming off, otherwise she would have had no qualms about binding his feet to the ground.

"Don't be modest, Riddle. You're a brooding champion. You've probably got a big armchair somewhere where you plot and make your monologues and stare at the fireplace."

Riddle's brows drew together; he seemed to be fighting his lips from making an expression. He turned his face away and exhaled harshly — a sound suspiciously like amusement covered by a little cough. "You're exhausting, Smith. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"That's not a no," she sang in an awful key, then laughed at Riddle's grimace. "But I'm serious. If you're not brooding —"

"I'm not."

"Debatable. If you're not, then why do you keep staring at Margot? And don't pretend you don't, because it's obviously a creepy habit of yours —"

"Jealous you don't have all my attention?"

"Ha! Says the guy acting like a jealous brat —"

The realization seized her so suddenly that she stopped in her tracks.

"Oh God," said Ginny, without thinking. "You're jealous of Alphard."

Riddle, who had paused and turned to look at her quizzically, was now staring at her as though she had grown another head.

"You're jealous," she said again, the words pouring out of her in an unpremeditated rush. "This whole thing with Margot — it is bothering you, isn't it? You never thought she would figure it out, you didn't think she would stop being your friend — but she did. It's bothering you, because she cut you off and not the other way around. And now she's friends with Alphard — she picked him and they're actually getting along — and you're jealous."

Even as she spoke, she knew it wasn't quite right, but it was close enough. It had to be, because it made sense — Riddle had always hated Alphard. Maybe not as much as he loathed Malfoy, but certainly enough that it must be maddening for him to have Alphard so closely entwined in all this.

Riddle's expression darkened, his teeth bared in a snarl. "I'm not jealous of your spineless pet."

"This isn't even about Margot, is it?" she demanded. "You're mad that Alphard has everything you want and now he has her too —"

"I'm not listening to this," he said coldly, walking away again. "You've obviously made up your mind."

Ginny sprinted after him, down the stairs and through the dungeons. She was panting slightly when she finally caught up to him.

"I'm right, aren't I?" she said fiercely. To her annoyance, Riddle kept walking, not even the slightest bit out of breath. "God, you're such a boy. You don't even feel guilty at all, do you? You're just put out that Alphard Black has one-upped you in every way —"

"This has nothing to do with Black," he snapped.

"What is it about then?"

Riddle stopped so abruptly that she almost ran into him. For a moment, Ginny thought he was going to answer her, but he simply turned, his back to her, and knocked on the door she hadn't noticed was there. It was only then that she realized where they were, but it was too late — the door was swinging open, and there was nowhere to hide.

"Ah, Tom!" beamed Slughorn. "Good to see you, my boy! What can I do for you?"

Riddle smiled, the picture of innocence.

"Good afternoon, sir," he said politely. "I was just accompanying Ginny — showing her a shortcut, in fact. She was ever so worried about being late."

Slughorn brightened as his gaze fell upon Ginny. "Ah, yes, I almost forgot! Our last detention day, isn't it? Well, come along, Ginny. We have work to do — oh, I was telling you about Eugène Canseliet last time, wasn't I? Lovely chap. . . ." He turned to Riddle. "It really is too bad, Tom, that you can't stay with us. Perhaps next time, yes? You best be on your way now, I'm sure Albus is waiting."

Then Slughorn ushered Ginny inside his office. She shot one last venomous look at Riddle, but he merely smirked at her, looking far too smug for her liking.

The minutes snailed by. Ginny let Slughorn's voice wash over her as she buffed up cauldrons and refilled vials, occasionally saying, "Mmm" and "Yes, Professor" and "Very interesting, sir." Now and then she caught some names — her own, Dumbledore's, some vaguely familiar ones that she supposed she must have had read in passing in the Daily Prophet.

More than once, her thoughts wandered to Riddle and his detentions with Dumbledore. As Slughorn prattled on, she wondered if Riddle was having a miserable a time as she was. She hoped so, bloody prat deserved it — but then that would defeat the point of Dumbledore's plan.

It must be going well so far . . . Dumbledore hadn't mention anything to her, and no news was good news, wasn't it? Admittedly it had been some time since she came over for tea, but surely Dumbledore would keep her informed, busy or not . . . .

Slughorn was in the middle of some story about Carolyn Fawley's grandfather when he remembered the time. With great reluctance, he finally dismissed her after ensuring she remembered the date of his next Slug Club dinner. Relieved, Ginny plastered a smile on her face and all but ran out of his office.

Alphard was waiting for her in the entrance hall, looking very much like he wanted to start laughing at the sight of her.

"How was detention?" he asked.

"Terrible," she groaned. "Merlin, doesn't Slughorn ever run out of stories?"

He chuckled. "I think the world would implode if he does. Chin up — you could've gotten Kettleburn, and then you'd be mucking out stables."

They headed up to the third floor for their Defence lessons, all the while swapping stories and complaints about their increasing amount of homework.

"I'll probably go, just for a wander," she said, when the conversation moved to Hogsmeade. "Anything to avoid revisions."

"We could go together," he said hopefully, "if you haven't got any plans."

Ginny frowned.

"This isn't going to be like last time, is it?" she said suspiciously, as they entered their usual classroom. "Because I know you want me and Malfoy to get along, but I'm not itching to spend every Hogsmeade weekend with him —"

"It'll be just us. Abraxas already made plans."

Her frown deepened. "You know, if you're looking to go with someone, you could just ask Briseis."

Alphard shifted uneasily, burying his hands in his pockets. "But I talk to her all the time. I've barely seen you — these meetings don't exactly count."

"Miss me, did you?"

He grinned as they took out their wands and got into position. "Not as much as you missed me. Admit it — you do."

"Less and less every day," said Ginny, pursing her lips but failing to keep them from turning up at the corners. "Loser buys the winner anything and everything?"

"Done."

They shook on it.

Alphard's cheer quickly vanished when, caught unawares after a hastily deflected hex, his wand flew out of his hand and into Ginny's.


Something was wrong.

Ginny knew it the moment she found Alphard staring dejectedly at the fireplace the next morning. He was too lost in his thoughts to notice she was there, and it took her clearing her throat loudly to snap him out of it. He jumped in alarm, looking as though he had forgotten where he was, but she didn't blame him. Almost everyone, including her friends, had already left for Hogsmeade, and the common room was empty and almost eerily quiet.

"Ready to finance my day of unchecked indulgence?" she said with a grin, hoping to lift his spirits.

Alphard smiled back. "Not if you intend to buy out all of Hogsmeade."

But it wasn't long before his smile drooped, and his despondent air returned as they walked on, out of the castle and onto the cold, sunlit day. Ginny tried to joke about her anticipated spending for the trip and whether he could afford it, and though Alphard replied with the requisite laugh, it was clear as morning water that his heart wasn't in it. They settled into an uneasy silence, punctuated by the frosty grass crunching under their feet.

The day went by painfully slowly. Alphard never objected to anything she wanted, no matter how detrimental to his wallet, only occasionally advising her to get some higher quality brand of this broom-polishing kit or that flavour of sweet. He seemed too distracted to notice much around him, and Ginny was seriously considering suggesting something outlandish — maybe a set of gaudy peacock quills or an actual racing broom — just to see if he would react at all.

They were wandering aimlessly inside Zonko's Joke Shop, as Ginny pondered how to best break through to Alphard. Across the aisle, Nancy and Edward appeared to be arguing about something involving boys with accents.

"We're in Scotland," Nancy was saying, "and you're from Sheffield. Of course you think everyone's got an accent."

Ginny waved at them as they left the store, and she saw Edward glancing curiously at her and Alphard over his shoulder before they stepped out onto the street. Alphard, whose arms were already laden with bags holding her purchases, was too busy frowning at nothing to acknowledge them, and he merely shrugged when Ginny asked him where he wanted to go next. It was only when she suggested the Three Broomsticks that he finally spoke.

"Abraxas is there," he said, in a much different tone from the mechanical courtesy he had been giving her all day.

"All right," she said slowly. "Do you want to go?"

"He's on a date."

Her mind blanked.

"Oh," said Ginny.

"Yeah," said Alphard glumly.

They stood there looking at each other, and then —

"Want to get sloshed?"

Alphard's eyes crinkled, as if trying to decide if she was joking or not. "Burgie's right. You're a terrible influence."

"The absolute worst," said Ginny, without missing a beat. "First I've got you befriending Muggle-borns and blood traitors, now this — what's next? Freedom for house-elves? Werewolf rights? Equality for Muggle-borns?"

That got a chuckle out of him, his first genuine laugh since their trip began.

"So . . . Hog's Head?" she said bracingly.

It looked like Alphard wanted to protest, but after a second's hesitation, he shook his head and said, "Oh fuck it. Hog's Head it is."

They trudged down the road to Hog's Head through the frozen slush. Alphard kept glancing at the passing students on the way, obviously keeping an eye out for his relatives. Ginny, linking arms with him, led the way inside the small inn before he changed his mind.

But they stopped dead in the doorway, faltering before they could step over the threshold. There, seated at the farthest table from the bar and directly facing the door, was Riddle, surrounded by his followers.

"I didn't know he'd be here," said Alphard quietly. "Should we — ?"

"No," said Ginny, then pointed him to a table near the bay windows, which overlooked the street and the pearly white sky.

Determinedly ignoring Riddle and the stormy frown on his face, Ginny crossed to the bar and looked around. Hog's Head was exactly as she remembered it — small, dingy, and smelling strongly of goats. She wasn't sure whether to be comforted or concerned, though she wouldn't be surprised if Aberforth Dumbledore kept this place standing for more than fifty years through sheer spite.

The man himself emerged from the backroom, with a glower that etched itself deeper into his face when he saw her.

"You're not getting anything for free," said Aberforth irritably.

Ginny grinned her brightest grin. "Damn. Not even a family discount?"

"Does my brother know you're here?" he grunted, unamused. Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Niece."

"I don't think he'd have any objections, Uncle."

Aberforth gave her a thoroughly mistrustful look. "Your friend's underage."

Ginny almost denied it, but a glance at Alphard told her how futile it would be. Among the dirt and grime of the pub, Alphard stood out like a sore thumb; his discomfort was plain to see as he eyed the other pubgoers with unconcealed suspicion.

"You're not imposing age restrictions now, are you?" Ginny said instead. She inclined her head towards Riddle's table, which was unusually loud and rowdy for their lot. "You're letting them drink."

"They're not Albus' latest project," said Aberforth scornfully.

Ginny could still feel Riddle's eyes on her and decided not to dissuade Aberforth of the notion. She didn't know Aberforth as well as she knew his brother, and even during her time in the D.A., she hadn't known what to make of him. She had seen him in passing once or twice over the summer, but she remembered so little of those months that she wasn't sure how much he knew about her — or what Dumbledore had told him to explain her sudden appearance.

Enough to sell her cover story, that much was obvious. Enough that Aberforth wanted nothing to do with her, and Ginny wondered if she ought to be offended by that.

"You can put it on my tab," she said calmly.

"You don't have one," grumbled Aberforth, but he did pull up two very dusty bottles of Blishen's Firewhisky from beneath the counter.

Ginny returned to her table to find Alphard grimacing at the grime on the windows, and he favoured the same look on the bottle she handed him. Squaring his shoulders, he sniffed at the bottle of firewhisky and — before she could warn him — took too much of a gulp. At once, he started coughing, and she tried not to laugh as she patted him on the back.

"Wrackspurt got you?" she said.

Alphard stared. "A what?"

"Wrackspurt," she repeated, straight-faced. "Invisible floating buggers. Bit like moths, but they make your brain woolly."

"That's . . . you're making that up, aren't you?"

"They could be real, for all you know."

Alphard huffed in amusement and fixed her with a look that told her he knew exactly what she was doing, but he was thankful anyway.

Grinning, Ginny raised her bottle. "Cheers."

Hours passed — or something very much like it — where they talked about nothing and everything. Emboldened by the firewhisky, Alphard spoke of whatever came to mind, and it wasn't long before Ginny forgot about Riddle entirely as she listened to Alphard rant and rave. She wasn't sure who was paying for their drinks anymore, just that they kept coming, though she made sure they were all in bottles and that she watched as they were opened. The pub may have been half-empty, but there were still more people here than she was used to seeing — too many people in hoods, too many with their faces hidden and their figures shrouded. Alphard was right to be cautious.

The sky had turned a pale grey when Alphard finally ran out of things to rage about. His tirade over, Ginny was beginning to feel the firewhisky. She supposed it was why she said, more bluntly than she intended, "So — Abraxas, huh? Can't say I saw that coming."

Alphard, who had been peering warily at a group of thick-accented boys leaving the pub, turned to her with the same dismal air from before.

"That's a first for you, is it?" he muttered. "Everyone saw it coming. Stupid of me, not to see it coming."

"You didn't?"

"Well . . . kind of. It's expected. Not as if I didn't know it was inevitable. . . . Sanctimonia Vincet Semper . . ."

It took Ginny a moment to realize he wasn't casting a spell, and a moment longer to ask what it meant.

"Purity will always conquer," said Alphard heavily. "It's the Malfoy family motto."

"Mottos," said Ginny, wrinkling her nose. "Why'd people have to have mottos? Bloody pretens — pretensh — bloody stupid, that is."

Alphard stared moodily into his glass — they were drinking beer now, though she couldn't remember when that had happened.

"But he's the heir, all right?" he sighed. "He's got to. Has to follow it, that motto."

Ginny took a long swig of her drink, thinking quickly. Maybe bringing him here had been a mistake, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time, when she had found herself at a loss for comforting words. It wasn't as though she was really surprised to learn Malfoy was seeing someone else — his unpleasant progenies had to come from somewhere, after all — but as much as Ginny felt sorry to see Alphard unhappy, she was largely relieved. Alphard deserved better than to pine after Malfoy.

But she knew Alphard wouldn't appreciate the sentiment, and so she struggled to think of something to say to console him. Malfoy's going to raise a fucking fascist probably wouldn't work.

"Don't take this the wrong way —" Ginny began, but Alphard forestalled her with another miserable sigh.

"I take everything the wrong way. Apparently, I've got a gift for it. Just ask Briseis."

Ginny let out a sigh of her own. Everyone was so miserable these days, she mused. It was a little strange to think that this time it had nothing to do with Voldemort.

"Oh, forget it." She shook her head, realized it made the room spin, then stopped and went on, "I don't think I want to know anymore."

"Why not?"

"It's a stupid question."

"I love stupid questions."

Ginny cast an appraising eye at Alphard, who had raised his head to look at her expectantly, all wide-eyed eagerness. It was a familiar pose from him, she realized, one she often saw at a distance when he was with Malfoy. She wondered how long he had been looking at her like that. Had he always, and she simply didn't notice until now?

"Why Malfoy?" she asked. "Of all the guys you could have fancied . . ."

Alphard stared into his drink again, as if contemplating the mysteries of the glass of beer she had poured him.

"Because it's Abraxas," he said ruefully, in a very quiet voice. "He's got this — this thing, you know? Makes him bright, and I don't just mean that he's clever. I mean that he . . . he stands out. Everyone either loves him or they hate him, but they're always looking. That's the thing — whatever they think of him now, they'll remember him. One way or the other, they'll remember him, and how many people can say that?"

Ginny tried not to grimace — really, she did — but the last thing she wanted to hear was Alphard's drunken odes to Malfoy, especially when it sounded like utter nonsense. She really shouldn't have asked. "But it doesn't have to be him, Alphard. There are other people like that."

Alphard shook his head. It must have made him dizzy too, because he stopped and frowned. "There's no one like him. That's the point."

Ginny was fairly certain that this thing of Malfoy's was his showboating prattiness, but she found herself reconsidering when Alphard suddenly sat up and, in a very intent, very matter-of-fact tone, said, "Well, you are. You're like that."

She burst out laughing. "Why, Alfie, are you saying you fancy me after all?"

Alphard made a face, and she laughed even harder. "Don't be gross. I just mean, you're the same, you and Abraxas — and Riddle too. Makes sense, actually."

"Ah, so it's Riddle you fancy —"

"You've been spending too much time with Odette," he said grumpily. He gave her the long cool look of someone who had just had a massive concrete wall dropped in front of his train of thought. "The point is — the point is — you make sense. It's why everyone thinks you're together."

She stopped laughing. "We were talking about Malfoy! Don't turn this on me! This is about your love life."

"Haven't got one, that's the problem," said Alphard wretchedly. "But look, look, listen, I've got a point, about you and Riddle. Because it's like Abraxas, right? You've got the same thing, and that's why everyone's looking at you too."

Ginny tried to object, but Alphard kept going, waving his hands expansively, if a little unsteadily.

"But everyone knows you and Abraxas hate each other, and everyone's known about Abraxas and Riddle since the beginning, but you and Riddle? You don't act like you don't not get along, so everyone thinks you do, and that's the point. It's why they talk, all right? Because you're the same. They see it too, that brightness, and they're going to remember you, more than any other face from the horde. It's why they're looking now, is my point."

Ginny didn't know what to say. Something squirmed uncomfortably in her stomach as she tried to process Alphard's spiel — an odd feeling that might have been embarrassment or might have been something else entirely.

"What about you then?" she asked, because it was easier than thinking about what he had said any more than she already had. "The whole school's got an eye on you too."

Alphard made a gesture with his hand that might have been a dismissive wave. Or he could have been swatting away a fly — it was hard to tell in the dimming daylight. "Oh, I'm just background. They've got an eye on my family — there's a difference."

"You said that before, about me and Dumbledore."

"That was then," he said, head lolling a little. "No one looking at you now is going to remember Dumbledore. You're too bright to be overshadowed."

"Poetic," said Ginny flatly, "but it sounds like you're fishing for return compliments."

He flicked the air between them again, that lazy swatting gesture. "I'm the rich bloke with the nice clothes and a fancy name. If I'm going to be remembered at all, it'll be for my family." He looked out the window, tapping the rim of his glass. More absently, he said, "I wouldn't mind that, really. Wouldn't mind it at all."

The squirming feeling returned, filling Ginny's insides with lead.

What would Alphard say, if he knew about the scorch mark where his name used to be on his family's tapestry? Would he do things differently than he had in her time? Had he wanted to be disowned in the first place, just as Sirius had? Would he want the same fate, this time around?

It occurred to Ginny that she didn't know — that there was so much she didn't know, so much she hadn't considered, between this time and her own. She barely knew anything about Alphard's future, and she knew nothing about Margot's and all the rest of her friends. . . .

Of course she knew about Riddle, about Voldemort, but even then . . . was it enough? Everything she knew about the future, about the wars . . . was it truly enough to change anything?

The entire gravity of her mission suddenly dawned on her, the heaviness of it weighing on her as it never had before.

This might never end, she thought. She hadn't planned anything beyond the Chamber of Secrets, beyond the basilisk. She hadn't thought of what she would do about Riddle after Hogwarts. . . .

Fifty years was a long time, and she had been here for only six fucking months.

I could be doing this forever.

"You all right?" said Alphard slightly nervously, after several moments of drunken silence.

"I feel like a moth," said Ginny hoarsely, trying to smother the tide of sour fear rising inside her chest. "You know the ones that keep hovering around those Muggle light things? I'm like that. I'm a moth that keeps bumping into the wrong bulb."

"You mean well," he said kindly. "You're doing your best."

"That makes it worse! I'm an ineffetu — ineffal — stupid moth."

"No, no, you're a good moth. You just need — er — you need a detour, is all."

"To where? The fucking fire?"

"I don't know, where are moths supposed to go?"

"How am I supposed to know?"

"You started going on about —"

Alphard cut himself off abruptly, his eyes widening at something behind her. Before Ginny could think to turn around, Riddle had already lowered himself on the chair in front of her.

"What are you playing at?" he demanded.

Ginny blinked, startled. "You're still here?"

She could have sworn his gang had left earlier, in twos and threes over the course of the afternoon. She had assumed Riddle had gone with them — but here he was, sneering at her like he had a nasty smell under his nose.

It was probably the alcohol. Or the goats. Aberforth should really have this place cleaned.

"Er," said Alphard, moving from his chair. "I probably ought to . . ."

"You're not going anywhere," said Ginny, her hand flying to his wrist. "He's the one imposing."

Alphard sat back, looking between Ginny and Riddle, his face pale.

"What are you doing here?" said Riddle, his expression twisted as though he had bitten into a lemon. "What is he doing here?"

"Take a guess," said Ginny dryly, nodding towards the empty bottles on the table.

Riddle's brow twitched, but he remained still and didn't answer.

"We're having a pint. Friends do that sometimes, in case you weren't aware."

Again, Riddle said nothing, though his eyes flickered to her hand on Alphard's wrist.

Ginny rubbed her fingertips against her temple to slough off the oncoming headache. As she did, she caught sight of Lestrange through the filthy bay windows; he was standing out on the street, watching them, no doubt ready to burst back in at the first sign of trouble.

"For God's sake," she muttered. "You can't possibly be this paranoid."

"Leave," said Riddle to Alphard, though his gaze was holding hers.

Ginny tightened her grip on Alphard, who sat perched on the edge of his seat like he was ready to bolt at the sound of a starter pistol.

"We're not spying on you, Riddle, if that's what you're worried about. We were just having a laugh until you interrupted us —"

"You could have gone anywhere else," said Riddle in a measured voice, "but instead you had to bring him here."

Ginny let out an exasperated breath. "Oh, I'm sorry, I wasn't aware you owned the place."

"It's not enough for you to ruin my plans, and now you would humiliate me as well —"

"Merlin's beard, we didn't even know you'd be here! How are we —"

"Ah, yes, we," snarled Riddle. "Heaven forbid Black goes anywhere without your say so."

"I should go . . ." said Alphard, looking ready to jump from the table.

"Stay, Alphard," said Ginny firmly. "We're not leaving."

Alphard froze in place, half in and half out of his chair. Riddle's mouth curled in a smug sneer, and Ginny felt heat burn up her cheeks as she realized what had happened.

"If this is about what I said yesterday," she said, struggling to keep her tone level, "then you're doing a shite job of proving me wrong."

"I don't need to prove anything to you," said Riddle, matching her tone, his words sharp and cutting. "Contrary to what you like to believe, I don't care for what you think of me."

"I never said —"

"Nor do I care," he continued, raising his voice as if she hadn't spoken, "for your constant attempts at undermining me."

Ginny threw her hands up in disbelief and got to her feet, not heeding the baleful look Aberforth gave her from the bar. "How many times do I have to say it? We're not here for you, Riddle! Not everything I do is about you!"

"Your actions say otherwise."

"Don't arch your eyebrow at me!" she snapped, because that was exactly what he was doing. "Bloody hell, how do you get around with that swollen head of yours? What is your problem?"

"I don't have a problem, Smith," said Riddle, enunciating each word carefully. It sounded so patronizing that her temper rose another notch. "I suggest you sit down if you want to keep it that way. It would be unwise to cause a scene."

"I'm not causing anything you bloody —"

"Oi!" said Alphard suddenly, sounding irritated. "Could you keep it down for a second?"

Ginny and Riddle turned to him, too taken aback to protest.

"Can you hear that?" said Alphard, peering outside.

Ginny looked out. Lestrange wasn't watching them anymore; he appeared to be squinting at something in the distance. Whatever it was, it had caught the attention of the handful of people left in the pub, and they too were staring out into the street.

"Music," said Riddle, glancing at Ginny, who still couldn't see what the fuss was about. "It sounds like chanting."

Ginny strained to hear. There was the crackling noise of the fireplace, a background hum that sounded like it could be the murmur of a crowd, and —

And music . . . a distant, unnervingly cheerful song that seemed to be growing louder . . .

"Voici la nuit de Walpurgis," said Alphard.

"Is that another motto?" said Ginny.

"It's from the song, I think. I've heard it before. It's —"

And then the street outside exploded, drowning out the rest of his words, and Ginny heard nothing at all.