The next day, well after noon, Harry woke up with a dry mouth and a thick head, having to hold his head at a tilt as he staggered his way into the shower, taking his toothbrush with him. Despite it being a holiday, there was a rather official-looking owl waiting for him in the common room by the time he ventured out. Ginny was already out there, stretched out in front of the fire, still in her pajamas and dressing gown, and her hands over her face.

"What's this?" he asked. The letter was addressed to them both in tight, clear printing.

"Dunno," Ginny said, rolling over onto her belly.

Harry wanted to go stretch out beside her and kiss her, even though his mouth still tasted funny despite the fact he'd brushed his teeth three times. Heaving a sigh, he turned the envelope over in his hands, noting its heaviness. It probably needed to be read.

Harry opened it, pushing his glasses further up his nose, and read: "Greetings, Mr. Peverell and Miss Peverell. I had an owl last night that there was an expression of interest in a property my family has owned for many years." Harry paused. "This is the property we trundled by last night? The haunted one?"

"Must be," said Ginny, plucking at the rug, a little frown between her eyes. "Dumbledore doesn't waste time, does he?"

"He doesn't," said Harry, with a shake of his head. Privately, he thought this was a good thing: They would need a house before too long, and Harry found himself liking the idea of living on the outskirts of Godric's Hollow in particular. Harry scanned the rest of the letter. "He's willing to meet with us, but he won't be able to for at least a couple of weeks – he has a family situation? – but he'll be happy to send us an owl when he knows his schedule. Should I write back to him?"

"Yeah," said Ginny. "Look, the owl's waiting for it…"

Harry scribbled an answer to the property manager, then frowned at it. "Samuel Hornby… did we know a Hornby? At school?" The name was familiar enough Harry frowned at it for another minute before he snorted and signed his name.

The owl winged away a moment later. But as soon as it flew out of sight, another owl swooped in.

Harry blinked at it. "Busy morning," he said. There were things he'd much rather do this morning than carry on a robust correspondence with multiple people. There were other things he wanted to do, and not all of them involved kissing Ginny.

For example, lunch sounded nice.

Ginny grinned at him, as though reading his thoughts. There was a hint of a flush on her cheeks that distracted him long enough that the owl nipped at his fingers before he, sighing, took the tightly wound scroll from where it clutched it in its talons.

"It's from Dumbledore," said Harry, eyebrows winging upward.

"What's he want?" Ginny mumbled.

"Lunch," said Harry, "and a discussion."

"Well, when?" asked Ginny, having perked up when he said 'lunch'.

Twenty minutes later, they'd thrown on more appropriate clothing, Harry had brushed his teeth for the fourth time, and they were striding away from the Fat Lady, whom they'd woken from a nap, and who was waving chubby fists at them in sheer annoyance. His head was still paining him, and Harry paused halfway to Dumbledore's office, muttered "aguamenti" and drank thirstily the water that poured into his mouth from his wand. When Ginny gave him a pleading look, clasping her hands in front of her chest, Harry grinned, and gave her water too. Both feeling marginally better, it took them slightly less time to go the second half of the distance than it had the first.

They needn't have hurried. When they arrived at Dumbledore's office, it was to find a house elf instead of the Headmaster. The house elf, who wore a neatly pinned uniform, was just setting out a plate piled high with sandwiches made thickly with vegetables and meat. Beside it was a crystal pitcher of cold water with bits of an herb in it. Curious that it was not the usual offering of tea, and feeling his thirst come back, Harry cleared his throat.

"Would it, er, be okay…?"

The house elf bowed. "This is for Mr and Miss Peverell's lunch," she said, nose touching the floor. "Master Dumbledore sir is running late, he asked Canny to bring you lunch and bid you eat, for he will not be here yet, he is running late."

"Thank Merlin," Harry said fervently, stomach rumbling.

"More like thanks Canny," said Ginny, with great cheer, and sank into a waiting chair. Harry was a beat after her; she was already pouring cold water into two waiting cups.

Harry took his and sipped it. His eyes widened as the taste hit him: whatever the herb was, it tingled on his tongue like mint, but was even fresher somehow. Fluid seemed to fill all the parched patches in his mouth and throat; the low level pain in his head receded, leaving him feeling rather light.

"That's some water," remarked Harry.

"I think—"

But Ginny's words were cut off. "It's a hangover cure, idiot," said Phineas Nigellus, painted mouth turned downward rather unpleasantly.

"What he said," said Ginny, amused. She leaned back in her chair, a little smile on her face, eyes half-closed. "Now that's better. Pass me a sandwich, would you, Harry?"

Harry did as he was asked, then took his own, catching a loose onion and a couple drips of tomato on his palm. For a few minutes, there was nothing but the sound of eating. It seemed it had been far longer than last night that they'd eaten at the wedding. Theseus Scamander, laughing, had urged them to eat a bit, and had then offered to see them home safely. But Harry felt that his trip to the bathroom earlier had emptied his stomach of everything in it, and the sandwich was the first thing that had filled it in quite some time.

"Delicious," moaned Ginny, licking her fingers.

Already, her color was better, and she ate as though starved. Amused, Harry handed her another sandwich.

"What are you laughing at?" she asked.

"Nothing," said Harry, shaking his head.

"You're laughing at something," she protested. A smile quirked her lips upward.

"I'm just laughing."

It was into this merriment that Fawkes flew down from his perch, his powerful wings buffeting them with wind that smelled like wood smoke. Beside him, Ginny made a happy sound. Harry could not blame her: Fawkes was particularly magnificent today, strutting about, preening. "Hey, Fawkes," said Harry, smiling.

A door opened and Dumbledore bustled in, "Do forgive my lateness," he said.

"It isn't a problem," said Harry.

"We were a little early," Ginny assured him.

Lines of tiredness bracketed Dumbledore's mouth: It appeared he had not slept since before James and Lily's wedding. His body formed a comma as he sank into the chair behind his desk. The portraits behind him muttered: Armando Dippet dove from his portrait into the one directly behind Dumbledore, and stood there, quite cross, his arms folded. "We took care of this business long ago," he said shrilly. "Why do you insist on bringing this up again?"

"Because," said Dumbledore, weary, "It is a mystery as yet unsolved."

Harry sat forward. "What?" he said. "What's a mystery?"

Dumbledore waved his hand. "Go to sleep," he ordered, eyes straying in particular to Phinneas Nigellus Black. "All of you. And remember you serve the headmaster of Hogwarts, and anything you might hear is not to be heard by any other ears, do you understand me?"

"Clearly," Black said. His painted eyes closed; the sneer did not fade from his mouth.

Once the portraits were calm and sleeping, each emitting a snore.

"Is this about Simon Burke?" Ginny asked.

Dumbledore sighed. "It is. He has not yet been found."

"How did they get in?" Harry asked, astonished, remembering the secure wards that had been present in the private rooms above Borgin & Burke's. "You went there, once we heard, right? You still haven't found him?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "We haven't. I haven't been there this entire time. In fact, I've been searching Caractacus Burke's memories for… something other than what I had expected." His chin jerked toward the pensieve, which sat quiet and empty on the shelves behind him. "I've been searching for a connection I missed last time, between Simon Burke and…"

"Him," Harry suggested.

"As you reminded me, Burke was at school with him," agreed Dumbledore. "Caractacus was generous in the memories he gave; far more generous than he would have been without your assistance, Harry. I think I have found a connection."

"You have?" Harry asked. "What is it?"

Dumbledore eyed him. "I could tell you," he said slowly. "But I do believe it might be better to show you."

It did not surprise Harry when Dumbledore then — holding his wand as a conductor might a baton — opened the cabinet door and drew out the pensieve, which bobbed gently toward them.

"This memory is particularly interesting, as you will soon discover," said Dumbledore. "But before we go further, I would ask that — as with nearly everything we have discussed in this office — what I show you remains in the absolute strictest of confidences."

"Of course," said Ginny.

"Between the three of us," Dumbledore added.

Harry took this to mean that Dumbledore did not wish him to discuss any of this with Sirius. It might have eased his mind to know that other than the other night's brief encounter, Harry had had no contact with him. His gaze drifted to Ginny: candlelight had caught her hair, and there was a bright, lively look on her face.

"Understood, Professor," Harry said quietly.

Dumbledore withdrew a small vial which held a familiar, silvery liquid. "This is one of the few connections between the two that I could find," he said, troubled. Still, he seemed to hold it with great care, and he did not slosh it into the pensieve all at once; instead, he dripped it in bit by bit until no part of the memory clung to the inside of the bottle.

"Are you ready?" he asked gravely.

"Sure," said Ginny.

"Ready," Harry said firmly. This would not be his first trip inside the pensieve: it was, however, unusual that he was granted permission to do so.

Dumbledore gestured them forward. Harry took a deep breath and held it long enough to count to three, then – without another thought – put his face into the silvery liquid that would illuminate a corner of Simon Burke's and Tom Riddle's shared past. Snow swirled around him, and the familiar crooked street that was Diagon Alley coalesced around Harry, who landed on the cobbled stones without so much as a thump. A second later, Ginny was there.

"This way," said Dumbledore, suddenly next to them. He gestured ahead where two boys, one short and slightly pudgy and the other tall and straight-backed, walked together just on the margin between Diagon Alley and its darker sibling, Knockturn Alley. "We follow them."

"That's them?" Ginny asked.

Harry grunted. "If this memory is from Caractacus, how come–?"

But Harry's question was answered before he could fully form it. A gnarled figure stopped before the two boys: It was Caractacus, old even then, who reached out and clasped the shorter boy on the shoulder. Harry moved through the other figures, who were doing their shopping in the snow, and did not notice Harry at all.

"He met them," said Ginny. All three of them seemed to flow up the alley, ducking into Knockturn Alley.

"When was this?" Harry asked.

"New Year's Eve," said Dumbledore, "1942." He was not looking at Harry or Ginny when he said: "Incidentally, New Year's Eve happens to be the day of Riddle's birth."

Harry stopped. "His birthday?" It was difficult to believe that Voldemort had such a mundane thing as a birthday, or that Dumbledore would mention such a thing.

"Yes," said Dumbledore, thoughtful. "His birthday."

"Weird," muttered Ginny, echoing Harry's own thoughts.

They entered the dark store just as Simon Burke was saying, rather excitedly: "-my friend, Tom Riddle"-he said this with great pride, as though he were, in fact, presenting the House Cup to his grandfather–"wanted to come by our store. Can you believe it?"

Tom Riddle gave a sharp nod and a smile to the younger boy. The smile did not reach his eyes, Harry thought, but neither Simon nor his grandfather noticed. "Yes," he said, "a professor told me this was, of course, the place to find artifacts of the highest of caliber. McKinnon's, he told me, could not hold a candle here." To Harry's astonishment, a candle manifested in the air before them, flaring up at once, and disappearing.

Tom Riddle had not spoken a word, nor had he seemed to touch his wand.

The old man and his grandson were thoroughly charmed.

"Well done!" said Caractacus, with warm approval. "And yes, young man, Borgin & Burke's is a superior store to McKinnon's in every way… we aren't obsessed with that Celtic nonsense."

"Grandfather," said Simon, nearly bursting, "He wants to buy something… it's a present! For his birthday!"

"He's unhappy about that," muttered Ginny.

There had been a flicker of irritation on Riddle's face. If Harry had not been watching him so closely he would have missed it. The Burkes saw nothing at all amiss. Caractacus went so far as to conjure party hats. But if Tom Riddle's face had revealed a tiny ripple of discontent, that was all it did. He accepted the hat graciously, set it to tip on his head, and even helped Simon put his on, crookedly.

Harry sank against the wall.

"If you'll give me a moment," Tom said, extremely polite, even executing something of a small bow, which flattered Caractacus to the point he was beaming, "I'll have a look around the store, shall I?"

"Watch out for curses," warned Caractacus.

Simon mimed a kick at him. "Grandfather! That's Tom Riddle, he doesn't need a warning!"

Harry shook his head, bewildered. A snake moved beneath the surface of Tom Riddle's pale, composed face. Did no one else see it? He turned to look at Dumbledore, who was watching Tom Riddle in much the same manner that a hawk watched a mouse. Did no one else see him as he was?

"Follow him." Ginny took his hand and pulled him after Riddle.

"He was charming," Harry protested.

"Very," said Dumbledore, composedly. "His ability to charm anyone he wished to is one of his greatest skills, aside from his ability with magic. He always knew what to say, what gift to bring, how best to please the person with whom he was communicating."

"I have never seen that side of him," Harry said darkly.

Dumbledore looked back at him, a calculating gleam in his eye.

Harry wished he had not said anything, still – for some reason – unwilling to tell Dumbledore simply everything. For example, Dumbledore did not know that, unlike everyone else, Voldemort did not try to charm Harry onto his side, but tried to murder him on every occasion that they had met.

Once out of view of the Burkes, Riddle allowed the bright expression he wore to flicker. His face smoothed into something far less handsome, becoming as remote and cold as snow-capped mountains. Harry shadowed his steps, staring at him, as Riddle seemed to catalog every item in the store. It was as cluttered then as it was in the 1970s, and Riddle sifted through the detritus of dark and cursed objects with a casualness that surprised Harry. But finally, after fifteen minutes of wandering, Riddle paused beside the grimy, circular window. Lamplight from outside caught on him and on the slim diary he pulled from the pocket of his robes.

Beside him, Ginny startled.

"Is that it?" Dumbledore asked with no small amount of urgency. "Is that the diary?"

"Yes," said Ginny, hard and sure. "That's it."

"It looks new," said Harry.

"It would be," said Ginny. "This is the 1940s, remember?"

"True," said Harry.

All three of them stared at it. To his surprise, when Riddle opened it, it was not full of blank pages, with its true contents hidden from view; instead, pages and pages were filled with cramped, tidy writing. There were even a couple of drawings. Riddle paused at one, frowning at it, his forefinger tracing it. More of a mark than a drawing, it showed a fire leaping upward into the shape of a W.

This is their mark, he said was written beneath it.

"Mr. Burke?" Riddle's change in countenance was immediate: the moment he stepped forward, there was a pleasantness on his face again. "Can you explain a mark to me?"

"Ah, let me see," said Caractacus. It only took him a glance. "Well, my boy! This is the mark of the Knights of Walpurgis…"

"A professor of mine mentioned that only the best magical artifacts have this mark," Riddle said, with feigned diffidence. "I thought surely this would be the only spot in London to purchase one."

"Ah," said Caractacus. "Well. It is true that more than one of these artifacts have passed into my hands. But I'm afraid you are a few years too late. A very serious collector who… lives on the continent…" There was a heaviness in his tone. "If I said his name, you will have heard of him. But it's best not to… there are Ministry ears everywhere."

"I understand," said Riddle. "He is quite the wizard, to have inspired fear in saying his name."

"Only fear of Ministry suspecting collusion," said Caractacus.

"Look at him," Ginny murmured. "He's jealous."

"Of course," Riddle said smoothly after a moment.

"Highly respected, they were," Caractacus murmured, passing the diary back to Riddle, who shut it with a snap. "The Knights of Walpurgis. They allowed their creations to be studied and replicated — well, some of them. Others were jealous of their magics. But there were enough replications that many families have for their own an artifact they've passed from father to son. It is when estates like these are sold or dissolved that I am able to find them. They're not nearly as rare as, say, the known objects of the Founders of Hogwarts. Is there one in particular you wanted?"

"I am told there is a quill that has prodigious powers of foretelling," said Riddle.

"Dorcas Meadowes's quill!" said Ginny, passing her hand through memory-Riddle's face.

"Indeed," said Dumbledore.

"But that means — the Knights of Walpurgis were the ones… and Riddle already knew about them?"

"Oh yes," said Dumbledore.

But Harry was only half-listening to Dumbledore and Ginny. Instead, he drifted ever closer to Riddle, frowning, watching him charm the old wizard. They really like him, Harry marveled. Caractacus ended up not only promising to send Riddle an owl the second an artifact from the Knights of Walpurgis showed up, but offered him a job on the spot.

Harry was still staring, hands in his pockets, chilled even though there was no such thing as temperature here in a memory. The winter of the past could not touch him. And yet… the scene faded around him, becoming as indistinct as the snowflakes falling outside, and Harry's insides were icy.

Once back in Dumbledore's office, Harry poured another tall glass of water, drinking it greedily, though he no longer felt the effects of the alcohol he had drunk last night. Ginny was tipped forward on her chair, face intent. Harry was not surprised when she spoke.

"Sir, when did you first know?" Ginny asked. "About him, I mean?"

"That he, who had been Tom Riddle, my student, would usher in a darkness not seen even since the height of Grindelwald's madness?" Dumbledore asked. "Not until much too late, I'm afraid, and he had got his hooks into much of our society." He drew a circle with his fingertip upon his desk. "I had heard rumors, but they were quietly spoken and hardly at all detailed. Still, there were enough… And, too, I received some disturbing messages from Tom himself."

"He — what? Wrote to you?" Harry asked blankly.

"To a friend of mine," said Dumbledore. "Newt Scamander. You will know him as an author of one of your textbooks, of course; that is, if Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them is still taught in twenty years."

"It is," said Harry.

"It's really good," Ginny assured Dumbledore. "We've still got it."

"I am glad," said Dumbledore. "He is a dear friend of mine, though Tom did not know it. He may not have written to him so openly had he done so." He pulled open a drawer on his desk, revealing a slim stack of parchment, held together by a black ribbon; it drifted up and dropped onto the desk with a thump. "His wife, an Auror, made him make copies of the notes he sent in return, which was fortunate foresight. She's sharp, Porpentina Scamander."

Harry took the parchment. "These are letters from Riddle?" he murmured. How odd, to think of Riddle writing letters; the mundanity of sitting in front of a desk with a quill and a bottle of ink hardly seemed like the Voldemort Harry had encountered. He was young once, Harry reminded himself. He'd just seen him as a youth, in fact, the age that Harry was now or perhaps even younger. And yet… it was still impossible to grasp on to that.

The first of them read:

Greetings, Mr. Scamander,

It is a privilege to write to the foremost expert on magizoology; indeed, few have had the skill and expertise to study the creatures whose magical natures augment our own natural, magical abilities. In fact, I am developing a theory regarding that exact augmentation, and would wish to discuss with you the particulars of it.

With respect,

T. Riddle

"Riddle," Ginny muttered darkly, reading over Harry's shoulder.

"It took quite some time before Newt answered him," said Dumbledore. "It wasn't all that long after Grindelwald was defeated. He and his wife were busy raising their three children, and as Newt did not know anything of Riddle, he did not prioritize the message."

"How long?" Harry asked.

"Newt is dreadful with correspondence." Dumbledore smiled slightly, a fond look sparking in his eyes. "It took him three years to reply. At least."

Ginny chuckled.

Despite having written a textbook, it appeared that Newt Scamander did not waste words. Other than a greeting and signature, his reply to Tom Riddle was but one word: Augmentation?

As if to compensate, Riddle's counter was longer even than his initial letter.

Mr Scamander,

I am delighted to have received a return to my query, as such a busy and renowned wizard as you must have many, many demands on your time. Forgive my phrasing. I have read your text multiple times; upon the third reading, I realized that the creatures you so devotedly describe are not simply there, they do not simply exist, but their very presence provides valuable tools for wizardkind. The demiguise is one such: how would we have invisibility cloaks without their fur? We use many parts of magical creatures for our potions. In many ways, Magizoology can be viewed as a field that wishes to push the boundaries of the relationships between wizard and animal.

As to that, I have several questions in regard to the purpose of several so-called darker creatures, and how we might harness them to augment our society. They could be gentled much as the pegasi and abraxan were once long ago.

With regards,

T. Riddle

Harry was faintly sick reading that. Then he handed it to Ginny.

"Newt is a discerning man," said Dumbledore.

"What did he say?" Harry asked.

Parchment pushed toward him. Instead of one word, Newt's reply was one sentence: Creatures do not exist to 'augment' wizardkind.

"The tone was clear," said Dumbledore. "A Mr. T Riddle did not attempt to communicate with Newt again."

Harry's gaze flicked to the desk, where there remained two more pieces of parchment. Recognition hit him like a bolt, but it was Ginny who got there a second before he did.

"He wrote to Newt as… Lord?

Even here, in the safety of Dumbledore's office, it was unwise to utter his name.

"Precisely."

"I cannot pin down precisely when the first of these were written. I only knew there were three years between Riddle's initial letter and Newt's reply because Tina — Porpentina — Newt's wife found it in a location they had not been to for that amount of time. I do not believe he was at Hogwarts still, but I could be wrong. I think it may have been when he was working for Caractacus Burke… but this letter is most certainly from when Riddle had left Britain in order to travel. He was more confident in using the name he had given himself." Restless fingers drummed against the wood of the desk. "It is my belief that he would never sign a correspondence with Riddle after he left Britain."

Trading a glance with Ginny, Harry murmured along with her: "Makes sense." A thought struck him. "But he already had harnessed the power of a creature… he used the basilisk!"

Dumbledore leaned forward. "Indeed," he said, very seriously. "Do you know why, Mr. Peverell, that we the professors did not immediately leap to the discovery that a basilisk coils beneath the school?"

"Erm," said Harry. "No."

"It is said that our most dangerous curse, the Avada Kedavra, was initially inspired by a basilisk's victims," said Dumbledore. "Oh, it's old, of course. Older than Britain itself. But so are basilisks; and it is believed that the first dark wizard to cast the Avada Kedavra was channeling a basilisk as he did so." Harry's mouth dropped open, but Dumbledore's hand came up. "To explain how would require far more time than we have at the moment."

"He already knew the Killing Curse," said Ginny, confident.

"Maybe he was looking for more," said Harry.

Dumbledore tapped his wand. The last letter zoomed toward Harry. Together, he and Ginny read it.

Dear Mr. Scamander,

I have long been a supporter of your work in deciphering the complexities of magical creatures, and their role in magical society. This last decade, I too have conducted a series of experiments upon the serpent population and have gained valuable insight and answers to some of my questions. There are a few areas in which I believe you could provide clarity — if, for example, you thought that breeding two different species together would be beneficial or would only produce inferior offspring. In particular, I am concerned with the serpentis maledictus. I would hate to waste time and finite resources pursuing an avenue best left unexplored.

Speaking of offspring, several correspondents of mine have reported that your sons are high-spirited and as deeply enthusiastic for learning as their father. Well done.

My best,

Lord Voldemort

"But this, too, is not precisely what I would like to discuss," said Dumbledore, leaning back. The portraits behind him, who were awake again, muttered and murmured, one of them saying, rather loudly, "So blasted distracted!" "And I am distracted," he said. "It is simply that it is… quite liberating to have two people with whom I can discuss my research."

"Your research into his past," Harry said slowly.

"Indeed," said Dumbledore.

A feeling of oddness settled over Harry's shoulders. Not in all the years Harry had known him, had Dumbledore ever shared this type of thing with Harry. While Dumbledore had invited his questions, encouraged them, even, at some points in their history, he'd never once had a meandering discussion of Tom Riddle's past.

"It's interesting," said Ginny, who was following her own train of thought, her eyes fixed on Armando Dippet, who was peeking out at her from under the wide brim of his painted hat. "He had so many people fooled, didn't he?"

"And he does still," said Dumbledore. "But we can save that discussion for another night, if you wish. For now, I would like to discuss this self-same basilisk."

A long look at Ginny told him she was experiencing the same concoction of excitement and heart-pounding nerves. He had an inkling of what was coming, even before he unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth and asked: "And what about it?"

"How to defeat it, today, right now, if you are willing to help me."

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Water trickled out from under the door to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. It was a sign that the ghost herself was in a foul mood, so Harry was not surprised to hear her wailing in one of the cubicles, sloshing water out of the toilet, and casting it into the air. Wrinkling his nose, Harry stepped further into the dismal, unfriendly bathroom, allowing Ginny and Dumbledore in behind him.

"I think," said Dumbledore, "we shall want privacy for this." He drew his wand, etching a glowing rune in the air. It settled into existence with a distinct pop. The wailing from the cubicle might have been snipped off, it ended so abruptly.

Myrtle charged out of the cubicle, face streaked with silvery tears, eyes luminous behind thick glasses. "What are you doing?" she cried. "Not again!"

"It is not forever," Dumbledore said gently. "We just have need of this room for a quiet moment."

"A quiet moment without me, you mean!" The ghost shot up in the air. All the water in all the toilets rose with her. The rune in the air began to shiver. Silver streaked toward it, making Myrtle more insubstantial than ever. "It isn't fair, I wasn't doing anything, it isn't like that wedding – but even then – they deserved it!" Nearly all of her was gone, except her voice, which grew smaller by the word. " She made fun of me, didn't she, of my new glasses and then she–"

"As ghosts go," said Dumbledore, "Myrtle is relatively well-behaved. I hate to do that to her."

"What was that?" Ginny asked.

"And can it be done to Peeves?" Harry put in.

"It was a brief… ah… time out, if you will," said Dumbledore. He hooked his finger around the rune, pulled it out of the air, and tucked it in his pocket. "It's the opposite of an exorcism: I did not banish Myrtle; I merely put her in one place for a time – a short time – so that we might not have any… distractions. And even then"-he patted his pocket–"Myrtle may not have paid us any attention."

"She probably would have," said Harry. "She's a bit nosy."

"Perhaps," allowed Dumbledore, "but she, like other ghosts, is self-involved, obsessed with her own emotional climate at the time of her death, that their interest in the activities of the living does not often last long."

"That's the second time she's mentioned her glasses being made fun of," said Harry. "At least, to me."

"Well," said Dumbledore, "Wasn't there a sink you wished to show me?"

Harry led him over to it. The back of his neck prickled. It was odd, Dumbledore following his lead like this. For a brief, wild moment, Harry thought he might have trouble finding the simple etching of the snake upon the tap. But in the next second, he found it. "There's, er, something I haven't told you–"

"Is it that you are a Parselmouth?" Dumbledore asked calmly.

"Er–"

"I do beg your pardon, but it was obvious to me that only a Parselmouth could open the way to the Chamber of Secrets," said Dumbledore. "Once I properly believed it existed, and was not the wishful thinking of a diseased mind. He was a Parselmouth. And in order to find him in his lair, I assumed–"

"Well, yeah," muttered Harry. "I am." Then, turning to the quiet Ginny, he said: "D'you want to stay here–"

"Not on your life," she said, but her face was very pale.

Harry shrugged, and turned back to the sink. Allowing his eyes to unfocus, he saw the snake etched there move, undulating. Acutely aware of Dumbledore's and Ginny's eyes on him, he said, in the softest hiss he could: "Open." In the second before stone grated against porcelain and the sink moved to reveal a gaping hole and a slide into total darkness, Harry thought of Sirius. They were about to change an awful lot in the future… But by the time the hole was fully revealed, he'd shoved those thoughts away.

There was a small argument as to who would go first, all three gallantly volunteering. But it was Dumbledore who put his foot down. He shot off into the darkness, disappearing so quickly, he might have been swallowed.

"Together?" Ginny offered him her hand.

"Together." Harry took it, clasping it in his.

Hand in hand, they slid into down into the bowels of the school, where once, they had both nearly died.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHHPHPHPHP

Author's Note: You know, Voldemort was a scary sort of megalomaniac villain, but I think canon was unable to really go into the evil things he did because a lot of it would (in my opinion) be unsuitable for children. And partly why I love playing in JKR's sandbox so much is trying to (in my own imperfect way) trying to write stories about things that could have happened. Dumbledore showed Harry the memories of Tom Riddle's past with a great deal of precision, and of course I wanted more about him. I've even had a couple ideas for a companion story for this, called Eater of Death, where a young Tom Riddle has adventures and makes all the wrong choices. And it's a goal of mine to someday write an original about my own sort of villain-in-the-making. While I'm still dreaming that up, I'm having a lot of fun making new Riddle memories for Dumbledore, Harry, and Ginny to explore. He's a fascinating character, Tom Riddle. I hope you'll indulge me and enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it.

Gin, I'm glad that while you dislike Narcissa, you liked reading her POV.

And no, Voldemort didn't tell anyone (maybe Bellatrix) about his engineering of the pox, as he would definitely not be popular with those followers of his whose grandparents and other family members were endangered. Imagine if the older generation found out - like old Abraxan Malfoy or Arcturus Black - that they might have been sacrificed for Voldemort's ambition. Yikes. I imagine they're still formidable wizards, and not as susceptible to the blind devotion Voldemort forces on his followers. He (Voldemort) is not quite at the stage where he can do anything he wants. He's still fooling his Death Eaters (and more importantly, the rest of the purebloods) as much as everyone else.