SEPTEMBER 14th, 1997
It was Sunday. Sundays meant Ginny would be coming for dinner. Molly would cook, and the family would talk— never about anything too important, for fear of upsetting Ginny, who was prone to outbursts if the war was brought up too directly— and, if there was time, perhaps play a game of Exploding Snap or two. As summer turned toward autumn, the sun set earlier and earlier in the evening, meaning less time before Ginny would have to leave, but the Weasleys made sure to take advantage of every moment they had with her, for they never knew when those moments might be taken away.
Today, instead of a supply of fresh food on the dining table, waiting to be cooked, Molly Weasley found a folded piece of card stock. An elegant, looping script read:
She will not be coming.
Fleur stood up from the sofa, unable to bear the tension of the room any longer, and walked through the fake-Burrow's kitchen out to the back garden. Molly was probably glaring at her, but that didn't matter. Molly was always glaring at her for something. They had established a kind of truce last spring when Bill had been savaged, but the stress of their current situation had worn that truce down to the tiniest of tethers.
Lately, Molly was upset that Fleur spent so much time outside. Though she never said it, Molly Weasley seemed to believe that if you were not constantly moping and crying over your circumstances, that meant you didn't care about them at all. Fleur was "cold" and "rude" and "selfish."
Maybe those things were true. Molly Weasley certainly wouldn't be the first person to have said them, at one point or another. But more than anything, Fleur was just tired of being powerless.
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had graciously included the Weasleys' orchard in this travesty of a replication, which gave Fleur access to an apparently unlimited supply of apples. She picked one up, hefting its weight, noticing the shine of the sunlight on its ruby-red flesh.
A very convincing replication. But the apples weren't real— biting into one would just leave Fleur with a mouthful of sawdust. The only real food got delivered to the dining room table, as though an invisible delivery man was making his rounds. Who knew, perhaps that was what was happening— perhaps there were other prisons just like this one, waiting for their supply drops from the warden.
Only today, instead of a supply drop, the Weasley family had received a very short letter.
Fleur pelted the apple as hard as she could, waiting for the satisfying thwawpas it hit the magical barrier, making it visible for the briefest of seconds. Ginny had compared it to a giant soap bubble, and Fleur thought that was a pretty good description. They had agonized over it at first, trying anything and everything they could think of to dispel it, but this bubble did not want to burst. In fact, it was quite painful to interact with it at all. After Ginny's initial visits, the family had reluctantly given up trying to get out— it could put her in danger, and they didn't have access to magic.
Fleur did not touch the barrier. But throwing apples at it was almost like the same thing.
She picked up another apple and threw it as hard as she could, glaring at the barrier as it wavered into view.
"Où que tu sois, j'espère que tu te bats avec le cœur d'une lionne, ma petite sœur," she whispered.
Shortly after Fleur left the room, Bill did too— not to follow her, but to do the dishes.
It was a strange split loyalty, being trapped in this house. Fleur, he knew, felt like he didn't stand up for her often enough— even though he did, all the time— and Mum felt like any time he took Fleur's "side" was an attack on her, which he assured her it wasn't. He couldn't really win either way, which left him more often than not in an awkward middle ground.
Like now, for instance. He was washing dishes instead of comforting Mum or talking with Fleur or supporting his brothers or—
He took a deep breath. This wasn't about Mum or Fleur. He knew that. He felt powerless, and it was easier to think about feeling powerless to please both his mother and his wife than to think about how very powerless he actually was.
How powerless he was to find a way out of here. How powerless he was to protect his family. How powerless he was to protect Ginny.
He punched the wall next to the kitchen window, making the cabinets rattle. What could be happening to her? Why wasn't she here? Voldemort had said that as long as she obeyed him, she would be allowed to visit... did that mean that she had disobeyed him somehow? Was she in danger?
Bill, trapped as he was in this pretend-home, would never know, unless Voldemort dropped off another note to tell him.
"Hey."
Bill turned, his hands still covered in soapy water, to see Charlie standing in the doorway.
"Hey."
Charlie said nothing further, merely walked into the kitchen and began drying the dishes Bill had washed— something that would normally be accomplished with magic but now had to be done by hand.
"How's Mum?" Bill asked with a resigned sigh.
"How you would expect. Dad's with her now."
Bill grimaced. Mum had always been the firmer of the two of them, the harsher one, the one with an iron backbone. But losing Ginny had undone her. She hadn't been herself all summer; Ron, bless him, had held her together while Bill, Charlie, and Dad had searched the country for Ginny, but then Ron had left with Harry, and those who remained behind had been interrogated, and then arrested, and then ended up here.
Seeing Ginny again had given Mum hope— these weekly routines were a kind of perverse normalcy, something she could cling to in the face of their unending nightmare. Receiving a cryptic note instead of a Sunday roast had been enough to send her over the edge.
He glanced at Charlie, who looked very steady next to him, his eyes on his work. Bill had many brothers, but Charlie was the only one he could really consider a peer. The others were too young— very much siblings he had to take care of, rather than siblings he could rely on for support. But Charlie was different.
"What do you think could be happening to her?" he said quietly, glancing out the window to watch Fleur pelt their barrier with apple after apple.
"I don't know. But we do know she's not dead."
Memories of Ginny's first visit here flashed in Bill's mind.
Congratulations, Arthur and Molly— your daughter's immortal.
He grimaced as he remembered Ginny glowing with an unearthly golden light, surrounded by a ball not unlike the bubble they were currently under. He didn't understand it, and Ginny had refused to fully explain it to them. She was trying to protect them in her own way, he knew, but damn it, how could he help her if he didn't even know what was going on?
"Yeah, I guess we do know that," he said eventually. "Unless he's found a way around it."
"Not likely."
"How do you figure that?"
"Seems like the sort of thing he'd be excited to tell us, don't you think? That he killed an immortal."
An immortal. His baby sister. Immortal.
Bill shook his head. "I guess so."
"Fleur has the right idea, I think," Charlie said, nodding his chin toward the window, toward Fleur. "He wants us to be worried, to be upset. We shouldn't feed into it."
"Easier said than done."
"Yes, but think of it this way— Fred and George are always mad at Ginny for being too obedient, right? For not fighting back? She's been the perfect prisoner ever since we were reunited. If she isfighting back, and that's why she's not here, she must have had a damn good reason."
Bill looked at him. "You think something to do with the war?"
"Could be. I know we're a large part of the Order, but we're not the whole Order. Who knows what's happening out there."
"That could mean Ginny's in danger."
"It could. But she's in danger when she's here, too. He wants us to forget that. Why else make this place look like home? So we forget that we're supposed to fight back. But Ginny hasn't forgotten— that I know."
A small smile stretched across Bill's face. "Since when did you become so wise?"
Charlie smiled back before looking down at his dish again, methodically drying it. "Oh, I don't know. Probably when I decided to start listening to my older brother every once in a while."
A smile still on his face, Bill picked up another plate and began to wash it.
Fred tore the Chudley Cannons poster off of "Ron's" wall, tossing it to the ground. It made a satisfying ripping noise, giving Fred just a split second of satisfaction.
"I don't know why you bother," George said from where he was lying in the middle of the floor. "It's just going to reappear tomorrow."
"Well, that's tomorrow's problem, isn't it?"
He grimaced as he looked around the room. He and George had torn this place apart probably twenty times, looking for clues, looking for anything meaningful, anything that might clue them in to what Ron and Hermione and Harry were doing out there, how Fred and George might be able to help. But this wasn't the real Burrow. Eerily similar, creepily similar, but how could they reallytrust that anything they found up here was worth their while?
Not that they had been able to find much of anything. He knew that Ron and his friends had been hiding out up here before the wedding, plotting something. But plotting what?
"It's useless, Fred. Give it up."
"Don't say that," Fred snapped. "Just because Ginny—"
His voice caught in his throat. Just because Ginny told them not to fight back, didn't mean they shouldn't.
But Ginny was missing. Again. Mum had sobbed hysterically upon seeing the note— she will not be coming.
"You're going to tear this room apart," George said in a bored voice, staring at the ceiling, "and when you don't find anything, you'll go down to Ginny's, but tearing that up hurts too much, so you'll toss around some things for a few minutes before going back to ours and throwing things at the wall just to watch something break. That's what we both did the entire first week we were here, and now you're going to do it again, but it's just going to be the same as all the other times. You aren't going to find anything, and you aren't going to feel better."
Fred was breathing hard. George was right— he did want to throw something. Throw something so hard it smashed apart completely, with no way to put it right again. And the house would let him do it, for a time. When he woke up tomorrow, everything would be neat and orderly again— it was infuriating.
"What should I be doing then?" he demanded. "Lying on the floor, moping? If you want to cry about it, just go down to Mum—"
"I'm not moping," George snapped. "I'm thinking."
"Could have fooled me."
George did not respond, and Fred kicked the wall in frustration. A framed photo of Ron in his Keeper's uniform fell to the ground, though the glass did not shatter.
George was right. It was pointless destruction, impermanent and inconsequential. It momentarily let him feel like he was winning at something, like he was beatingsomething, but it was a short-lived, false victory, and he knew that, deep down. But what else was he supposed to do, when he wanted to tear this wretched place down board by board?
He chuckled despite himself. He and George had already tried that, twice, but it hadn't worked. It was a level of destruction too far for the house's magic— they hadn't been able to pull apart the floorboards no matter how hard they had tried, and none of their Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes products actually workedhere. The place was like an anti-magic vacuum— no magic except Voldemort's could exist here.
George was still lying on the ground, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his arms folded behind his head. Fred sighed and plopped down on Ron's bed, momentarily defeated.
"What are you thinking about?" he finally asked. "Grace me with your wisdom."
George stifled a smirk. "I could tell you my thoughts for years and I'm still not sure you'd make it into Ravenclaw."
Fred rolled his eyes, though he couldn't stop himself from smiling. "Yes, yes, we all know I'm the good looks and you're the brains of this operation. So tell me— what are you thinking?"
"About Ginny."
Fred's smile fell. "What about her?"
"She's hiding something."
"Well, obviously, considering our conversations are basically limited to how's the weather and ooh, this dinner is delightful Mum, thanks ever so much." Fred rolled his eyes again. "She doesn't want to tell us anything."
"I don't mean from us. I mean from them."
Fred frowned as he briefly replayed Ginny's last couple of visits in his mind. "How do you figure that?"
"It's just a gut feeling."
"Oh, there goes your Ravenclaw wisdom again. A gut feeling."
George shook his head. "It's how she talks," he said stubbornly. "She's not… I don't know how to explain it. She's always been able to hide things from Mum and Dad, but we were the ones who always caught her sneaking out with our brooms, remember? She gets this certain look on her face when she's hiding something. Her tone of voice isn't quite the same. It's subtle, but I can always tell."
Fred fidgeted uncomfortably. He too could always tell when Ginny was lying about something, or hiding the truth. But wasn't it obvious what that was about?
"And you don't think that look could be because she's hiding things from us?"
"Could be."
"But you don't think so."
"Nope."
Fred sighed. "Alright, I'll humor you. What do you think she could be hiding from them?"
"I'm not sure."
"Brilliant deduction there, Georgie."
"I didn't say I had all the answers," George snapped. "Just that I think there's more going on here than we realize."
"Oh yeah, like our baby sister glowing with the light of sun while You-Know-Who casually tries to murder her. More going on like that?"
George frowned, growing pensive again. "Maybe. She won't talk about it with us, and maybe that's to keep us safe, but it's not like it's some big secret— he showed it to us the first time he brought her here. What's the point in not telling us more about how it works? But if she's keeping things away from them…"
"She wouldn't want to say it here, in case we're being listened to," Fred finished, amazed. "You really think so?"
"Like I said, I don't know for sure. But it's just a gut feeling."
"Could she have been found out, and that's why she isn't here now?" Fred's stomach twisted in worry at the thought.
"I don't know," George said, biting his lip. "Maybe. All I know is that it feels like things are about to change, and we have to be ready for when they do."
"How can we do that without magic?"
"At the risk of sounding repetitive, I don't know," George said with another sigh. "But we have to be ready to back Ginny up with whatever she needs. Something's going to change, or maybe already has. So maybe save that energy you're spending tearing down posters— we might need it in a real fight."
Fred looked out Ron's tiny bedroom window and watched the barrier appear, then disappear, then appear again. His hand tightened into a fist.
Come on, Ginny, hang in there— let us help you.
Percy stood by the fireplace, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, wishing he knew the right thing to say. Mum was still crying, and Dad was still comforting her, but everyone else had run away— Fleur outside, Bill and Charlie to the kitchen, Fred and George upstairs.
Truth be told, Percy would have liked to run away too— where, exactly, he didn't know, but he knew he couldn't run away. He had already done enough of that, and look where it had gotten him. He was a pariah in his family, and it had all been for nothing.
Being arrested at the Ministry and dropped in a cell with his family when he hadn't spoken to them in months had been equal parts terrifying and humiliating. Fred and George, he knew, had still not forgiven him, nor had Dad, deep down. But, given everything, their feelings about Percy tended to take a backseat these days.
Percy always took a backseat these days. Where had all of his striving ambition gotten him, in the end? Held at wand-point by Death Eaters, that was where— and without the love and support of his family, which he now realized he had thoroughly taken for granted.
Mum seemed to be coming back to herself. She was sniffling rather than sobbing, though her face was still quite red.
"Is there anything I can do, Mother?" he asked, not quite able to drop the formal tone of voice he had spent so many years mastering. It made him different, and for so long, that had been a good thing. Not so much of a good thing now.
"N-no, thank you, Percy," Mum sniffled, wiping her eyes. "We just… we just have to stick together—"
She started crying again, and Percy suppressed a sigh. If he was honest with himself, he was uncomfortable with big displays of emotion. Whenever hefelt like how Mum looked, he felt thoroughly, absolutely, inconsolably out of control. It was intolerable. But Mum had always worn her heart on her sleeve. If she was angry, she was furious. If she was happy, she was elated. And if she was sad… she was inconsolable.
Was it really sadness though? Maybe sadness mixed with fear was a better descriptor. His mind flashed on the note and his stomach clenched. It might be nothing, but it could equally mean that Ginny was in horrible danger and the Weasleys could do nothing about it.
Dad wasn't crying. He sat next to Mum on the sofa and rubbed her back, small little circles like he used to do for Percy when he had a nightmare and couldn't go back to sleep. Percy watched, his heart aching. How had things gotten so screwed up? Would their family ever be able to come back together again, or had the events of You-Know-Who's rise to power broken the Weasleys apart for good?
"Percy, why don't you go make your mother a strong cup of tea?" Dad asked, his eyes still on Mum.
Percy took a deep breath. He wasn't welcome here.
"Of course, Father. Whatever you need."
Arthur let Molly lean against him, rubbing small circles on her back as she buried her face in his chest. They had had so much heartache. How much more could they reasonably take?
"Arthur, what are we going to do?" Molly asked, her voice shaky. "What if she doesn't come back?"
"I'm not sure," Arthur said softly, keeping up the small circles. "Stick together, like you said. Our love is our strength now— for Ginny, and for each other."
"M-maybe we should have questioned her more. When she was here," Molly said, taking a shaky breath. "She just always got so upset—"
"We did the right thing, Molly. I'm sure she had very good reasons for not telling us much."
Just like Arthur had very good reasons for not telling his family his suspicions about Ginny's left arm. His mind returned to their initial reunion, to Ginny's terror at the pronouncement that they couldn't use magic here, the way she had seized George's left arm, looking for something. In the chaos that followed, Molly and the boys seemed to have forgotten about it, but Arthur hadn't. He noticed her terror, noticed the deliberate way she responded to Voldemort, noticed how she always wore long, tight-fitted sleeves and never pushed them up even an inch.
She had been branded with the Dark Mark. Or if not the Dark Mark, something like it— something that apparently took magic away, based on her reaction. What else did it do? Control her, somehow? Was that why she was telling them not to fight back, not to discuss ways to get out of here? It made sense that they could be under surveillance, but Ginny's behavior was… odd. Not at all like her normal self. Which, to be fair, was reasonable under the circumstances, but Arthur was sure that there was a lot more going on than Ginny was allowing them to be aware of. Was she under an Imperius Curse, perhaps?
No, that didn't seem quite right. She hadn't automatically obeyed Voldemort when they were here together. He had had to threaten her. Someone who was under the Imperius needed no threatening.
He couldn't talk to Molly about it— not really. Molly had always been his confidante, his source of support within the Order. Hell, during meetings she was a powerhouse, unafraid to go toe-to-toe with anyone she disagreed with. But things were different now. Her family was threatened in a way that she hadn't felt since Gideon and Fabian had died. First Percy abandoning them all for spineless Cornelius Fudge, then Arthur being bitten by that blasted snake, then Greyback's attack on Bill, and then Ginny going missing. Being kidnapped. Being held prisoner. Apparently becoming immortal.
That was why Voldemort held her captive, Arthur knew. It had to be infuriating for him. But why let Ginny visit the Weasleys at all, in that case? Why not just keep her in a cell, as awful as that would be?
He had said they had made an agreement— she kept him happy, and he returned the favor. But what did that mean?What could he want with her, immortal or no?
Ginny wouldn't tell them, which meant there was something to hide. Something that she was afraid or embarrassed or maybe even ashamed to tell them.
"Arthur what if she never comes back?" Molly said, grabbing his shirt tightly in her fists. "What if we're stuck here, and she never comes back?"
"We'll find a way, Molly," Arthur replied with a confidence he didn't actually feel. "We'll find a way."
SEPTEMBER 14th, 1997
Not getting to spend the evenings with Ginny was really very boring.
Draco laid on the chaise in the music room, listening to his mother play, absently fiddling with a Golden Snitch, letting it fly away for a moment before catching it again.
It was more noticeable now that it was the weekend— he had been officially told to move back to the manor on Thursday, but of course he had already been expecting the news. Thursday and Friday had been manageable— Friday particularly because of his impromptu date idea during work— but the weekend seemed to drag on and on. He had not had the luxury of being bored, by himself, in a very long time.
It was also the first time in a very long time that he didn't have a mission, he realized. They needed to identify where Voldemort could have hidden his "precious things," and then figure out how to get ahold of them and destroy them without alerting Voldemort to what they were doing (meaning Draco would have to be the one to do it), but until Voldemort decided to show Ginny any information about them, they had no way to move forward. The thought had briefly crossed his mind to attempt the spell Blaise had given him on something of Voldemort's, but Voldemort wasn't dead, and truth be told, Draco was not in a hurry to perform that spell for a fourth time. Hallucinating Tom Riddle had been bad enough— he didn't want to push his luck any further when the circumstances didn't really fit the criteria of the spell to begin with.
But that meant that, for the moment, he had nothing to do. He had managed to surreptitiously lose a Muggle-born man's documents before court on Thursday, documents proving that he had Muggle parentage, the loss of which meant that he was merely sentenced to Azkaban rather than the Dementor's Kiss— a mercy he would never know Draco was responsible for. There had been several cases like that, but Draco hadn't been able to save all of them, a fact that, if he thought about it too long, made him feel like he was sinking in thick, inescapable mud. Umbridge didn't have the Kiss performed in the courtrooms, thank Merlin, but Draco knew it happened, heard the terrified screams of the prisoners as they were pulled away.
He only had to attend court twice a week. A small mercy, that.
Mercy was an interesting word, if he thought about it. Was mercy defined by someone's actions, or their intentions, or the consequences of their actions? He had not been merciful, on the face of it, with Ginny early on, but he had done it to spare her from something worse. The same was true for this man and his Azkaban sentence. Azkaban was hardly a mercy, but it was better than the Dementor's Kiss, and yet Draco's name, as Umbridge's assistant, was all over the man's court documents. What would the Aurors think about that, once Voldemort was deposed for good? Would they see the mercy there, or the actions of a loyal Death Eater?
He sighed before catching the Snitch once again, noticing how the second sight showed him the waves of magic emanating off of it. Him getting it alongside Ginny had been unexpected, but hopefully would prove useful, in time. Perhaps, if he was instrumental enough in Voldemort's downfall…
But that was a big if. More than likely, he would be walking into an Azkaban cell himself soon enough. The bridge would be his saving grace there; enjoying the water with Ginny had been wonderful, so deliciously comforting that he could almost forget it wasn't the real thing. She would visit him there, he was sure; maybe that would keep him sane against the Dementors. Bellatrix had always said that her Occlumency was one of the main reasons she survived— perhaps that would help him too.
His chest tightened as he thought of Ginny, of her laughing in the shallows of the ocean, of her smiling up at him, of her eyes fluttering closed in pleasure as he made love to her…
Would he really not get to have any of that out in the physical world? What if he never got to hold her again? Never got to kiss her again? After everything, would he really have to spend his life locked in a dark, dank Azkaban cell, or else lost inside his own head?
"I received a letter today," Mother said, not looking up from her playing. "From Chiara Zabini."
Draco looked over at his mother, holding tight to the Snitch so as not to let it fly away. Ginny was right— people did have a glow to them. His mother's was a pale pink, like candy floss. It was soothing and inviting and warm, just like her.
"Oh? What did it say?"
"Well it was the most curious thing," she said lightly, her back still to him. The music stopped. "I wrote her a thank you note for the generous gift she gave me, and do you know what she said? She said she had no idea what I was talking about and that she hadn't sent me any gifts."
Draco froze. It was a very good thing that Father was not in the room.
"That's very strange," he said after a long moment, his throat uncomfortably dry. "I wonder why Blaise—"
"I wonder too," Mother interrupted. "Sometimes I find myself wondering a great many things."
This was dangerous territory. He needed to change the subject immediately. Before he could open his mouth, however, Mother continued speaking.
"Sometimes I wonder what things might have been like had you come into adulthood in less dangerous times. Would you hold yourself as stiffly as you do now, or would you be lighter, more carefree? I'll argue with myself about it, you see. You've always modeled yourself after your father, and I've encouraged it, and it's served you well, the world being what it is. But I also remember my darling little boy who loved nothing more than to play pretend on long, lazy afternoons." She looked over her shoulder at him, her gaze piercing. "You were very good at it, do you remember? Always coming up with elaborate stories for us to play out. You would laugh and laugh afterwards, but when you were in character, you were committed to your role. Do you think that's served you well too?"
Draco wasn't sure he was breathing. "I'm not sure what you mean, Mother."
"Are you not?" she said with a sad smile. She turned around on her bench seat to face him more fully, resting her elbows on her knees as she leaned forward. "Sometimes," she whispered, "I wonder what life would be like without any fighting at all. No wars, no political climbing, no dread of danger around every corner. Can you imagine it?"
Draco made himself swallow, unable to tear his eyes away from his mother's face. He suddenly felt very, very young.
"That… sounds peaceful, Mother. Relaxing." Catching himself, he cleared his throat. "But also a bit boring. We have to uphold the family lineage, don't we? Malfoys first."
Mother smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Of course. Malfoys first, always." She stood up, her silky robes swishing as she moved, and she came over to the chaise. Knowing what she wanted, his stomach still squirming with anxiety, Draco lifted his head, and Mother sat down, allowing him to put his head in her lap. She stroked his forehead, not unlike how Pansy had done a lifetime ago. Draco held still, feeling like maybe he was caught under some sort of spell. The moment had an air of surrealism to it, like maybe time had stopped.
That would actually be really, really lovely if that were true. If he could just stay here forever in Mother's lap— a boy, not a man. No responsibilities, no outside world… no danger.
"Sometimes I wonder about what that phrase really means," she continued, not looking at him. He stiffened— an uncomfortable echo of his earlier thoughts about mercy. "Is it about our actions, or our motivations for them? What do you think?"
"Both," he said after a moment. "It's our motivation for the choices we make, but we're still responsible for seeing it through. If my actions aren't putting Malfoys first, it doesn't matter if that's my motivation. I'm still doing it wrong."
"That's an interesting way of looking at it." She was silent for a long moment, then said, "When I think about the phrase, I suppose I think about the future. What does it mean to put Malfoys first, not just in the moment, but continuously? For me, it means thinking about legacy, and my legacy is you."
Draco sucked in a breath, his heart growing painfully tight.
"I have loved you from the deepest depths of my soul since I first knew of your existence," she said, and the candy floss pink of her glow seemed to deepen. "Since before you were born. I almost lost you, twice, before you made it fully to the land of the living. Once you were here, every decision I've made— every single one— has been to put you first, and I want you to know that I will continue to do so, whatever may come. You're first, Draco— not anyone or anything else."
Not anyone or anything else. Was she… was she saying what he thought she was saying?
"I love you, Mother," he whispered.
"I love you too, my son. Please be careful."
He swallowed, afraid to acknowledge what was unspoken between them, and nodded instead.
SEPTEMBER 14th, 1997
Ginny lay in bed, fuming. It was Sunday, which meant she should have been visiting her family, but the afternoon had come and gone and her door had not materialized. Dinner had appeared on the dining table, like it did every other day that wasn't Sunday. The sun set, and Ginny was still in her room. Alone.
She should have realized that her agreement didn't just mean not seeing Draco, that it would affect her visits with her family too. But it hadn't even crossed her mind. Sunday visits had become an absolute, a foregone conclusion in her week; if she was obedient, she saw her family, and that was that.
But not anymore. She had bargained it away, and she wasn't even sure if it would be worth it. She had not dreamed of Tom Riddle in three days. If she did not dream of him tonight, it would mark day number four, and the beginning of some very serious doubts on her part.
Was he doing this just to get into her head? Him not taking her to see her family seemed to imply he was holding her to their newest bargain, but then why hadn't he shown her anything yet? What was he waiting for?
Hey.
She sighed. Hey.
It's going to be alright.
I know.
Are you sure?
Another sigh. No. But there's fuck all I can do about it now, so I guess we'll just see what happens.
I'm sorry. I wish you could see them.
Me too.
Draco stayed silent, though she could still feel his presence through the bridge. She longed to go to him, but it was after dark— she should be trying to fall asleep.
They probably think I'm being tortured or something, she said, her stomach twisting. I told them that as long as I obeyed him, I would get to see them. They probably think this is a punishment of some kind. They must be worried sick.
Cool ocean waves flowed towards her, through the bridge. They'll know the truth one day soon. They'll see how brave you've been, how many sacrifices you've made. How you saved them all.
You really think so?
Without a doubt. We just have to stick to our plan.
Which requires Voldemort sticking to his.
He won't just leave you alone in there forever. Something will happen, we just don't know when.
What if he changes his mind?
Then we rethink our strategy.
I wish you were here.
The ocean waves stuttered. I wish that too.
It's hard to sleep without you. It feels… empty, here by myself.
Then let me stay here with you while you fall asleep. I'll leave once you do, and hopefully, when you wake up, you'll have news to tell me.
She smiled, holding onto her stuffed Pygmy Puff, inhaling the scent of pine. I love you.
I love you too, Ginny.
With Draco's help, it did not take so terribly long to fall asleep.
…
"Enjoying your solitude?"
Ginny opened her eyes. She was in the vault, lying on the ground. Tom loomed over her, a smirk on his face as he extended a hand toward her. Hesitantly, she took it and allowed him to pull her to her feet.
"I asked you a question, little saint."
"Not really, if I'm being honest."
"Now's your chance to bow out. You can change your mind."
She could sense the tension in the air, could sense how… disappointed? Was that the right word? How disappointed he would be if she changed her mind. He seemed more… fragile tonight, like he knew he was risking something important. That felt equal parts promising and dangerous. She would have to be very careful.
She shook her head. "I'm not changing my mind."
He smiled. "Good. I debated for a good long while about what to show you, what was… reasonable, to show you. But I've made my decision. Up until now, your dreams have either been of the future, or an alternate, pretend reality. But this time, I'm going to show you the past."
He extended his hand to her, and she held her breath as she took it, and a room took shape around them.
They were in a fancy sitting room, a room which was so crammed with objects that it was difficult to see how anybody could navigate their way across it without knocking over at least a dozen things: There were cabinets full of little lacquered boxes, cases full of gold-embossed books, shelves of orbs and celestial globes, and many flourishing potted plants in brass containers. In fact, the room looked like a cross between a magical antique shop and a conservatory. In the middle of it all sat an immensely fat old lady wearing an elaborate ginger wig and a brilliant pink set of robes that flowed all around her, giving her the look of a melting iced cake. An extremely tiny, extremely old house-elf was leading a young Lord Voldemort through the space. He looked just a bit older than the teenage self that Ginny was familiar with— he was plainly dressed in a black suit, while his hair was a little longer than it had been at school and his cheeks were hollowed.
"I was twenty-three here," Tom said, observing the scene with some disdain. "Working for Borgin and Burkes."
"For Borgin and Burkes?" Ginny repeated, dumbfounded. Somehow, the idea of him having a job had never occurred to her before. In her mind, he had simply sprouted into the evil and notorious Dark Lord, fully formed.
He chuckled. "Yes. For Borgin and Burkes. It was through that line of work that I came into contact with not one but two of the treasures I've shown you, and it is my history with that establishment that led me to seek Borgin's counsel on the Hallows. They are uniquely situated for dealing with rare and powerful magical objects."
"Who is the lady?"
Tom's lip curled. "Hepzibah Smith. Descendant of Helga Hufflepuff."
The Tom of this memory picked his way through the cramped room with an air that showed he had visited many times before and bowed low over Hepzibah's fat little hand, brushing it with his lips.
"I brought you flowers," he said quietly, producing a bunch of roses from nowhere.
"You naughty boy, you shouldn't have!" squealed old Hepzibah, though Ginny noticed that she had an empty vase standing ready on the nearest little table. "You do spoil this old lady, Tom… Sit down, sit down… Where's Hokey? Ah…"
Ginny wrinkled her nose at the obvious falseness of this display, and Tom smirked at her.
"I can be charming when I need to be."
She recalled him dancing with her, kissing her own hand while he pretended she was a princess.
"Perhaps you even enjoy it."
He glanced at her. "From time to time. When I'm in suitable company."
Ginny chose not to respond to that, returning her attention to Hepzibah Smith.
"Help yourself, Tom," said Hepzibah. "I know how you love my cakes. Now, how are you? You look pale. They overwork you at that shop, I've said it a hundred times…"
Voldemort smiled mechanically and Hepzibah simpered, turning Ginny's stomach.
"Well, what's your excuse for visiting this time?" she asked, batting her lashes.
"Mr. Burke would like to make an improved offer for the goblin-made armor," said Voldemort. "Five hundred Galleons, he feels it is a more than fair—"
"Now, now, not so fast, or I'll think you're only here for my trinkets!" pouted Hepzibah.
"How can she think otherwise—" Ginny started but Tom interrupted her, suddenly deathly serious.
"Shh! Listen."
"I am ordered here because of them," Voldemort was saying. "I am only a poor assistant, madam, who must do as he is told. Mr. Burke wishes me to inquire—"
"Oh, Mr. Burke, phooey!" said Hepzibah, waving a little hand. "I've something to show you that I've never shown Mr. Burke! Can you keep a secret, Tom? Will you promise you won't tell Mr. Burke I've got it? He'd never let me rest if he knew I'd shown it to you, and I'm not selling, not to Burke, not to anyone! But you, Tom, you'll appreciate it for its history, not how many Galleons you can get for it."
"I'd be glad to see anything Miss Hepzibah shows me," said Voldemort quietly, and Hepzibah gave another girlish giggle. Ginny made a face, but Tom wasn't paying attention to her anymore. His gaze was transfixed on his prior self, watching with a hungry look in his eyes that made the hair stand up on the back of Ginny's neck.
Something important here. Something dangerous.
"I had Hokey bring it out for me… Hokey, where are you? I want to show Mr. Riddle our finest treasure… In fact, bring both, while you're at it…"
"Here, madam," squeaked the house-elf, and Ginny saw two leather boxes, one on top of the other, moving across the room as if of their own volition, though she knew the tiny elf was holding them over her head as she wended her way between tables, pouches, and footstools.
"Now," said Hepzibah happily, taking the boxes from the elf, laying them in her lap, and preparing to open the topmost one. "I think you'll like this, Tom… Oh, if my family knew I was showing you… They can't wait to get their hands on this!"
She opened the lid. Ginny edged forward a little to get a better view and sucked in a breath when she saw Hufflepuff's cup nestled inside.
"I wonder whether you know what it is, Tom? Pick it up, have a good look!" whispered Hepzibah, and Voldemort stretched out a long-fingered hand and lifted the cup by one handle out of its snug silken wrappings. Greed marred his handsome features, just as it did now on Tom's face, and on Hepzibah's as she watched him look at it.
"A badger," murmured Voldemort, examining the engraving upon the cup. "Then this was…?"
"Helga Hufflepuff's, as you very well know, you clever boy!" said Hepzibah, leaning forward with a loud creaking of corsets and actually pinching his hollow cheek, making Ginny gasp at her audacity. Tom's hands tightened into fists next to her, and Ginny was very glad in this moment that Hepzibah Smith was only a memory, for she did not want to see what Lord Voldemort, Master of Death, would do to her.
"Don't worry," he whispered, though it was icy. His gaze still lingered on Hepzibah. "I won't show you that part."
Ginny's stomach lurched, but she stayed silent as Hepzibah prattled on, oblivious to the danger she was in.
"Didn't I tell you I was distantly descended? This has been handed down in the family for years and years. Lovely, isn't it? And all sorts of powers it's supposed to possess too, but I haven't tested them thoroughly, I just keep it nice and safe in here…"
She hooked the cup back off Voldemort's long forefinger and restored it gently to its box, too intent upon settling it carefully back into position to notice the shadow that crossed Voldemort's face as the cup was taken away. Tom actually let out a little snarl beside her, making Ginny flinch.
"She didn't deserve it," he said. "Filth like her. Wasting its full potential. Disgusting."
"Does that mean you used it to its full potential?"
His eyes whipped toward her, and Ginny forced herself to take a deep breath.
"I elevated its potential," he said softly. "Beyond its original purpose."
Elevated its potential. That sounded like confirmation of exactly what Ginny was looking for.
"How did you do that?" she whispered.
He looked at her for a long moment before turning his attention back to the scene. "Pay attention."
"Now then," said Hepzibah happily, "where's Hokey? Oh yes, there you are— put that away now, Hokey."
The elf obediently took the boxed cup, and Hepzibah turned her attention to the much flatter box in her lap.
"I think you'll like this even more, Tom," she whispered.
"You knew I would, you old hag," Tom interrupted, almost making Ginny miss her next words.
"Lean in a little, dear boy, so you can see… Of course, Burke knows I've got this one, I bought it from him, and I daresay he'd love to get it back when I'm gone…"
She slid back the fine filigree clasp and flipped open the box. There upon the smooth crimson velvet lay a heavy golden locket, one that Ginny recognized instantly.
Voldemort reached out his hand, without invitation this time, and held it up to the light, staring at it.
"Slytherin's mark," he said quietly, as the light played upon an ornate, serpentine S.
"That's right!" said Hepzibah, delighted, apparently, at the sight of Voldemort gazing at her locket, transfixed. "I had to pay an arm and a leg for it, but I couldn't let it pass, not a real treasure like that, had to have it for my collection. Burke bought it, apparently, from a ragged-looking woman who seemed to have stolen it, but had no idea of its true value—"
"Can you guess who that woman might be?" Tom asked her, his voice as cold as she had ever heard it.
"Your mother?" Ginny asked, horrified. Voldemort's eyes flashed scarlet at Hepzibah's words, his knuckles whitening on the locket's chain.
"Yes," Tom said softly. "My birthright. Sold for a mere ten Galleons, to buy my mother some form of shelter before she gave birth to me. She was robbed of it. It was stolen. It belonged to me!"
His voice had risen to a shout, echoing off of the walls of the memory.
"That's why you took it back," Ginny said quickly. "It belonged to you."
"Yes," he said after a long moment, breathing hard. "It belongs to me still."
"So there you are, Tom dear, and I hope you enjoyed that!"
Hepzibah had taken the locket away. She looked at Voldemort full in the face and for the first time, her foolish smile faltered.
"Are you all right, dear?"
"Oh yes," said Voldemort quietly. "Yes, I'm very well…"
"I thought— but a trick of the light, I suppose—" said Hepzibah, looking unnerved. "Here, Hokey, take these away and lock them up again… the usual enchantments…"
"What happens next will… not be to your tastes," Tom said, and the setting faded around them, leaving them in darkness.
"What… what happened next?"
"I poisoned the old hag's tea, Confunded the house-elf into thinking she had done it, and took what was rightfully mine."
The cup and the locket— he had stolen them both.
"I didn't steal the locket. It was mine. It belonged to me. I should have killed Burke for taking advantage of my mother the way he did, but instead I left the country. That was the beginning of ten years of travel, ten years in which I learned more than I ever could have imagined. Ten years in which I became the Dark Lord you grew up hearing tale of."
"I… can understand that," Ginny said carefully. "What Burke did was horrible. Your mother must have been desperate for money if she sold it for so little."
Tom's nostrils flared, and Ginny flinched, afraid that she had gone too far. "She was desperate. Pushed into desperation by my filthy Muggle father, who abandoned her and me along with him. Leaving her to die and me to rot." He stepped closer to her, and she forced herself not to back away as he tipped her chin up with one long finger. "He's the one rotting now though," he whispered. "And I'm still here, stronger than ever— thanks, in part, to you, little saint."
"And the cup and the locket."
"And the cup and the locket," he agreed, his eyes roving over her face.
"You've hidden me away in a… vault," she said slowly. "What about these others? What did you do with them?"
He tilted his head, considering. "They're in vaults of their own, I suppose you could say. One hidden in plain sight, and one far away from prying eyes, somewhere where none living have traveled to."
"You keep them safe, just like me."
He smiled. "Yes, just like you."
Part of her desperately wanted to ask for more information, but this moment between them felt precarious, like one wrong word would tip everything over.
"Thank you for showing me," she said quietly, and he grew still. "I know it… isn't something you show most people."
"It isn't something I've shown anyone," he said, meeting her gaze. "But you and I are linked— connected by fate. It makes sense for you to see."
Ginny nodded, and for a tense moment she felt sure he was going to kiss her, but then he dropped her chin and took a step back.
"Our deal is in motion, little saint. I hope you grow to enjoy your solitude."
Ginny woke up, breathing hard. She was sweaty, her limbs tangled in the sheets. She had to have been tossing and turning as she slept.
What had she learned? That she and Draco were on the right track, for one thing— "elevating its potential" sure sounded like housing his soul inside the cup. Seeing Nagini in person would fully confirm it— the second sight hadn't shown anything interesting in her dream, but she supposed that was because it was a dream, it wasn't really happening. And either way, the cup and the locket didn't have his soul in them at that point in time— they were ordinary, if historically important, magical objects. But it seemed like she and Draco were headed in the right direction.
Tonight also showed he was at least willing to give her someinformation about where they were. She didn't know what his description meant, but she felt sure that pushing further would have been the wrong decision. She couldn't let him grow suspicious. She would have to keep being quietly curious, keep flattering his ego, and let him spoon-feed her information, bit by bit.
The important thing was, he didn't suspect anything now. He had shown her a memory, something he had never shown anyone else. He was trusting her enough to be vulnerable with her.
From where Ginny was standing, that was a very, very good thing.