Several days later, Harry was ready to be back on the train to Hogwarts. Sirius's house had become nearly as stifling as Grimmauld Place. He found himself pacing about like a caged hippogriff, grazing on the endless sandwiches and crisps that seemed to be the only items of food that Sirius kept in the house, and trying to find reasons to be alone with Ginny. Sirius, with relentless attempts at cheer, wanted, conversely, to spend as much time as he could with Harry. Finally, one evening, an owl tapped politely on the sitting room window. Harry slammed Charmed Flight shut and tugged up the window sash, revealing the owl in question to be a much-younger, much-prouder looking Errol.
"Errol!" crowed Ginny, from her position on the floor.
By the time the owl left, he was preening from Ginny's affection – and her offer of an owl treat.
"From Arthur?" Sirius asked.
Harry scowled at him.
"Yes, it's from Dad," Ginny said firmly. She was reading through the letter with eager eyes; the parchment shook in her hands. "He's sorry it's taken him so long to get back to us, but he'd like to meet at the house tomorrow. Tomorrow!" she repeated happily. "He's said he's happy to show us the progress he's made…"
Sirius cleared his throat.
"Yes, from Arthur," Harry said in a hard voice. His godfather's eyes were a particularly hard gray. Harry could well imagine his thoughts: Sirius thought it would be far too dangerous for her to associate with her father. And yet, he'd placed Harry at school with his. "As we've said before, we're glad he's working on our house."
Ginny seemed too excited to notice the undercurrents. "He wants to meet in the morning, so we can go just after breakfast…"
"Or we could go earlier," Harry suggested, having been struck with a sudden thought: The house might very well be much more habitable than it was the last time they had seen it. What if there was a room that could possibly be used as shelter for…?
"Yeah!" Ginny said with great enthusiasm. "We could set up snacks…"
HPHPHPHPHPHP
"Dad's just sent Errol again, saying he'll be a bit late," said Ginny the next morning, waving a tiny scroll in the air. "Actually, Mum wrote it… I recognize her handwriting."
Harry looked at the open door. "How late?" he asked. It was their second to last day of Easter holidays; tomorrow, they would go back to Hogwarts. Harry could not help but feel relief at the prospect. Though their relationship was cordial again, things with Sirius were just a bit off. He was keeping secrets, Harry thought. The late night conversation he'd overheard while stumbling off to the bathroom made it plain that despite everything he'd said for the nearly two years they'd been trapped in the past, Sirius was attempting to effect change.
His scar twinged. Harry rubbed at it, grimacing.
"Still got your headache?" Ginny asked, with distracted sympathy.
"It's not too bad," Harry said, smiling at her. Her eagerness to see her father was plain. "What'd Arthur and Molly say?"
"Just that he's about an hour behind schedule… I bet it was the twins, honestly." Ginny laughed a little.
"We could still go over," Harry suggested. "Start figuring out where we want things to go…" Like beds, he thought, with a small amount of desperation.
"Agreed," said Ginny. "I'll grab my cloak and my boots. You do the same, Harry, I'll meet you outside!"
While Sirius's house was still firmly gripped in the unusually cold winter, there were signs of spring in Godric's Hollow that had not been there even a week previously. Delicate yellow flowers had pushed their way up through the soil, splattering the hills surrounding their new home with color. Even the sky showed begrudging hints that winter was over: there were patches of fluffy white clouds intermixed with the slate gray. Drawing in a deep breath, Harry relaxed his shoulders.
"Oh," said Ginny, with pleasure. "It'll be lovely in the summer."
"Yeah, it will," said Harry, smiling. "Let's go check and see what's going on inside the house!"
Ginny's sideways glance at him, and the little smirk playing on her lips told him that her thoughts had followed along the same track as his. Relief — along with something else — fluttered in his belly.
"How long," Ginny murmured, "do you think a conjured bed of yours would last?"
"Long enough," Harry swore. He was grinning now. "I thought you hadn't — that you didn't think we could — that you'd want—"
"I've had the same week you've had," Ginny retorted, eyes shining.
Harry grabbed her hand, tugging her with more urgency toward their new home, which hopefully had solid walls and a roof. They had an entire hour. It wasn't quite as much time as their lazy, Hogwarts Sunday mornings, but it would be close enough…
To their surprise, and Harry's immediate dismay, there was a dull thud from the other side of the house, and the familiar figure of Peter Pettigrew hove into view from around the corner. With his wand, he orchestrated a large section of the roof toward a large work table settled just inside the walled garden. Ginny moved a couple of steps away from Harry; she needn't have bothered. Peter hadn't noticed either one of them. Instead, his concentration seemed focused wholly on ensuring the bit of roof did not crash and shatter on the ground.
"Peter!" Harry said loudly, waiting until the bit of roof was properly settled.
"Oh, hi." Peter's voice was faint and seemed to drift toward them on the chilly breeze.
Harry tucked his hands in his pocket, suddenly awkward. Aside from no longer having the privacy Harry had sought, it was odd to see Peter there, at their new home. It must have taken a fiddly bit of magic to put the roof back together, for it took some minutes before Peter stepped back, settling his wand down by his thigh.
"All right, Peter?" Harry asked.
"Sure," said Peter, with a shrug.
"Thanks for, uh…" Harry's voice trailed off. It made him slightly uneasy — or guilty, rather — to know one of his friends was helping with such tasks. The back of his neck prickled; with it, came a bolt of pain in his head. "You know. Helping out with this."
"It's just a job," said Peter, shrugging again.
"Well, we appreciate it," ventured Ginny.
"You two sure got an interesting house," said Peter, glancing behind him. "There's lots of ghosts… they've been popping in and out."
"We met them the other night," said Ginny. "Reminds us of Hogwarts, having them here."
Peter's eyes were a watery blue. "Hogwarts," he muttered, making a face. At what must have been Harry's look of surprise, he added: "It just didn't really… life is a lot different than what Hogwarts led me to believe it was going to be." He jerked his chin toward the house behind him. "I thought there'd be more magic and less… you know. But there's so many people who work at the Ministry, you can't get anywhere."
Ginny made a sympathetic sound.
"You just have to keep trying," said Harry, feeling slightly off-balance.
"I just don't want to be like Arthur — you know, my other boss," Peter said, making a face. "He's been working at the Ministry for over a decade and still hasn't gone anywhere. And we've got to do this so he can feed his — his nineteen children."
Ginny cleared her throat. "I don't think he has quite nineteen children," she said coolly. "And I think… it's my impression… that he enjoys doing both."
Peter did not seem to know he was being warned off. "It's just that the Mugg—"
Harry cut in before Peter could finish, not wanting his friend to step on thin ice. But he could understand, couldn't he, that Peter was dissatisfied with his life and taking it out on others? "Plus, Peter," he said, "You have other work you're doing. And what's more important than that?" He waved his hand. "All of this… it's meaningless when it comes down to… you know…"
Peter nodded, eyes going distant. But the tension in his stance seemed to melt away. "You're right," he said, his cheeks reddening. "There are more important things." This small conversation seemed to have heartened him. "Speaking of that," said Peter. "The ghosts said there's some sort of treasure in the basement…"
Harry exchanged a glance at Ginny. "Treasure?" he asked. "We were warned not to go in there…"
"Probably they don't want anyone else finding it," Peter said, shrugging. "But if you don't want to look for it…"
"C'mon, Harry," said Ginny, tugging at his robes. "We'll go for a treasure hunt while we wait for Arthur. Peter, will you—"
"I'll keep going on this, yeah," said Peter.
"And can you tell Arthur that we're here?" Harry asked.
"Sure."
They left Peter behind and entered the house. As soon as they were out of earshot, Ginny made an annoyed sound and muttered something about nineteen children. Harry patted her.
"The rest of us only wish there were loads of Weasleys," Harry said.
HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP
"Harry." Ginny's voice floated toward him from down the stairs. "Harry, come tell me if I've found what I think I've found."
The repressed excitement in her tone made his pulse leap forward. Turning from the moldy cupboard he'd been inspecting – one that Arthur had not yet pulled out of the wall – Harry left the kitchen and went down the short, stone flight of stairs and into the spacious basement. Lit torches led the way to Ginny, who stood in the light, back toward him, peering into a tucked away room that Harry had not noticed before.
"It's freezing," she murmured, tucking her wand away. "Must be outside of the heating charms… we'll have to tell Dad."
"Or it could be that cold spot," Harry suggested. "They mentioned it, remember?" Harry was amused to realize that, in Ginny's excitement to see her father, small pieces of information seemed to slip away from her.
"Yeah, true," she said. "Why're you smiling?"
Harry shook his head. "No reason…"
Harry stepped over an invisible line: The temperature went from cozy to chilling, making him suck in a breath. "Damn," he said, "that is cold."
"Told you so," she smirked at him. Then, her face falling into more serious lines, she said: "Is that what I think it is?"
"Budge over?"
When Ginny stepped aside, Harry peered into the room. His gaze fell immediately on the only object in the room: An old, rock-hewn basin carved with rough runes sat in the middle, upon a short stone plinth. Harry blinked at it, then peered closer. Had he ever considered that there might be other pensieves aside from the one in Dumbledore's office? "That's a pensieve," he said after a moment. "That is a pensieve."
"I thought so," said Ginny. "But it looks… a little different. Think it's the treasure Peter mentioned?"
As she said it, Harry saw what she meant. The one in Dumbledore's office, the one into which Harry had often viewed memories from the past, was far older than this one. On continued study, this one appeared almost new… but for the scorch marks on the right side of it. "Hmm," said Harry, stepping fully into the room – which was more the size of a compartment on the Hogwarts Express, larger than a closet but too small for a bed. It was even colder here. "I bet this used to be where they kept the perishables," muttered Harry, eyes still on the pensieve. "And I'd definitely think a pensieve is some sort of treasure."
Ginny rubbed her arms. "D'you think it belonged to one of our ghosts?" she asked.
"Your dad wrote that one of them used to be an Auror," said Harry. He could think of many reasons for why an Auror might need their very own pensieve. "Probably it's theirs."
"Probably," said Ginny.
Thoughts crashed together in Harry's brain.
"Damn," said Harry, fixing on one singular thought. "I wish we had Merrythought's…" But his voice trailed off. From within her robes, Ginny was drawing out a charm bracelet; the charms upon it clinked together with surprising heaviness. One of them was a broom, another a snitch, and another a—
—tiny, tiny vial filled with silvery liquid. Ginny gave it a brisk tap.
"Genius," said Harry.
"I was saving it for a rainy day," Ginny said cheekily. "Or… randomly finding a pensieve in the basement of our new house…"
Harry chuckled a little, then rubbed his arms. They'd managed a small victory, but it was still dreadfully cold. He shifted his feet; something cracked beneath them. "D'you want to…?"
"Is it safe, do you reckon?" Ginny asked, tapping her bottom lip.
"I can't think what could go wrong," Harry said honestly. "We'll just see the memories." Which might, Harry realized, very well be disturbing. Or perhaps not, Harry told himself firmly, Riddle could be awfully charming when he wanted to be. "I think I should do it — I want to see what's in there — but you can stay behind if you—"
Ginny laughed at him outright. Harry laughed with her after a second. Some of the chill had dispelled at the laughter. Ginny popped the cork on the vial and poured the silvery contents into the rune-inscribed stone bowl.
Just as they were about to stick their heads in, Harry's eyes caught on the doorway. In it, looking quite perturbed, was the unfriendliest ghost that belonged to the house.
"I told you," she hissed, just as Harry plunged his head into the memories of Galatea Merrythought, "to stay out of the basement."
But even if Harry had wanted to take her advice, it was too late: the memories were sucking them in.
HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP
"Is it always," said Ginny, voice oddly muffled, "this misty?"
"No," said Harry, clambering to his feet, blinking. Disoriented, he looked around. Was there someone crying? "No, usually we're — oh, well, that's better."
The odd white mist swept away in an unfelt wind, revealing a classroom in the grip of winter: condensation gathered on the stone walls of the castle, the windows were shut tightly, and Harry could smell the must and damp. Tripping over nothing, he caught himself. "Whoa," he said. "I didn't know you could smell things in a pensieve." But the familiar smell grew stronger as the students appeared like islands in thick fog before they cleared with the sun. As Harry stepped forward, more and more was revealed.
"...hope all of you have prepared five inches on grindylows for me. They will be on the end-of-term exam."
Galatea Merrythought was far younger, cheerful-looking, and smiling at her students.
"I haven't done it," whispered a girl with a blue-and-silver patterned scarf wrapped around her face like a muffler. Her blonde hair spilled over it.
"Oliiiive," moaned her partner. "You know we were meant to…"
"I couldn't–"
"Ahem." Merrythought cleared her throat and the girls subsided. "Thank you. You will hand it in with the rest of the week's homework on Friday, but I urge you not to put everything off until Thursday. Yes, Mr. Riddle, did you have a question?"
Startled, Harry turned to find a pale, dark-haired boy sitting near the back, hand raised in the air. He sat in a cluster of other boys, two Slytherin and three Ravenclaw, all of whom had subtly adjusted their chairs so they angled toward him.
"But he and Myrtle weren't in the same year," Ginny pointed out, confused.
"Look," Harry said, jerking his head toward the chalkboard, where three different pieces of chalk were writing out instructions for first years, second years, and third years. "Maybe they're all grouped together for some reason—"
Comprehension dawned on Ginny's face. "Maybe Hogwarts doesn't have enough students for a bunch of different classes…"
"Or teachers," Harry said quietly.
"I wondered, Professor," he said, very politely, "If we might have a look at next week's assignments as well. I've done this week's, you see."
"Come up to my desk when the bell rings, Mr. Riddle, and I'll see what I can do," Merrythought promised, practically beaming.
"We should be more like Tom," Myrtle whispered in a carrying voice.
"Fat chance of that," said a rather unpleasant boy, "Mudblood, you are."
Merrythought's voice cracked out like a whip. "Three points from Slytherin. Avery, that is a rude word, and you–"
The rest of her admonishment was drowned out by the ringing of the bells, at least three of them, one heavy and tolling, and the other two clanging wildly. A pang of sympathy went through Harry as Myrtle's face turned beet red, her eyes welled with tears, and she shoved her books into a rather new-looking rucksack. Her wand, Harry noticed, she kept in her hand.
Ginny stayed beside Myrtle as Harry drifted over the seats to stand near the boys, who were muttering to each other. Well, one of them was talking.
"That was foolish, Avery," Tom said coolly. "You know Merrythought; she doesn't allow little slips like that."
"But the Mudblood said–"
"She thinks she can ape her betters," said another boy, one with light brown hair that fell over his eyes. "Tom's right, Avery."
Avery jutted out his chin, mulish, casting a glare over at Myrtle. Tom continued to look at him, cool as ice, raising his brows. To Harry, Tom seemed much older than these other boys, who were unpleasant puppies, yipping and biting at each other and anyone else. Gradually, Avery subsided with a little grimace.
"We don't want any trouble, Avery," Tom said quietly.
Curious, Harry looked Tom Riddle over. He was younger than Harry had ever seen him. "He's young," said Harry, watching the boy cross the room once his classmates had left, clamoring about an upcoming match between Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Myrtle Warren had left, mouth turned downward in a pout, her friend trailing behind her. Ginny was beside him again, arms folded, glaring down at Riddle.
"Younger than I've ever seen," said Ginny. "I think they're third years…"
Tom stacked his books by order of size, in no hurry, then went to Merrythought, who waited for him beside her desk. "Avery was out of line," he announced, eyes watchful.
"He was," Merrythought sparked. "Terribly out of line… that word is vile."
"It was foolish of him to say it," said Tom.
Merrythought's face relaxed into a tiny smile. Riddle had a trick, Harry noticed, of making people think he agreed with them, that their deepest natures were aligned. Tom Riddle did not think any better of Myrtle Warren, a muggleborn student, than Avery did, but Merrythought seemed to think she'd found someone with kindred opinions. There was fondness in her expression when she looked at Riddle.
"You're a good boy, Tom," she said warmly. "What is it about your homework? Why am I not surprised that you've already finished this week's tasks? You want next week's as well, then… what are you going to do when you've exhausted everything I can throw at you for the term and you're months ahead of your peers? You would think I'm teaching all grades in one class instead of just three…"
"I like to do my own researches," Riddle said.
"I'll bet he does," muttered Ginny. Her arms were crossed, and she glared with great dislike at the boy.
"Ah, yes," said Merrythought, smile widening. "Old Bones said that you requested a pass to the Halls of Heritage. All of us teachers were quite surprised you'd left the school last weekend!"
A flicker of displeasure came and went on Riddle's face. It was the briefest of changes before Riddle said, smoothly, "Indeed, Professor. But this isn't that… I did not think an esteemed professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts would be interested in that." He paused, offering her a smile. "I've several lines of research I have been following, Professor… I was reading through some of the other students's books, and I found entire chapters rendered unreadable."
Merrythought cocked her head and blinked at him.
Riddle continued. "It was as though a fog obscured the pages."
"Ahhh," Merrythought sighed. "I believe I do know what happened, my boy. There are certain subjects that the Ministry has decreed unfit for under-seventeens."
Harry grunted when Ginny nudged him with her elbow.
Riddle seemed to take this in stride. "I wondered if that might be it," he said, half to himself.
"Were you looking through seventh year textbooks, Tom?" Merrythought asked fondly. "I am not surprised."
"I was merely curious," said Riddle; his tone was sheepish, but his eyes were cold. "I did not understand everything that came before the obscured chapters, but I could tell the text was building up to a conclusion."
Merrythought eyed him and sat down behind the desk. Wind whooshed against the castle windows; they rattled. "You're an extraordinary boy, Tom," she said. "As a matter of fact, you are right. Defense Against the Dark Arts… we pry into motive, don't we, in order to counter that which is set against us, whether it's creatures or even dark wizards." She hesitated, then said: "It has always been important to look into the latter's motives, especially. There are particular things that we have noticed they want above all else… those later chapters are examining the results of dark wizards – and witches – pursuing those goals, often at huge cost to themselves. Their… sacrifice, for lack of a better word."
Riddle was staring at her, inscrutable.
"You'll learn, my boy," said Merrythought. "When the time comes… perhaps you'll even become an Auror one day, and put all you've learned in my class to good purpose."
"Perhaps," murmured Riddle.
"Ghastly thought, that," muttered Ginny, arms tightly folded across her chest.
"I know," said Harry. The mist was rising around them, cool and damp, prickling his skin. The sounds coming from the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom as it was fifty years ago turned tinny: It might have come from Dorcas Meadowes' victrola. He took her hand and squeezed it. "Are you all right?" His own voice sounded strange, muffled and deep.
The mist from earlier was back.
"I'm fine," she said, stroking the inside of his wrist with her thumb. "I never thought I'd know Tom better."
"Odd, seeing him as a child. I wonder what Merrythought's next memory is…"
But when the mist dissipated once more, swirling away with an unfelt wind, they found themselves in a room paneled in heavy wood, and an older witch smoking a pipe muttering behind a desk.
"That's not Merrythought," said Ginny.
"-made one of them, have you, you fool," she said loudly, slamming her wand on her desk. It emitted red sparks that arced toward Harry. To his unease, he felt their heat against his skin before they disappeared. "Well, and so, I'll find it…"
She thundered out of the room. The mist was rising once more, but Harry saw a heavy placard on the outside of the door that read: "Caitrina Craigie, Head of the Auror Department". Then the images blurred like smoke and disappeared, leaving his head feeling odd and heavy. He recognized that name…
But then they were back in the same classroom they had been before, with the same students in front of them. Myrtle, though, sat alone at her desk, head bowed over it, while Olive had joined two other girls, one Slytherin and the other Ravenclaw, all three of them getting along with each other rather well. They were passing a book between them, giggling silently at the contents. The crowd around Tom Riddle had grown; two more students had joined, subtly angling their wide desk to keep him at the center.
Merrythought stood at the front of the class. Written on the chalkboard behind her was a complex diagram that Harry recognized: Professor McKinnon had used exactly this diagram to show them how to break a curse upon an object. Or a charm, Harry thought, remembering that magic like this was more neutral than people supposed.
Her lecture winding down, Merrythought was now asking her class if they had any questions for her.
"I have a question, Professor," said Riddle.
"If you have a question, then I'm sure the rest of you are wandering about the bog, looking for the banshee," Merrythought said cheerfully. "What is it, Mr. Riddle? Remember, I want eight inches of parchment on this, due next Friday… yes, next Friday, Mr. Nott, I realize it's just before your next Hogsmeade weekend. But we're nearing the end of term, and next year you'll have your OWLs to contend with. Best get used to the work, all of you. Mr. Riddle… continue on as you are." Admiring laughs rose up around the room. Harry's skin prickled.
There was a small smile playing across Tom Riddle's lips. "My question… Professor Merrythought, what if we did not want to break a – let's say a curse. You've mentioned before that curses, magically speaking, are no different than charms but for their purpose. There are degrees of strength, are there not?"
"I beg your pardon?" Merrythought said, blinking.
"It seems to me," said Riddle, quite diffidently, while his fellow students looked on, fascinated and uncomprehending. "It seems to me that the Founders' objects – simply the way they are described – are extremely enduring magical charms. Oddly so, in fact… and even the Sorting Hat, made by Godric Gryffindor himself… it's endured a thousand years."
"Indeed," said Merrythought good-naturedly. "Was there a question in there, Mr. Riddle?"
"I wondered if these longer-living charmed objects may have more in common with cursed objects than people would want to believe," Riddle said, resting his chin on his hands. The skin around his eyes was quite taut. There was nothing casual in the way Riddle held himself perfectly motionless… he was a snake about to strike. "I have read of objects that are indestructible, but those are considered cursed–"
"-Mr. Riddle–" There was faint alarm in Merrythought's voice.
"-and I wondered if there was a charm that could render an object indestructible. Truly indestructible."
Relief spread across Merrythought's face. "It is good insight, Mr. Riddle," she finally said, after a moment, and she laughed a little. "You're the brightest wizard of your age, aren't you, Tom? But longevity of charms do not necessarily render the magical object indestructible; merely they are protected."
"I do not understand, Professor," said Riddle, brow furrowing.
"It isn't quite my area of expertise, you will want to ask our esteemed Charms professor," she said, still smiling.
"I will do so," Riddle promised.
"May I have a word with you after class?" she asked.
Riddle inclined his head, as though doing her a favor. "Of course."
Minutes later, after everyone else had packed up and gone, Riddle approached Merrythought.
"I had a thought, Tom," she said, "that I knew what you were truly asking about. You've uncovered something in your researches, have you?" She smiled again. "We spoke of it last year, if you remember."
"I remember," said Riddle.
"There is no charm, as far as I am aware, that could do what that curse does," said Merrythought. "It isn't exacting science…"
"That's a Muggle term," said Riddle. "I had wondered if anyone had found anything similar, but not quite so…"
"Devastating?" Merrythought suggested.
"Well, yes," said Riddle.
"You've heard of the Knights of Walpurgis, I presume?" Merrythought asked. There was an eagerness about her as she settled in her chair. With a wave of her wand, a tea service appeared, complete with biscuits and piping hot water. "Care for a bit of tea, Tom? Unless you've got class."
"Just Divination," said Riddle. "And I am ahead there in my studies."
"This does not surprise me," said Merrythought, cheerful. "The Knights of Walpurgis asked themselves a lot of the same questions that you do, Tom. They wished to penetrate the deepest mysteries, cast light upon curses, to understand matters like life and love, time and memory, divination and perhaps especially death. They saw magic as a neutral force."
"Love belongs on that list?" Riddle asked in a tone of polite disbelief.
"Indeed," said Merrythought. Tea now properly stewed, she pushed one cup in front of Riddle, and took hold of her own. Then, continuing on, she said: "But it was death, and the preventing of it, that truly seized their imaginations. Perhaps not at the very beginning, but they too thought that – well, the subject you have stumbled upon, quite on your own and without my help or the Ministry will have me out of Hogwarts before I could draw my wand – well, they thought they ought to discover a non evil way to achieve the same thing."
"An… object…" said Riddle.
"Indeed," said Merrythought again. There was a knowing look in her eye. "One with a very powerful tether."
Harry exchanged a glance with Ginny, perplexed. The professor and the young Tom Riddle were dancing around a subject without naming it. Frustrated, he ran his fingers through his hair. What was the point of being forced to watch Riddle charm and deceive a kind woman into giving him answers if Harry did not find any meaning in it? Good thing we didn't show these memories to Dumbledore, thought Harry, turning his attention back to the tableau in front of him.
"I think that's it," said Harry, uncertain. The classroom was unchanged, but time within the memory seemed to have stilled. Riddle was still standing beside Merrythought's desk; light from the window flickered over his face, giving him a sinister look. But he never quite loses that, Harry thought, uneasy. Slowly, slowly, the boy that would grow up to become Voldemort blinked. His gaze edged to the side, happening to catch exactly where Harry and Ginny were standing hand in hand.
"Harry," Ginny said, suddenly, squeezing his fingers. "Can he see us?"
"No," said Harry, shaking his head. But Riddle's eyes were caught on him now, unwavering and unblinking. "No, they're just – they're just memories. He can't see us. I was watching a trial in front of the whole Wizengamot once, and no one knew I was… there."
Disentangling himself from Ginny, he reached out and snapped his fingers in front of the near-motionless Riddle. The other boy didn't blink; he might have been carved from stone. Still, a warning shiver crept up Harry's spine. "Let's get out of here," he decided. This had not been an entirely fruitful exercise, and Harry was grateful to be done with it… and yet… the hint of warning still persisted.
"All right," agreed Ginny. Her unease seemed to match his.
"There's nothing dangerous about a pensieve," Harry reassured her. "It's just memories."
There was a quiet pause. "Dumbledore called the diary a memory," said Ginny.
"Yeah." Harry forcibly tore his gaze away from the young Riddle, who so greatly resembled the Riddle that had come out of the diary. "True." He was more than ready to leave, and he took Ginny up firmly, lifted his face toward the invisible exit from the pensieve and willed himself upward.
Nothing happened.
"Hold on." His voice cracked out, suddenly loud in the quiet, still classroom that existed only in memories. He strained upward; Ginny was tense in his arms. "Let me just–"
But his body felt heavy. His feet were mired in the stone floor. They tried to swim upward in Galatea Merrythought's memory, but there was a pull keeping them there. Scratching the back of his neck, his heartbeat leaping forward into a quicker pace, Harry squinted up toward where the exit of the pensieve should be. His arm might have weighed a hundred pounds, but he lifted it upward, reaching for the roof. "Come… on…" He grunted.
"Harry–"
But whatever she was about to say was cut off.
Echoing through the room, low and deep, laughter came. The hairs on the back of Harry's neck stood straight up. Was it Riddle who had somehow sensed their presence? But that was impossible; that was not how pensieves worked. But I've always used Dumbledore's pensieve, Harry reminded himself. He renewed his efforts to raise his feet just as the laughter – cold, low-pitched – rolled louder around them. It was like thunder, echoing in his bones.
For a moment, Harry thought he saw Riddle's lip lift in a sneer directed at Harry–
–and then, with one final wrench, the floor broke underneath them, and Harry was winging them upward as Galatea Merrythought's classroom melted around them into dark fog. It dripped downward like rain down a window, leaving them in darkness. But Harry did not care how dark it was as long as they were leaving behind that laughter and Tom Riddle's sneer.
Except, Harry thought suddenly, that did not sound at all like Voldemort's laugh…
HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP
Author's Note: Thanks goes to Fizzy, for knowing where to end this. Tell me you're reading Quidditch is for Losers!