I am so, so sorry for not updating in so long! The past weeks have been busier than I thought they would be, and I'm not sure if I'll be able to keep updating as often as I used to. But I promise I'll try to post the next chapter as soon as I can.

I hope you'll enjoy this chapter! Please consider leaving a review — your feedback means the world to me, even if I can't reply to them all. Again, so sorry for the huge delay!

21 October 1942 — 31 October 1942

"What's so special about 'The Warlock's Hairy Heart'?"

To her dismay, that was as far as Ginny had gotten when Professor Silverton — for the first time in recent memory — arrived and started Muggle Studies on time. Ginny had been meaning to use the extra time they usually had to ask about Alphard's cryptic message, and a glance to her left told her that Alphard had been hoping for the same.

As Silverton turned her back to write the day's topic on the board, Alphard leaned closer to Ginny and whispered, "How do you feel about skipping Care of Magical Creatures?"

"What do you have in mind?"

He handed her a small crystal vial. "It's Fainting Draught. All it takes is one sip, and we'll have enough time to make it back to the castle without Kettleburn being any the wiser."

"You're sure that'll work?"

"Of course," he said with a proud smile. "Burgie brewed it herself. She skives off all the time."

The thought of Walburga Black — that screaming hag of a portrait — playing hooky the same way Fred and George used to was such a jarring image that Ginny nearly did a double take.

"We can take it now," she suggested. "We don't have to wait."

"If we skip now, we'd have to go to Magical Creatures. You don't really want to have to see Riddle, do you?"

Well, how could she argue with that?

An hour and a half later, Ginny took a quick sip of the potion, just as Kettleburn was about to begin the lesson. Reading the topic announced on the blackboard, she was glad she had gone along with Alphard's plan. Another morning spent on Diricawls? Hadn't they just covered that last time? Surely they had learned quite enough about them to pass the O.W.L.s —

Oh.

The potion sure worked quickly. Already Ginny felt lightheaded and her hand flew to wipe away the sweat forming at her temple. Nancy, who had been scribbling some last-minute additions to her homework, sensed her movement and turned to her with a frown.

"Are you all right?" said Nancy.

"I think I might've eaten something bad," said Ginny, her mouth strangely dry.

"You look like you're going to — oh . . . oh."

Nancy, bless her, scooted a little farther away from Ginny.

"Excuse me, Professor?" she said, loud enough to get Kettleburn's attention. "I don't think Ginny's feeling well."

Kettleburn stared at Ginny, looking a little taken aback. "You're feeling unwell, Miss Smith?"

"Oh, yes, Professor, very lightheaded," said Ginny. "I think I should lie down for a bit."

"She's really pale, sir," Alphard chimed in, in a perfectly concerned voice. He had been careful to claim a table near hers today, to help them leave the room more quickly. "Perhaps I ought to take her to the hospital wing?"

Though Ginny had avoided glancing in his direction, Riddle was seated close enough to Kettleburn that she could see a hint of suspicion creeping into his eyes.

Now quite dizzy, Ginny pushed to her feet. She wobbled something fierce, catching herself on the desk before she fell over and bringing a hand up to hold her head.

"Oh, I think I might faint," she said, partly to allay suspicion and partly because there was a very real possibility she would if she didn't get the antidote.

"Oh my — yes, I see now —" said Kettleburn, flustered. "Perhaps I should come with you myself — why, after all these attacks . . ."

"Really, Professor," protested Ginny, catching Alphard's alarmed look from the corner of her eye. "There's no need for you to go out of your way —"

"Nonsense, Miss Smith. You shouldn't wander the corridors alone in your condition."

"I can take her, Professor," said Alphard firmly. "I'll see her safely to the hospital wing. You don't have to concern yourself about leaving the class unattended — and you could continue the lesson."

Nancy sighed dreamily, which made Alphard glance at her with a bewildered frown. Ginny suppressed the urge to snicker.

"Well, yes, I suppose that would be rather more convenient . . ." said Kettleburn, then turned to Ginny. "Mr. Black here will accompany you to the hospital wing. Get well soon, Miss Smith."

With a quick "Thank you, Professor," Ginny turned to Alphard, who gallantly offered her his arm. Feeling the class' too-curious eyes on her — Nancy's, in particular — Ginny had to hide her eye-roll as she leaned heavily on Alphard and slowly made their way back to the castle, still very unsteady.

When they were out of sight, Alphard rummaged through his pockets. "We should still have a minute or so," he said as Ginny closed her eyes to stave off the growing lightheadedness. "Ah, here it is. Here, Ginny, drink this — all of it."

He pressed another vial in her hands, and Ginny hastily downed the contents. The potion was dreadfully bitter, but her head became clearer at once, and her legs grew firm again as she drained the bottle.

"Don't tell your sister I said this," said Ginny, opening her eyes to find Alphard watching her with some concern. "But this is sort of brilliant."

"Oh good. For a moment there, I thought I got the wrong antidote." At her appalled look, he shrugged sheepishly. "We'll need to go to the hospital wing anyway, to cover our tracks. We could've talked there, if it came down to it."

There was no use arguing with him on the matter, not when they needed to make the most of their unsanctioned free period. They immediately went looking for an empty classroom and found one in a closed off corridor on the third floor.

"Did you read it?" said Alphard once they had each pulled up a chair.

"I know the stories," said Ginny, handing him back his worn copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard.

"There are different versions of them. The stories Beedle put to paper are the most well-known, but a lot of old pureblood families grew up with versions that aren't . . . well, pro-Muggle. . . ."

Alphard opened the book to the page he had bookmarked with his cryptic note. "Toujours Pur," he whispered, and Ginny watched as the words on the page shone brightly, like wet ink on paper, before the letters began to rearrange themselves.

"This was my grandfather's," he said as he passed the book back to her. "According to him, the real story is this one."

Ginny looked at it. Instead of the words 'The Warlock's Hairy Heart', an unfamiliar title headed the top of the page:

The Last Days of Herpo the Foul

"Doesn't he have a Chocolate Frog card?" said Ginny.

Alphard arched an eyebrow. "One of the first known Dark wizards in history and you recognize him from a Chocolate Frog card?"

"Where else would I have heard of him? The Prophet?"

"Try History of Magic."

She snorted. "Like you pay attention in class."

Ginny flicked through the pages. Only 'The Warlock's Hairy Heart' had changed; the other stories, from what she could see, remained unaltered.

"So this Herpo — he's the Warlock in the story?" she asked.

"Supposedly," said Alphard. "His life and death is a cautionary tale against trusting Muggle-borns and blood traitors, no matter how beautiful or prodigious they seem."

"Isn't the Hairy Heart about staying away from Dark magic?"

"Not this version."

Curious, she read the story silently. It wasn't so different from the one she had grown up hearing, save for a few details that had her frowning by the end of the story. "There's nothing here about the Warlock's heart. All it says is the crystal casket."

Alphard nodded. "And when Herpo entrusted it to the maiden — the Muggle-born maiden — she betrayed him and destroyed it, killing him in the process."

"I don't understand," admitted Ginny. "The story — it doesn't read like a fairytale. It sounds like a biography."

"Because for some people it is. Grandfather thinks so — he says Beedle's version censored the real events and Herpo never cut out his heart."

"So what's inside the casket?"

"His soul. You won't find it in most history books, but Herpo the Foul created the first Horcrux."

Ginny froze. For a moment, it felt as if he had jinxed her, the ice sweeping down her spine and into her gut felt so physically real that she didn't know what to say.

Alphard's eyes widened. "You know what is," he said in disbelief. "Oh, of course you know what it is. Is there anything you don't know?"

"I can say the same thing about you," she said sharply, after a second that seemed to feel more than a second. "For God's sake, what kind of stories was your grandfather telling you?"

"To be fair, he never told me about Horcruxes. I got that from his library when I was researching —"

"And why the hell would you be researching Horcruxes?"

Alphard looked away. "I didn't tell you everything about Riddle."

Ginny could feel a headache coming on and tried not to let it show. The last thing she wanted was to pick a fight, and she knew it wasn't fair of her to begrudge Alphard his secrets when he wasn't privy to her own.

"Does he know?" she asked.

"I only found out about them last summer. By then, we weren't . . ." Alphard shook his head and took a deep breath in an obvious attempt to gather his thoughts. "Back then, Raoul and the others . . . they didn't make it easy for him. I used to sit with him when they weren't around, and we'd discuss history, potion-making, even Herbology. . . . Riddle always had a book on him. He was always reading ahead, studying topics I wouldn't have thought to explore . . . I helped him, sometimes. I used to lend him my family's books on bloodlines, lineages, all that stuff. I don't know if it helped him, if he ever used them, but that's how I knew he was Slytherin's descendant."

Whatever anger Ginny felt towards Alphard vanished in an instant; a swell of understanding washed over her. How had she never realized? No wonder Alphard could see past Riddle's facade.

"You were friends," she said quietly.

His mouth twisted, eyes flitting over her and away. "Riddle doesn't have friends — he has tools, people he manipulates by offering them what he thinks they want. His mistake was thinking I wanted the same things as Raoul, but I never cared for blood purity. If I did, maybe I would have . . ."

Alphard ran a hand over his face as if to wipe away the words.

"He's researching immortality. I couldn't tell him much — the Blacks never dabbled in Alchemy, as far as I know. That was always Abraxas' forte."

"Is that why you kept throwing me at Malfoy?"

Behind his hand, his face broke into a smile. "One of the reasons — I do want you two to get along." More gravely, he went on, "I don't know if Abraxas knows about Horcruxes, but I wouldn't be surprised if he has books on it. My family isn't the only one who grew up with these stories."

"Lestrange," guessed Ginny, a sinking feeling in her stomach.

"Raoul's been lending Riddle his family's books. I don't recognize all of them but there's one book — Magick Moste Evile, Grandfather has a copy of it — that mentions Horcruxes. It doesn't go into detail, but if Riddle's as obsessed with immortality as I think he is, it's enough of a lead to get him interested."

Ginny kicked her chair onto its back legs, balancing, like it would balance out her thoughts. She had known when she and Dumbledore had taken the school library's Horcrux books that it didn't mean the end of the problem altogether. But to be faced with the confirmation that Riddle could, at any moment, learn about Horcruxes . . . that he had that information within reach all along . . .

"You know what this means, don't you?" she said, feeling suddenly exhausted. "We're going to have to steal it, or at least change some of the passages."

"He's going to know it's us," said Alphard miserably. "I'm rubbish at Occlumency. Why do you think I haven't slept in the dorm —"

"You're still sleeping in the common room?" she said incredulously.

"Where else can I go? I know he's read my mind before, and I'm not taking any chances — if he's got no qualms with setting a basilisk loose, he's not going to have a problem with murder —"

"Why don't you sleep with Malfoy?"

Alphard's mouth parted, closed, opened again and stuttered on the air. It was enough time for Ginny's mind to catch up, and she nearly toppled her chair as she stammered, "I meant the sixth years' dormitory, not with — but you could, if you want to —"

"This is revenge, isn't it, for what I said last time?"

"Will it make you feel better if I said yes?"

His face tinged red, Alphard threw her a mulish look.

"Abraxas will have questions," he muttered, before she could make it worse. "I can't lie to him."

"You can't stay in the common room either," Ginny pointed out. "The more you avoid Riddle, the more he's going to think you're hiding something."

"He's going to think it anyway, whatever I do — especially if we're going to tamper with Raoul's books."

Ginny weighed their options, and there really wasn't much of them. . . . Ideally, Alphard ought to learn Occlumency, but Dumbledore had his hands full with Riddle, and Ginny wasn't a Legilimens. . . .

"I'll put some protection spells on your bed," she said at last. "Uncle did it when I was in the hospital wing. It's not Occlumency, but it's as good as for keeping Riddle out of your head."

Alphard opened his mouth, gearing up to protest, but Ginny ploughed on.

"No more running, Alphard," she said firmly. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but Riddle needs you. He needs you alive and afraid, and if you keep showing how scared you are of him, then it's never going to end."

Alphard stared down at his hands, sighing. There was a wry twist to his lips as he did, but it was gone as if never there by the time he finished his breath. "I'm not like you, Ginny."

"You don't have to be. You just have to trust in what you believe and stand your ground."

When he didn't look up, Ginny leaned forward and laid her hands over his. He jumped slightly but didn't pull away.

"Riddle and I, we made a truce — you're off-limits. He knows he can't afford to step out of line."

"I don't like it," said Alphard finally, still at his hands, "this arrangement you have with him. I won't pretend to understand it, but I trust you."

He glanced up at her then, and something about the look he gave her made her feel suddenly embarrassed. Ginny withdrew her hands and rose to her feet.

"Get your wand," she said lightly as she grabbed her own. "I want you to disarm me. Consider this our first lesson."

Alphard slowly stood and took out his wand.

"In what?" he said, looking more bewildered as she vanished their chairs and conjured a training mat. "And why? I already know the spell."

"But do you know how to cast it?"

Alphard eyed her warily. "You're going to kick my arse, aren't you?"

"I thought that was obvious," said Ginny the next day, when Riddle asked where she and Alphard had gone after leaving Care of Magical Creatures. "I was in the hospital wing."

And they did go to the hospital wing after they finished sparring, for no other reason than because Riddle was, as per usual, utterly predictable.

"And Black?" said Riddle, eyes narrowed. "He didn't return to class. Where was he, if not with you?"

"The library, maybe? The Quidditch pitch? I don't know, I was too busy being unconscious to —"

He interrupted her with a disbelieving scoff. "You were unconscious the entire morning?"

"Why is that so surprising?" said Ginny blithely. "I was ill."

"And you're feeling better now?" said Riddle, more an accusation than a question.

"Right as rain," she said, stifling a laugh.

Off to a great start, Ginny thought wryly. She might have to suffer his company, but that didn't mean she was going to make it easy for him.

She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting when she had agreed to their arrangement, but as the week went on, she was surprised by how innocuous his questions were. It was less about Voldemort and more about her past — what her family was like, what happened to them, what she did before she came to Hogwarts. She answered him as vaguely as she could, taking care to stick close to the truth but remaining light on the details.

Ginny had to admit there was something . . . nice about it. For the first time, she had someone to talk to about her family who wasn't Dumbledore — her friends would glance at each other awkwardly, the few times she had mentioned her family in passing, like they were dying to pry but knew they couldn't — and it was an almost pleasant change of pace. Cathartic, even.

It was almost like talking to Tom again.

Maybe the thought should alarm her more than it did, but Riddle was too transparent to truly unsettle her. Ginny knew his questions weren't to gain her trust or to feed on her soul — he asked about her, because he didn't know how to ask about himself.

Voldemort terrified him. It fascinated him, sure, but it also repulsed him in equal measure. As curious as Riddle was about his future, he couldn't seem to bring himself to ask about it, either because he didn't know how or because he was afraid of the answer. More than once, when they lapsed into silence during their walks, he glanced at her with palpable hesitation, opening his mouth before catching himself then looking away with a disgruntled look.

It made Ginny feel marginally better about the whole thing. If even Riddle, Lord fucking Voldemort himself, was horrified by the future, then maybe, just maybe, he could be deterred from that path. He could stay a git for all she cared, but as long as no one died or got hurt, as long as she could stop the war before it could begin, she would count it a success.

She still wasn't eager about this arrangement of theirs — she wasn't foolish enough to think Riddle would keep his word for long — but it was better than having to put up with near-constant attempts at invading her mind.

While she kept her end of the deal, she made a point to remind him to keep his as much as she could. On Saturday morning, Riddle cut her off before she could finish.

"I don't need the reminder," he said waspishly, with a glare that was more sulky than intimidating. Or maybe she was just immune now — she supposed near-death experiences could do that to a person. "Your protection spells are working fine on their own."

"You've been trying to read his mind," accused Ginny.

"You've been keeping secrets," Riddle shot back.

"Since when is maintaining privacy the same as keeping secrets? You don't see me eavesdropping on your conversations with your followers."

"Why would you bother? Nothing they say is worth eavesdropping on — or repeating at all."

Ginny moved to punch him in the shoulder, not affectionately, but drew her fist back at the last second. Riddle had tensed in preemptive recoil when he caught sight of her clenched fist, and the look in his eyes made her think this encounter might end with another duel should she even casually strike him.

"You're a prat," she said fiercely. "You think you're so much better —"

"I know I am," he said matter-of-factly. "Are you really going to waste your breath defending the same people who celebrated the attacks over firewhisky?"

"You're so much worse than they are! You talk about them like they're not worth the dirt on your shoe, but you would give up your humanity trying to impress them —"

"Is that what you think this is about?" he said lowly. "That Voldemort was for them?"

"I know full well what Voldemort was for," she snapped. "But you wouldn't be so obsessed with it if you didn't care so much about what they think of you."

He made an affronted scoff. "They're beneath me."

"You think everything's beneath you. That doesn't stop you from caring though, does it?"

Riddle scowled. "I didn't ask for your armchair psychology."

"Too bad — it's one of my many charms."

"If only being tolerable was one of them."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "No one's forcing you to talk to me, Riddle. You're free to go any time."

A dark look crossed his face, and too late she realized her poor choice of words. Ginny could feel his resentment bubbling close to the surface as they made the rest of the trek in silence. She could only hope Riddle wouldn't take it out on some poor, hapless bloke — he had to know better than that, especially with Dumbledore keeping a close watch on him.

How Dumbledore intended to do that, Ginny didn't learn until later that day. Although they had agreed to put an end to her weekly Occlumency lessons — barring an occasional practice session, Dumbledore claimed she didn't need it after her duel with Riddle — she had become so used to spending her weekend afternoons in his office that she couldn't help but pay him a visit. A part of her had been afraid she wouldn't be welcome — it wouldn't surprise her, after the things she had said to him, and the thought still made her recoil with shame — but Dumbledore gave her a warm smile, poured her a cup of tea, and asked her about her week.

Dumbledore's detentions with Riddle, it turned out, no longer involved writing lines or cleaning classrooms, but aiding Dumbledore with his research work.

"Is that a good idea?" said Ginny, not a little confused and alarmed.

"I like to think it's one of my better ones," said Dumbledore calmly, sipping his tea. "Hopefully this will interest him enough that he won't be swayed into practicing the less savoury sorts of magic."

It . . . made sense. Maybe. Writing papers and researching more than one ought to — and not even for a grade, at that — definitely seemed like a punishment to her. . . . Still . . .

"I don't think one month is going to be enough for that."

"And you're right to think so. If one truly desires to master such complex forms of Transfiguration, one will have to devote more time — certainly more than a handful of hours from your allotted detentions."

"You think he's going to come back when the month is over," Ginny realized aloud. "Are you bribing him with more schoolwork?"

"Certainly not," said Dumbledore, eyes twinkling. "As it has yet to happen, I will be bribing him — though I suppose the more accurate term is extracurricular, rather than schoolwork."

"Do you think that'll work?"

"Perhaps. I trust satisfying one's curiosity will be a sufficient enough motivator."

Huh. Riddle definitely was the sort who would do anything to satisfy his curiosity, once he set his mind to it. . . . It wasn't a conventional way of stopping a Dark Lord in the making, but it would keep him busy — too busy, she hoped, to delve into the Dark Arts.

"Speaking of curiosities," said Dumbledore, "how is your detention with Professor Slughorn?"

Ginny grimaced, absently stirring her tea. "Not as productive as yours, sir. But I'm back in his good books, so I reckon it's only a matter of time before I start getting invited to his dinners."

Ginny had expected she would be assigned to serve detentions with her Head of House, and she had known, too, that he would try to use the situation to his advantage. Slughorn's renewed interest was a benign inconvenience in the grand scheme of things — but it was still annoying. Instead of having a prefect supervise her, Slughorn did it himself, assigning her menial tasks as he went on and on about some famous friend or other. He even insisted on lobbying for Ginny and Riddle to get an award, and her continuous refusal endeared her to Slughorn even more.

Not that it stopped Slughorn from insisting, but it was a good thing Riddle knew better than to indulge him. It pained Riddle, Ginny could tell, to have to decline receiving something undoubtedly prestigious, but he had enough tact to not push the envelope of their admittedly tenuous story. If anyone looked deeper into it, if they ever questioned the mystery of Slytherin's heir . . . their lies might crumble under the scrutiny.

"Horace does so love his suppers," said Dumbledore, smiling. "I hope the next one won't be quite so eventful."

Ginny snickered. "We can only hope, sir."

When Ginny returned from her detention, Margot and Leonard had been revived, and the evening passed in a flurry of hugs and tears. Ginny's dormitory was flooded with a lot of screaming, a lot of laughing, and a lot of bad acting as Odette and Wendy reenacted what they insisted was the true story of the basilisk's death, even as Ginny adamantly maintained that wasn't what happened, shut the fuck up and Briseis kept reminding them to not be so crude about it and Merlin's beard, is the fake blood really necessary.

By the end of it, all Margot had to say was a quiet, "Did you really do all that for me?" and the five of them broke into another fit of sobbing that went on well into the night.

The next morning, Leonard hurried over to Ginny and Riddle, wringing his hands and awkwardly thanking them for saving his life. Riddle accepted it oh-so graciously, as Ginny bit her tongue to stop herself from screaming, "But we didn't save your life! We didn't do anything! Don't thank him — he's the one who tried to kill you!"

"Stop looking at me like that," said Riddle, dropping his smile when Leonard left. "You think I enjoyed his simpering? Oh, yes, do go on, Smith — roll your eyes any harder and they'll get stuck in your head."

"Brilliant. I bet the inside of my head is a better sight than you."

"Assuming there's anything inside to look at."

Damn it. That was actually funny.

Ginny could feel the edge of her lips twitching, but she quickly suppressed the smile before it could form.

"Leonard was hardly simpering," she said. "And don't act like you didn't love every second of it. You've got everyone fawning over you, thinking you're some sort of hero."

"They do the same to you," he said, sounding miffed. "In your case it's deserved, and I'd rather not be reminded of it."

True enough, the extra attention irritated Riddle more than anything. When they caught people sneaking glances at them or heard their names in curious whispers, he had to clench his jaw to stop himself from sneering. Once he had even snapped at a pair of Ravenclaws for talking too loudly and threatened to take away points, and Ginny was so stunned by his loss of composure that all she could do was gape.

"What is wrong with you?" cried Ginny as the girls scampered away. "You can't punish people for talking!"

"They were loitering," said Riddle obstinately. "It was well within my rights as prefect —"

"Oh piss off, why don't you."

To Riddle's displeasure, the incident in the Chamber continued to be a topic of discussion. Though the story Ginny had told the professors was the official account, it didn't catch on as quickly as the other rumours did, which wasn't surprising — Hogwarts thrived on gossip, and it was Riddle's own bloody fault for feeding it with that stupid love triangle rubbish.

It was his fault why her friends wouldn't shut up and let her sleep.

"For the last time," said Ginny, kept awake yet again by talks of boys and their fancy hair, "I'm not interested in either of them!"

"But that isn't the question," said Wendy with a too-sweet smile. Next to her, Margot was hiding her face behind a book, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "We just want to know who you think is more handsome."

"Neither."

"So you think they're both handsome?"

"Neither of them are," said Ginny stubbornly.

"Sure they're not," said Odette, snorting faintly from under her covers. "Have you gone blind or something? Even Briseis answered, and she used to be all hung up on —"

"Just settle the tie, Ginny," said Margot as she emerged from her book, clearly trying for conciliatory and sounding panicked. "We don't really think you fancy them."

"Not that it matters anyway," grumbled Briseis, who had been mostly quiet when Odette began the stupid debate. "Because they obviously fancy you."

Ginny groaned, pointedly lying back down on her bed and shoving a pillow over her ears. Now she knew why Margot had been so eager to set her up with Riddle, even if Margot hadn't done it as overtly as Nancy did.

Odette sighed loudly. "I don't see it either, Bri. Why do they fight over her so much? Why can't all the cute boys fight over me instead? Why Ginny?"

"Why not Ginny?" said Wendy, giggling.

"I don't think she's that much prettier than me," said Odette, dramatically doleful. "And she's always yelling at the boys. Is that what they like? Do they like her schoolmarm face —"

Ginny propped herself up on her elbows. "My face is what?"

Odette grinned. "I'll take it back if you answer."

"Good night, Odette!"

After a while, Ginny's love life drifted from the forefront of everyone's minds, and even the speculation on the identity of the Heir of Slytherin faded from the grapevine. Margot, though, hadn't forgotten; with the perpetrator still at large, she continued to steer clear of their house mates and holed herself up in the library at every opportunity. She even spent less time with Riddle, only speaking with him during classes, though Ginny supposed that was more on Riddle than Margot. He seemed to be spending less time with his Muggle-born friends altogether, probably in an attempt to mollify his followers — he couldn't very well continue to hang around the people he swore to destroy, now that he had failed to keep that promise.

The rest of the month passed in a haze, the days blurring together as Ginny settled into her new routine. Detentions with Slughorn were the same as they ever were, and she had been removed from the Quidditch team as part of her punishment. It wasn't such a great loss, but she would be lying if she said she wasn't a little disappointed that she was off the team for good. The hours she used to spend in Quidditch practices were now spent teaching Alphard Defense, so it was a fair trade all in all.

That is, if Ginny didn't count Briseis, who had been particularly huffy when she realized why Alphard had stopped going to the practices. Ginny tried to bring it up with Alphard, but he only buried his blushing face in his hands.

"Can we please not do this?" he mumbled.

"Briseis hates me. I can't even so much as look at you without setting her off —"

"Well, what're you doing staring at me for anyway?"

"Stop evading," chided Ginny. She bumped his shoulder with hers and kept at it until Alphard finally looked up, frowning petulantly. "Just talk to her. I'd like to have my friend back, and not worry about whether or not she's going to set my things on fire."

"I've tried but —" He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, still red-faced. "Can we get back to dueling now?"

Ginny wanted to pry, but Alphard never demanded answers from her, even after the ordeal with the Chamber; she half-expected him to start if she pushed too much, too soon. So she let it go but made sure to give him a pointed look whenever Briseis came up in their conversations, and he would awkwardly and hastily change the topic each time. At one point, while they were on their way to the Great Hall, he did it by mentioning the upcoming Halloween feast, which was —

"Tomorrow? Today's the thirtieth?"

"Last I checked, yes," said Alphard. "Thirty-one, in case you forgot — and I'm working from memory here because I haven't a calendar on hand, so you'll have to trust me on this — thirty-one comes after thirty. Shocking, I know."

Ginny would have flipped him off for that, if she wasn't so distracted by the feeling of her stomach plummeting to her feet.

Because it was her mother's birthday today.

It was her mother's birthday and she had forgotten.

The realization hit Ginny with a horrible pang, and she wanted quite suddenly to do — something. Anything to tune out the guilty voice in her head, wondering what sort of daughter it made her, that she could let herself forget.

She couldn't. There was no one else, no one left to remember all they had fought for, all the pain and love and loss, and if she let herself forget . . .

Then what had it all been for? It was as good as saying that none of it mattered at all.

"Ginny?" said Alphard, looking over at her with concern. "Is something wrong?"

Before Ginny could answer, Alphard's eyes drifted past her, and she turned to see Briseis and Malfoy returning from the pitch. They were waving Alphard over, eyes wide and mouth forming around his name.

"Go on," said Ginny, putting on a smile, "before Briseis burns a hole in my skull."

Alphard shifted his feet. "Are you —"

"Yes, I'm sure."

She fluttered her hands as if to shoo him on his way, and he frowned at her some more before hurrying after Briseis and Malfoy. Ginny watched as Briseis beamed at Alphard's approach, as Malfoy clapped his shoulder, as they laughed and disappeared down the hallway, and she felt a twinge of loneliness creep up on her like an old shadow.

Ginny turned the other direction, intending to head up to Dumbledore's office, but something made her pause when she reached the second floor landing. Somehow, she knew exactly where she needed to go, and she let her gut feeling lead the way before she could change her mind.

"Open."

Her heart beating fast, Ginny moved forward, deeper inside the Chamber. Every careful footstep echoed in the silence as she passed through the towering stone pillars. At last, she came to a stop in front of Salazar Slytherin's statue, with its long thin beard and sweeping stone robes. At its feet lay the basilisk, exactly as she had left it, except the floor beneath it wasn't stained with blood. Riddle must have been here recently and gotten rid it, along with the damp, awful smell.

Thank God, she thought. The last thing she wanted to worry about was the smell of rotting snake flesh.

With some hesitation, Ginny placed her hand on the basilisk, feeling its scales gliding cleanly beneath her touch, then she sat down, her back leaning against it — it was dead anyway, and being a backrest might be the only thing it was good for now.

Because she had killed it. She killed a basilisk two weeks ago. Here, in the place where she almost died when she was eleven.

How surreal.

Could this be classified as surreal though, after everything she had gone through?

Ginny took it all in — the serpentine columns that disappeared into the darkness above, the black shadows that seemed monstrous in the greenish gloom, the eerie silence that made her ears buzz. She had expected to feel an overwhelming dread, an icy fear — or maybe a sense of triumph, of victory, in the absence of that fear. Instead she felt —

Nothing.

She felt nothing.

But no, that couldn't be right, could it? She couldn't simply feel nothing for this place, not when it had haunted her for so long.

After her first year, after the Chamber, Ginny had been too afraid to sleep, and she had spent many nights with her wand in hand, whispering hexes to herself and practicing again and again until the sun rose. During the day, she had to remind herself to walk like other people did, like she wasn't mindful of every step, like she wasn't constantly wondering if her movements were her own. She had to remind herself how to breathe, as if she had never known what it felt to have each breath of air stolen from her lungs by a phantom made of ink and memories.

For a long time, she had felt like a stranger in her own body, as if she was only shadowing her movements, repeating her lines.

That had been the worst part — the worst part out of many worst parts. That she couldn't separate what was her and hers from what was him and his, because she had given Tom everything of herself, had lived in his soul as much as he had lived in hers. Tom had been like spilled ink, spreading and darkening everything he touched until there was nothing clean or safe or hers alone.

When Ginny came to kill the basilisk, there hadn't been time to examine what she felt, on account of — well, having to kill a very large, very awake basilisk. And when that was done, she had been too exhausted to do anything but lie on the floor and will her heart to stop pounding so bloody hard against her ribs. Then Riddle had suddenly appeared and after that . . .

A part of her had hoped that once the basilisk was dead, once she faced her memories, once she knew for certain that she never had to enter the Chamber again . . . she had hoped that maybe the nightmares would end.

But after she had been discharged from the hospital wing, she had dreamt of it again — her body lying on the cold floor, with only the frailest breath stirring inside of her, as a ghost of a memory stood over her. The nightmares didn't come every night, and some were more vivid than others, but for the most part . . .

They were still there. They hadn't left.

Anger flowed through her. Why couldn't they just leave? Hadn't she suffered enough? Why did she have to live with these memories, lurking tauntingly in the back of her mind? They had plagued her after all this time. They had lived in the shadowy corners of her mind for six years —

The thought caught Ginny off guard.

"Six years," she said aloud, the words echoing loudly off the dimly lit walls. "I've been afraid for six years."

That was a third of her whole life. That was how long she had let those memories haunt her.

How long would it take, before they leave her completely? Another six? Would they ever leave her at all?

What if they never did?

Ginny paused. That was what she was so afraid of, wasn't it? The thought that no matter what she did, she would never be able to outrun her memories. She had buried them for so long — six fucking years — and had tried her best to forget them, but she never would, would she?

I will remember this all my life.

Maybe it was time for her to accept that. It had never been the Chamber she feared, it had never been the basilisk. It had been her memories, and to pretend they weren't a part of her — that was tantamount to giving in to the fear, wasn't it?

But it was done, it was all done. She was more than those experiences, more than the sum of her worst moments.

They would always be a part of her, and she couldn't take them away short of Obliviating them from her mind — but why would she? Memories were powerful things, but they only had power if she let them.

And what power did Tom have? He was dead, the diary was dead — and it would never come to be, she wouldn't let it — so what was he now? He was nothing more than a memory of a memory, just ink on parchment she had discarded long ago.

Maybe that was it, this feeling that she couldn't name, that wasn't quite nothing — the absence of Tom Riddle's hold.

The Chamber of Secrets was empty, and it had no power over her. Not anymore.

The realization brought a calming sense of relief. It felt like an epiphany and yet it wasn't, as if a part of her had always known it deep down.

Ginny wasn't sure how much time had passed when she heard his footfalls, startling her out of her thoughts. There was no mistaking him as Riddle emerged from the darkness, and his drawn, pensive look hardened when he caught sight of her.

"What are you doing here?" he said stonily.

"Sitting," she answered. If he was going to take his anger out on her, no way was she going to take it lying down. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Taking in the spoils of war."

Ginny snorted. "You make it sound more dramatic than it actually was."

"A duel to the death isn't dramatic enough for you?"

"I didn't actually set out to kill you, you know."

Riddle rolled his eyes. "Of all your lies, that has to be the most contrived one yet."

"Believe what you want, Riddle. It's the truth. I'm not you."

"Does that help you sleep at night, thinking you're above killing?"

"The opposite," she said, thinking of Voldemort's corpse, the green light she had cast, the magic she had felt when she did. "I know I'm not."

It was obvious he didn't believe her, his eyes still fixed in a suspicious glare. "Why are you really here?"

"It's my mother's birthday today. I wanted to go somewhere quiet."

The flicker of surprise on his face, no matter how brief, was still satisfying to see. The novelty of catching Riddle off guard was never going to wear off, was it?

"And you chose my Chamber?" he said.

Ginny shrugged. "It seemed appropriate."

And it was, in a weird way. In another world, her mother had died because of him, of who he could be. If Ginny hadn't seen her mother fall, if it hadn't happened, would she have found the rage and fury to kill Voldemort? Would she have been able to cast the spell? And if she hadn't, would she have landed in this time period at all?

"What's your excuse?" she said, interrupting her own thought train. She didn't like where it was heading anyway. "Margot said you have some sort of secret hiding spot in the library. Why not do your brooding there?"

"I'm not brooding," said Riddle loftily. "And I don't need to explain myself to you."

Ginny wanted to make some sort of quip about man caves, if that was even a term they used in this time, but then that would just be rubbing salt in the wound.

"Fair enough," she said instead. "As long as you don't kick me out."

"I doubt I even could."

"I'll be as quiet as a Demiguise. You won't even know I'm here."

Riddle still looked wary, but he sat down with his back to the basilisk. Silence fell, both of them lost in thought, and soon the expression on Riddle's face softened to the pensive look from before, his gaze fixed on something she couldn't see.

"I still don't understand you," he said after a while. "You should have killed me."

This again. How many times did she need to repeat herself before it sunk in?

But Riddle wasn't expecting an answer, and he continued before Ginny could respond.

"What is the point in all this? You won't let me live as Voldemort, but you won't let me die. Why don't you just end it now? Why show me my future only to rip it away?"

"You died, Riddle," said Ginny, making valiant efforts not to sound argumentative. She pretended not to notice Riddle's wince. "You died a monster. I thought you didn't want that — and now you're acting like it's such a crime that I'm trying to change things. How can you possibly still want to be Voldemort?"

Riddle was suddenly on his feet, standing up and striding about the room, his robes swooshing in his wake — only he would be swooping in the middle of an existential crisis.

"I have nothing," he snarled. It was as if she had jarred something loose in him, something that had been walking the edge of hysteria all this while. "I come from nothing. Even my name isn't my own — just reflections of men who abandoned me even before I was born. What do you suppose the future has in store for a Mudblood orphan dependent on charity? No one cares about tainted blood — the most the world can spare is pity. You're either a cause to be fought against by gluttons too used to indulgence, or something to be championed so people can pat themselves on the back until it's too inconvenient.

"Whatever future you might have Seen, however miserable a life Voldemort might have led, he was more than a statistic. Voldemort was mine, and you had no right to take it from me."

Ginny stood. She could feel her own temper rising in her chest, travelling up her neck and pooling in her face.

"I have nothing," she said with enough force to pull Riddle out of his reverie and look over at her. "I come from nothing."

Realizing she wasn't just repeating his words, his eyes narrowed in anger, but she barrelled on before he could cut her off, her voice rising with every word.

"My parents are dead. My brothers are dead. You think I wanted to come here? You think I wanted any of this? You're not the only one with a shitty life, you bastard! Deal with your issues like the rest of us instead of going around Petrifying people and attempting murder! It wasn't just your life you were ruining — I had every right to take that future away!"

A long silence stretched between them as they regarded each other. Finally, Riddle sighed and sat down, body clenching before he seemed to forcibly relax.

"You have more than most," he said, his voice dull and hollowed out.

Maybe she did. Riddle would see it that way, wouldn't he? In his eyes, she did have more — a bloodline people recognized, a magic he didn't understand, advantages he wouldn't have known and had to do without.

Ginny sat back down, leaning to try to force him to look her in the eye. She was careful to keep a good distance between them as she grabbed his arm lightly. Riddle stared at her fingers before finally meeting her gaze, a look of challenge on his face.

"It's not a competition," she said carefully. "All I'm saying is that I understand, more than I wish I did. But that doesn't mean I'll let you burn Hogwarts to the ground because you want revenge on —"

"You don't know what I want."

Ginny sighed. "Do you actually hear me when I say words, or is it all sounds scrambled into what you expect me to say?"

Riddle closed his mouth very deliberately and nodded at her to go on.

"Think of it this way," she said. "Voldemort destroyed everything, and that's not an exaggeration. Everything that ever mattered to you, everything important — they were gone. You want power, plain and simple, but what is your power worth without a stage to showcase it? What good is it if you can't outrun death?"

"What if I could?" he said, a wild look in his eyes. "You said the future could be changed. What if I change it to a future where Voldemort doesn't have to die?"

The expression on his face chilled her, and she could see why Alphard had been driven away from his dorm room.

"Then you won't change anything," said Ginny, "because that's how you wound up dead in the first place."

Another wince. "You say it like it's already happened."

She didn't miss a beat. "It feels that way, when you See it. Like I've lived through it."

"What can — how do I —" Riddle broke off and looked away, his jaw set in a grimace, as if it pained him to say the words aloud. It would have been funny if it wasn't so sad.

"You don't need me to tell you you're a great wizard, Riddle," said Ginny. Predictably, it made him turn and peer at her suspiciously. "But if you want to change things, you need to learn to be a good one."

Riddle scoffed — which was fair. It sounded tacky, even to her.

"You sound like Dumbledore."

Ginny laughed. "I'll take that as a compliment." More soberly, she added, "You should talk to him. I'm not naïve enough to think you'll actually listen to me, but Uncle understands power better than I do."

His face contorted into a sneer. "He believes in redemption."

"Hmm," she said, smiling blandly. "I prefer to believe in second chances."

"Is there a difference?"

"Redemption isn't handed on a silver platter."

"And your second chance is? Every so-called choice you've given have stipulations."

"That's how the world works. Stipulations upon stipulations — and compromises. You have to choose in spite of them."

Riddle didn't look too happy about that, but he said nothing and turned away again. Ginny studied him from the corner of her eye, then got to her feet and held out her hand. Not quite an olive branch, not quite a do-over.

When Tom had taken her here to watch her life leak away, Ginny had fought him with all she had, screaming at him for all the good it would do. Her last act of defiance had been a weak attempt at the Killing Curse, though of course neither of them had believed it would work. Tom had only smiled a mockingly gentle smile — he had always been gentle with her, until he wasn't — and said, "When you cast an Unforgivable, you have to mean it. Feel it."

It was those words that followed her when she had lost consciousness. That fueled her anger when she had directed the spell at Voldemort. That blazed in her mind when she had disarmed Riddle, when she had stood over him as Tom stood over her, when she had held his wand in her hand.

There had been a moment when she almost did it, when she could have ended it all, damn the consequences.

But Riddle had . . . he'd given up. He had been afraid and helpless, and he had given up.

Tom wouldn't have. Tom wouldn't have shown his fear at all.

When you cast an Unforgivable, you have to mean it, and the rage that had built in her, the hatred she had felt — it hadn't been for Riddle, and maybe it would never be.

Oh, sure, he pissed her off at the best of times — like right now, for instance — but she knew it wouldn't have been enough. Maybe it could have been, maybe it could still be, but she wanted to believe she was a better person than that. There was a line between Riddle and Tom, between Riddle and Voldemort, and she could see it clearly, even if he couldn't.

So Ginny had made her choice, and she was bound to it as Riddle was bound to his, whatever his choices might be.

"Come on," she said. "We're going to miss dinner."

Riddle stared at her hand, long and hard, before taking it and letting her help him to his feet. Ginny stepped back and pulled her hand away once he was standing, and she could feel the heat of him at her back as they left the Chamber behind them.

That night while her friends slept, Ginny sat in the common room in front of the windows that looked out into the lake, and held vigil.

For Mum, she thought, as she lit a candle.

For James and Lily Potter, she thought, as the clock struck midnight.

For every life lost, in all the days past, she thought, as the candlelight burned low and flickered. And for all the days to come.

Halloween decorations went up on the day itself. The floating jack-o-lanterns and excited murmuring in the Great Hall were, if anything, as good a sign as any that Hogwarts had forgotten the basilisk attacks.

The good-natured jibes from her friends were par for the course by now. Ginny didn't even blink when they made their usual comments on their way out of breakfast, just as she was heading in with Riddle. But she was surprised when Margot stayed behind, Margot's bright smile dimming as she glanced around — there were only a handful of people in the Great Hall, with the other Slytherins sitting at the far end of the table, and Carolyn's older brother Cain Fawley, Edward Turner, and two other Gryffindors Ginny didn't recognize on the other side of the room.

"Can we talk?" said Margot in an undertone, as Ginny piled her plate with eggs and toast.

"What about?"

"You've been with Tom a lot lately, right? And I'm not saying that to tease you, I promise, but I —" Margot stopped, trying to collect her thoughts. "There's nothing . . . going on, is there? That is, I mean, you're . . . you're safe?"

"Margot, what are you —"

"Do you like him? Tell me the truth."

Oh God. Margot wasn't going to give Ginny the shovel talk, was she? It was bad enough that she had gotten it from Briseis — granted, an aborted version of it, thanks to Odette and her impeccable timing — after one of those misconstrued rumours about her and Riddle reached her friends.

And there had been plenty of rumours, all of which Ginny was perfectly fine ignoring — but that one. Merlin's beard, that one had made her blood boil. Even Riddle, for all his flirting and stupid love triangle story, looked distinctly uncomfortable when he'd heard it. It was an unspoken agreement that they would never mention it again, after Odette — whose timing was much less welcome — shamelessly asked them whether they had been really shagging in a broom closet before they got sent to the hospital wing.

"I like Riddle just fine," said Ginny, "but, listen, it's not like that —"

"What does that mean, just fine? Do you like him because you fancy him? Do you like him because he's your friend? Or do you like him because you have to?" Margot exhaled, shoulders loosening. She laced her fingers together, rubbed her thumb across the edge of her hand, and looked at the table between them. "What really happened that night, Ginny?"

"I went looking for the Chamber, like I said," Ginny replied cautiously, a sense of unease washing over her. "Riddle found me sneaking out after curfew and helped."

"But how? How could you have known where it was?" said Margot, her words stringing together so fast Ginny could barely make them out. "Because I've been trying to understand it. What you said, in the headmaster's office, when Leonard was — I've been thinking about it ever since. And when I woke up, the things they were saying about what you and Tom did . . ."

Margot peered at Ginny through her glasses, gauging her reaction, but for her part, Ginny didn't know what to say. This was not the conversation she had been expecting, and suddenly she wished for Odette, for anyone, to appear and interrupt Margot.

"You're lying, aren't you?"

"About what?"

"Everything."

Ginny's stomach clenched. "How could you say that?" she said, trying to sound hurt and bewildered. "I don't understand. What brought this on?"

"Remember Wendy's tarot card reading? The first card I got was Death. When Leonard was attacked, I — I knew I was going to be too. I didn't know when, but I knew I was — that I could have —"

"That's just a coincidence." Ginny cast her mind back to the start of the month, trying to recall Margot's cards. "The cards don't have to mean anything."

"But what if they do? Death doesn't mean a literal death — it's an ending. Wendy said I'm going to have to let go of something, she said I have to make a choice."

Margot, although she had already eaten breakfast, grabbed up another plate and started stacking it with more toast, keeping her hands busy as she spoke, still in an undertone.

"I've thought about it a lot. The Chamber of Secrets, Salazar Slytherin, the monster — it's the stuff of legends. It doesn't seem real. But nothing ever seems real about magic, when you grow up thinking it's just a fairytale. But because it is real, because it's magic, then it's like . . . like everything else can be real too." She paused, as if realizing she'd been rambling. "Does that make sense?"

Her plate now piled high with toast, Margot began tearing each slice into tiny pieces with unsteady fingers.

"So I started thinking that maybe the Chamber is real, and so is Salazar Slytherin's heir. I didn't want to think they were a Slytherin at first, because blood can't be the be-all, end-all, can it? It's not destiny. But the only ones who've ever called Leonard those terrible names —" Her eyes dropped to her plate. "The only ones who do sit on this table. . . . So that narrows it down — that's a quarter of the school who could have a done it.

"There aren't many known creatures that can Petrify because it's too dangerous to study. I've never had Care of Magical Creatures, so I don't know what those monsters are, but I knew it had to be something that could be controlled. It didn't have to be tamed, but Slytherin's heir had to have something that could control it. Maybe a magical artifact or an heirloom — something passed down so only the true descendant could do it, because that's how the story went, right?

"And then I got it — Parseltongue. It's hereditary, so maybe it's what the heir is using to control the monster. And if it is, then it has to be what opens the Chamber of Secrets."

Margot lifted her gaze to meet Ginny's, pushing aside her plate of shredded toast.

"What're the chances of there being two Parselmouths in the same place at the same time?"

Panic rose up in Ginny like a tidal wave, rushing over her so quickly that she barely had time to process it. "What are you saying?" she said, surprised at how calm she sounded.

"One of you had to have done it," said Margot, low and sure. "It all fits. Wendy said there would be a betrayal, and this is it."

"Margot, Divination is just a party trick. You can't make accusations like that because of tarot cards —"

"But it's not about the cards — it's about —" Margot sniffled, blinking away the wetness gathering at the edges of her eyes. "It couldn't have been you, Ginny. I know it wasn't you. All I want to know is why you're protecting Tom."

Each word felt like a mental whiplash, and the only thing Ginny could do was sputter, "What?"

"Is he blackmailing you? What does he have on you? I just — I want to understand why he's still here. Why isn't he expelled?"

"You think he — you actually think he —"

"No one else could have done it," Margot interrupted, her voice suddenly high and tense, and Ginny was glad the only other people left in the Great Hall were at the Gryffindor table. "I know you know it's him — you had to have figured it out, you were there with him. And I know it couldn't have been the both of you, because why would you do it? You don't have the motivation —"

"And Riddle does? Margot, just because he's a Slytherin —"

"But he's not just a Slytherin. It can't be just a Slytherin." Margot rubbed her cheeks, trying to hide the tears that were squeezing out despite her best efforts. "They hate me, they hate people like us — but why would they hurt us? Why risk expulsion for blind hatred? What could be so important that someone would risk it all?"

"Sometimes hate is just hate," said Ginny softly. "Sometimes there's no understanding it."

Margot exhaled so slowly that Ginny knew she wouldn't bite the bait. "You have to want something — really want something — to have done it. How could anyone who's just a Slytherin have done it? They already have everything." Margot gave a little self-deprecating laugh. "I know how this all sounds. I wish I never went looking for answers, but I know now and I can't keep pretending I don't. Either I'm right or I'm mad for thinking that my best friend tried to . . ."

Her lip trembled, and Margot blotted her fingertips underneath her eyes as though stopping tears. Ginny stared, silent, too many questions reverberating in her head.

Her friends' futures, the lives they had led back in her time period — it was the sort of thing Ginny tried not to think about. It only led to her wondering if they were dead or alive in her time, if they had stood on opposite sides of the war, if her being here made their fates better or worse.

But Ginny thought of Margot now. Somehow, through leaps Ginny didn't quite understand, Margot knew, and was certain enough about it to tell her. Did Margot know, in Ginny's time? Was she always meant to figure out the truth about the Chamber of Secrets? What had become of her, if she had?

Or was this Ginny's fault? Had her stupid, careless words put Margot in more danger now than she would have been in if Ginny hadn't been here at all?

"You're not mad," whispered Ginny.

Margot looked up. A series of emotions ran their way across her face, in quick succession; first surprise and dismay, and then a narrow-eyed anger, but neither lasted more than a second before she settled on resigned calm.

"Why is he still here, Ginny?" she said plaintively. "Leonard almost — I could have — Tom shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be carrying his wand or going to classes or acting like — like he didn't do anything wrong. He should be kicked out and sent back to —" She broke off, eyebrows furrowed and frown deep. "Is that — that's it, isn't it? You don't want him there."

"It's safer for everyone if he's here," said Ginny slowly. "Uncle is keeping an eye on Riddle. What he did — I promise it's not going to happen again."

Margot's eyes were still guarded, but her voice had gone soft, understanding. "How can you promise that? I get it if you don't want him to go back to his orphanage — I don't want him there either — but there has to be somewhere else he could go."

Ginny considered Margot. She deserves to know. After all, Ginny knew, better than anyone, what it was like to be played for a fool by Tom Riddle.

"Riddle isn't — he's not good, Margot," she murmured. "If he's expelled . . . he's too dangerous to be left unchecked."

The creases on Margot's forehead deepened. "Grindelwald was expelled from Durmstrang. Do you mean that type of dangerous?"

"Exactly that."

They fell quiet. Margot looked doubtful, chewing thoughtfully on her shredded piece to toast as Ginny finally took a bite of her now cold eggs.

"How do you know?" asked Margot, setting the toast down and putting her elbows on the table, the better to lean in.

"Uncle has a past experience with this sort of thing. And even without that, Riddle is still —"

"Tom bloody Riddle," she said without mirth, as if this explained it all — and it did, really. Margot wrinkled her nose, mouth pinching down. "God, I want to slap him."

Ginny agreed, but she pushed down the words, filing them away for a confrontation she was already planning.

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

Alphard, who lay sprawled on the ground, groaned in response. His normally brushed back hair was now slick with sweat and sticking up at all angles, and Ginny knew hers was no better. They had been duelling all afternoon, and a pleasant, warm sort of fatigue was starting to settle in her muscles.

"You're improving," she said.

Alphard didn't even look up. "Liar."

"A well-meaning liar." Ginny gently toed his ribs, laughing at his half-hearted attempt to swat her feet away. "But I mean it — you're picking this up faster than I did."

If it had been Harry though, or if it had been Neville giving him pointers, Alphard would have fared much better. Ginny had never been one for teaching, even when she had been co-leading Dumbledore's Army — that was always Neville. Her strengths had been strategizing and keeping up morale, and Luna's had been her brilliant spellwork and odd ideas.

Not that teaching Alphard how to hold his own in a fight was anything like the D.A., obviously. And if sometimes Ginny caught Alphard looking at her the way some of them used to — well . . . she'd rather not think about that or that dreadful year anymore than she had to.

"I still can't disarm you," muttered Alphard. "Why can't I disarm you? I know more curses than you do! You keep using the same — what, three spells?"

"You may be a walking encyclopedia, but theory means nothing without practice."

"Why do I even need it? You said Riddle isn't going to target me. I don't see why I need to learn how to fight."

"It's not about fighting. It's about —"

"Standing your ground," he said in grumbling tones, lifting his head up. "Yes, I know, but what if I just can't?"

But he could — he did. The charred hole in the Black family tapestry back in Grimmauld Place was proof of that.

Ginny didn't want to think about that either.

"That's why we're practicing," she said.

Alphard collapsed back down with another whinging grumble. Ginny rolled her eyes at his dramatics and sat next to him.

"What do you think about Margot?"

He blinked, thrown off by the non sequitur. "Briseis likes her well enough — says she's brilliant at Charms."

"But what do you think of her?"

"She's a bit twitchy, isn't she?"

"Twitchy?" echoed Ginny, torn between indignation on Margot's behalf and amusement at how seriously Alphard said it.

"Nervous, I mean. She's always jumpy whenever there's another Slytherin in the room. I understand why, don't get me wrong, but still. . . . She smiles too much."

"Smiles too much?"

Alphard sat up and raised his hands in mock surrender. "You asked. And it's true — she's like Riddle, if he actually had a soul."

Ginny scowled. "Don't joke about that," she said sternly. "She might . . . she kind of knows about Riddle. As in, with the whole Chamber business."

"Only kind of?"

Alphard didn't look surprised, like he had known this would happen. He probably did, knowing him. Ginny didn't even know why she was still shocked, honestly.

"She's been avoiding him," he explained, seeing her expression. "Not too much though, so I reckon she isn't sure, but like I said — she's twitchy. Never around Riddle, not until recently."

Ginny sighed. She thought it had been Riddle keeping his distance from Margot, not the other way around. Merlin, she really needed to pay more attention. Slytherins were a slippery lot, and Ginny had forgotten that Margot was one too.

"I thought you knew," said Alphard, apology in the tilt of his head.

"Yeah, well, she's sure now. I told her."

His eyebrows furrowed, drawing his forehead into a frown. "When?"

The guilt Ginny had been fighting to ignore since breakfast surged up within her, strangling her chest.

"This morning. She wanted to know why Riddle wasn't expelled." Though Alphard's expression hadn't changed, Ginny felt compelled to add, "It's better this way. Who knows what sort of things he would get up to, if he wasn't here."

A noncommittal hum escaped from the base of his throat. He looked down, apparently picking lint off of the sleeve of his robe. "How did she take it?"

"She said she trusts me," she managed to say, voice sticking.

Alphard was quiet for a moment. When he looked up, the corner of his mouth was tucked into a half-smile. "What do you want me to do?"

The tightness in her chest loosened slightly.

"Partner with her in class," suggested Ginny. She had already talked it over with Margot, who had warily agreed to the idea. "It won't be so bad, I think. Just tone down all the arseholey poshness."

"Neither of those are words."

"Accurate though."

"I take offense to being called an arsehole."

"And the posh bit?"

Alphard shrugged, a graceful shift of his shoulders. Ginny was almost jealous of it, of the casual elegance he carried around with him, even when he was groaning and whinging not five minutes ago.

"Arseholey poshness," she repeated, grinning. Alphard may not have been as terrible as Malfoy, but Ginny could understand why Margot found him a little intimidating. "Don't scare her off."

"I'll try not to," said Alphard, putting on a snooty air. "Burgie did say I ought to go looking for better company."

"I don't think a Muggle-born was what she had in mind."

"Ah, well — Muggle, Schmuggle."