The resemblance was striking. If she had not known better, Pansy thought, she would have believed to be looking through their window in Nocturn Alley, so little had changed in Borgin and Burke's ever since Tom Riddle had let himself be exploited by the elder wolverine. Even in the dim light of her wand, she could tell apart an old diadem, a golden cup and some ancient locket, all of them no doubt valuable magical artifacts. Tom Riddle, in the prime of his late teenage years, looked as vibrant and vivid as any young man his age. He had lowered himself into a great comfortable armchair with snake heads for armrests and faint silver linings glowing on the green silk of its covering. As Pansy dared to step even closer, her nose almost touching the silver frame, she noticed the lines to be moving. As Tom leaned back, a pose displaying both relaxation and dominance, she watched the silver lines wiggle and circle around his shoulders, huggling to the thin black silk he wore as a shirt.

"Your contribution will be - most - appreciated", Tom whispered. Pansy hoped he did not see her shiver, but neither dared to lower her wand. The hunger in his eyes became obvious, and with a jolt of her stomach, she saw a distinct bulk in his trousers. „Shall we begin?"

"Half past", Pansy eluded, „If I miss the exact -"

„How long, then?"

"Four minutes", she answered, reaching for the watch, careful not to let him see what she was looking at in the dark pockets of her robes, "… three…"

Time had decided to pass at an excruciating slow pace. Pansy did not know what to expect, how this could possibly work -

Two minutes -

What a hair-raising idea it had been altogether, nobody had even thought this through properly, let alone tried -

„It's time", Riddle whispered.

Pansy closed her eyes. She could not, would not watch what was going to happen next.

"Harmonia Nectere Passus", she said. Her fist was clutched so tightly around her wand now that it hurt. „Harmonia Nectere Passus."

Riddle must have left his chair, she guessed with her eyes still shut. His steps, muffled by an ancient formerly flying carpet now buried beneath the armchair, slowly moved from about the center of the picture to a remote corner. Her heart was racing painfully now. Then, without warning, a sharp pain shot through her pelvis. Unable to restrain herself, she moaned and collapsed on the spot, adding throbbing to her knees. Unidentifiable noises came from the frame which she still did not dare look at. Riddle would tell her when he was done.

Some throbbing of her knees and strokes somewhere in her lower stomach later she heard a muffled „OH" and then a zipper being closed audibly. The throbbing in her knees subsided.

"You know what you have to do", Riddle said, in a strange voice, as if he had been running and was out of puff.

Pansy hesitated. „Carry out your duty", Riddle commanded, sounding much more than his older self now, and despite her reluctance, her doubts and fears, muttered „Harmonia Nectere Passus" twice again.

As a creaking sound signalled her that Riddle had taken a seat again, she dared to open her eyes and look up. His cheeks had pinked up, but strangely, the healthy change in his face made him look less likeable, as if emphasizing the contrast between him and his humanity.

"Go and do your duty to your master", he repeated. There could be no mistake he was ordering her to.

For the umptheemth time this night, the package from her mother lay heavy in her pocket. Her heart was still throbbing, from both the pain and fear. Without another glance at Riddle, Pansy turned and rushed to the Room of Requirement for the second time.

Her watch showed three minutes to nine when the entrance appeared. Much easier than first time, she slipped into the room and made her way through to the empty Vanishing Cabinet. Her mother might have been a brute and cold witch ever since she had decided that her daughter would participate in this magic stunt, but she had never been said to be stupid. Time to reap the rewards of brains passed through generations of Parkinsons.

Pansy reached into her pocket and quickly unwrapped a tiny golden necklace with an hourglass nestled in gold. The last Time Turner known to wizardkind, to be used in the only procedure worthy of its exceptionality.

The gold lay lightly around her neck like faint winter sunrays. Nine o'clock exactly. Forty-five minutes back in time. Three quarters of a turn, no more, no less.

Her hands were shaking. No, I can't mess this up.

Gathering all her focus, Pansy took the innermost golden plate and turned.

The moment she stopped, her surroundings became blurry, as if she travelled by Floo powder - only to end up exactly where she had started. Her hands had steadied, but her stomach did not let her off so easily - as a bubbling, sour feeling rose in her throat, Pansy bent over and vomited. Perhaps everyone got sick from their first time travel. She checked the watch in her pocket, only to find it showing ten past nine. Apparently muggle devices weren't designed for such use.

Her heart started hammering painfully again. Could she be late?

Pansy quickly assessed her situation. If she had missed the transport, she'd be stuck in here for forty minutes, only to crash into herself, and everybody had warned her about that - you must not be seen -

She sighed. Only one chance remained, and of course, she realized, her mother had planned it like this all along.

She stepped into the Vanishing Cabinet, and pulled the doors shut.

The darkness was cold and calmed her down a little. Just before her pulse was back to normal rhythm, she must have lost it again, as some hot liquid soaked her knickers. Grateful for the closed cabinet, she cast a drying charm, before a bright light dazzled her. Slim, white fingers reached through the split in the darkness, pulling open the cabinet. Her eyes needed longer than usual to accommodate, it seemed, as the dark colors just wouldn't light up thought the door was ajar now -

But then, she realized, the room just wasn't lit that bright.

Borgin and Burkes must have preferred it that way in the early sixties, and Tom Riddle must have been quite comfortable in this dim atmosphere, as he was grinning from one ear to another from outside the cabinet.