Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The noise was the first thing that had died.

One moment, the Quidditch pitch, transformed into a treacherous maze for the night, had thrummed with the roar of hundreds – anticipation a thick, electric current in the June air.

Then, silence.

Not a gradual fading, but a sudden, suffocating blanket thrown over the stands.

Ginny, thirteen, perched precariously on a bench between her brothers, felt it press down, stealing the very breath from her lungs.

All eyes were fixed on the dead centre of the maze where the Triwizard Cup had stood moments before, gleaming under the magical lights.

Now, there was only scorched earth and stillness.

Harry, Cedric, Fleur, Krum.

Gone.

Vanished with the Cup.

Minutes stretched into an eternity, each tick of an unseen clock echoing in the vast emptiness. Whispers started, tentative at first, like mice skittering in the walls, then growing louder, more frantic.

Where were they?

Had something gone wrong?

Ginny gripped the rough wood of the bench, knuckles white. She remembered the frantic energy of the professors, Dumbledore’s usually twinkling eyes hard and grim as he conferred with Ministry officials who had appeared out of nowhere, their faces tight masks of controlled panic.

Ron was pale beside her, Fred and George unusually subdued. The air crackled not with magic, but with a dense, chilling dread.

Then, it reappeared.

The Cup.

Materializing back on its pedestal with a soft thump that seemed louder than any cannon blast in the suffocating silence. It looked the same – ornate, imposing.

But it was wrong.

Utterly wrong.

It gleamed alone.

Empty.

No champions returned with it. No victor raised it high. Just the cold, impassive metal reflecting the horrified faces in the stands.

A choked sob broke the silence, then another. The whispers dissolved into a wave of grief and confusion that washed over the crowd.

No answers came that night.

Not the next day.

Not ever.

The Ministry issued vague statements about a tragic accident, a catastrophic malfunction of the Portkey.

Files were sealed.

Inquiries shut down.

Hogwarts mourned, the Great Hall draped in black, four empty chairs a constant, aching reminder.

OWLs were taken.

NEWTs were completed.

Life, stubbornly, continued.

Whump.

The Bludger slammed into the practice dummy inches from Ginny’s head, the impact reverberating through the damp Welsh air.

She didn’t flinch, merely adjusted her grip on her Comet Two Ninety, eyes narrowed on the Quaffle tucked securely under her arm. Rain plastered strands of red hair to her temples, tasting of mud and iron.

“Weasley! Eyes on the hoops, not daydreaming!” Gwenog Jones, Holyhead Harpies Captain and Beater, roared from across the pitch, already lining up her bat for another Bludger hurtling their way.

Ginny snapped back to the present, kicking off hard. The wind whipped past her ears, a familiar scream that drowned out everything else.

She feinted left, dodged a lazy Bludger sent by a teammate, then powered towards the goalposts. The Keeper moved to intercept, anticipating her usual feint-and-shoot.

Ginny smirked, a fleeting, sharp expression. Instead, she dropped low, pulling the Quaffle tight, and barrelled straight through the Keeper’s outstretched arms, slamming the ball through the centre hoop with brutal force.

A smattering of applause came from the few hardy spectators braving the miserable weather.

Ginny landed lightly on the soggy pitch, satisfaction a brief, hot spark within the cold knot she usually carried in her gut.

Quidditch wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t subtle. It was raw, punishing, and gloriously straightforward. You hit hard, flew fast, and put the freaking ball through the hoop.

There were rules, yes, but bruises were expected, broken bones not uncommon. There was honesty in the impact, in the ache of her muscles after hours of relentless drills. It was the only place the simmering rage felt useful, controllable.

She wheeled her broom around, catching Gwenog’s grudging nod. Practice was winding down. The dull ache in her shoulder promised a bruise tomorrow. Good. It was real. Tangible. Unlike the ghosts that still lingered at the edge of her vision sometimes, spectral figures in tournament robes vanishing into thin air.

Ginny Weasley, Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies. Known for her aggressive plays and volatile temper. A far cry from the freckled girl cheering in the stands years ago.

That girl hadn't understood the cold indifference of the world, the ease with which inconvenient truths could be buried. This one did. It was etched into the hard lines around her mouth, the wary glint in her eyes.

She flew towards the changing rooms.

The changing room buzzed with the usual post-practice chatter — complaints about the weather, dissection of missed plays, plans for the evening.

Ginny stripped off her mud-caked kit, the motions automatic, barely registering the noise. She nodded a curt greeting to Valmai Morgan, the team’s reserve Seeker, but didn’t join the conversation dissecting the latest Chudley Cannons trade rumors.

Small talk felt like sandpaper on her nerves most days.

Under the stinging heat of the shower, she let the water wash away the grime and sweat, but the tension remained coiled in her shoulders. As she dried off, Gwenog clapped her firmly on the back, making her wince.

“Good form out there today, Weasley. Keep that fire burning for Saturday’s match.” Gwenog, broad-shouldered and weathered, had a rare smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. “And don’t forget the Ministry do tomorrow night. Obligatory appearance. Look presentable.”

Ginny’s stomach tightened. “Fun.”

Gwenog snorted. “Hardly. Bunch of stuffed shirts sucking up to potential sponsors. But the League Commissioner will be there, and Fudge himself might make an appearance. Best behavior, understand?”

She fixed Ginny with a look that tolerated no argument. “Try not to hex anyone.”

“No promises,” Ginny muttered, pulling on her worn jeans and jumper.

The Ministry atrium was worse than she’d expected.

Overcrowded, overly warm, and drowning in the cloying scent of expensive perfume and elf-made wine. Chandeliers dripped crystal light onto wizards in dress robes and witches in stiff silks, their laughter too loud, too bright.

These events were the antithesis of everything she valued. Polished floors instead of churned mud, murmured pleasantries instead of roar of the crowd, veiled threats instead of Bludgers to the face.

It was a world of calculated smiles and hollow compliments, a place where power shifted unseen, where tragedies like the one that swallowed Harry and the others were smoothed over with political expediency.

Ginny felt conspicuous in her simple dark blue robes, the nicest she owned, clutching a glass of lukewarm Gillywater she had no intention of drinking. She scanned the room, looking for Gwenog or any other familiar Harpy face, wanting nothing more than to find a corner and become invisible.

A ripple went through the crowd near the fountain depicting stylized merpeople wrestling a kraken. Heads turned. Conversations paused, then resumed at a lower, more intense pitch.

Ginny followed their gazes.

Tom Riddle.

She hadn’t thought of him specifically in years, not since Hogwarts.

He’d been a spectre in the background – Head Boy, Prefect, whispered genius of Slytherin house. Always immaculate, always surrounded by a clique of pure-blood sycophants – Malfoy, Nott, Lestrange.

They moved through the halls with an air of untouchable superiority.

She remembered his face vaguely – sharp, handsome in a cold way, eyes that seemed too old, too knowing. He’d barely registered Gryffindors, let alone a Weasley, except perhaps with a flicker of disdain.

Myrtle Warren’s death had cast a hushed rumors swirling around him like smoke, but nothing concrete had ever surfaced.

He’d graduated with honors heaped upon honors, vanishing into the upper echelons of the wizarding world. Now his name sometimes appeared in the Daily Prophet, linked to influential committees or significant investments, always spoken of with a mixture of awe and apprehension.

He stood near the center of the room, yet somehow apart from it. Taller than she remembered, his black dress robes impeccably tailored, emphasizing lean lines. His dark hair was neatly styled, not a strand out of place.

He wasn't smiling, but the slight curve of his lips suggested amusement rather than warmth. He held court effortlessly, a small group of Ministry officials and wealthy-looking wizards hanging on his every word.

His posture was perfect, radiating a calm persona. He gestured occasionally as he spoke, his hands long-fingered and pale. Even from across the room, Ginny felt it – an aura of quiet intensity, a dangerous stillness beneath the polished surface.

She tore her eyes away, annoyed at her own fascination. He was just another pure-blood elitist, albeit a more successful one than Abraxas Malfoy had ever managed to be.

She edged toward the hors d'oeuvres table, intent on grabbing something edible before making her escape. As she reached for a miniature pasty, she heard his voice, closer now. Cool, precise, laced with effortless condescension.

He was speaking to Abraxas Malfoy and another wizard she didn’t recognize, their backs partially turned to her.

"...a predictable spectacle," Riddle was saying, his tone dismissive. "Cheering thugs chasing balls on broomsticks. Hardly the pinnacle of wizarding achievement. A brutish distraction for lesser minds, wouldn't you agree, Abraxas?"

Malfoy gave a slick, knowing smile. "Indeed, Tom. Bread and circuses for the masses."

Ginny froze, the pasty forgotten in her hand. The casual arrogance, the sneering dismissal of the one thing she poured her heart and soul into – it ignited the familiar fuse of her temper.

Before she could stop herself, she turned.

"Is that what they taught you in Slytherin?" Ginny’s voice cut through their low conversation, sharper than she intended. "To look down your noses from the sidelines because you lack the guts to get on a broom yourself?"

Three pairs of eyes turned towards her.

Malfoy’s widened slightly in disdainful recognition.

The unknown wizard looked merely annoyed.

But Riddle… Riddle’s dark eyes fixed on her, devoid of surprise. There was a flicker, not of anger, but of something else — calculation, perhaps faint curiosity.

He knew exactly who she was.

He tilted his head slightly. "Miss Weasley, I believe? Of the Holyhead Harpies." He said the team name as if it were a mildly amusing novelty. "Forgive me. I hadn't realized eavesdropping was part of the Gryffindor curriculum."

"And I hadn't realized blatant arrogance was a prerequisite for joining your little club," Ginny shot back, gesturing vaguely at Malfoy and the other wizard.

Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a mixture of fury and adrenaline. She refused to be intimidated.

A slow, humourless smile touched Riddle’s lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. "Some find honesty refreshing. Others, merely… loud."

He took a deliberate step closer, invading her personal space just enough to be unsettling. His gaze swept over her, dismissive yet appraising. "Tell me, Miss Weasley, does the relentless pursuit of a leather ball truly satisfy—“

“— a profound intellectual curiosity?" Ginny finished for him, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

She didn't step back, meeting his unnervingly steady gaze. The air between them felt tight, charged. "More than shuffling parchment and whispering in corridors, yes. Some of us prefer ambition you can actually see, Riddle. Not just scheme over."

Malfoy shifted uncomfortably, clearly unused to such directness aimed at Riddle. The other wizard simply looked bored, as if swatting away a fly.

Riddle's smile didn't falter, but his eyes hardened almost imperceptibly. They were dark, absorbing the light rather than reflecting it.

"Ambition." He savored the word, tasting it. "A commendable trait. Though misplaced ambition, channeled into… recreational violence… tends to be rather short-lived. Much like the careers of most athletes."

He glanced pointedly at her simple robes, then back at her face. "One hard fall, isn't it? And then what?"

The implication hung in the air – that her life, her passion, was fragile, meaningless in the grander scheme he navigated. It struck a nerve, the familiar dismissal she’d faced countless times from those who saw Quidditch players as little more than glorified entertainers.

"Better a hard fall on the pitch than a slow rot in meetings like this," Ginny retorted, her voice sharp. She gestured dismissively at the opulent room, the false smiles, the clinking glasses. "At least our victories – and losses – are real. Not just maneuvers for leverage."

For the first time, a genuine flicker of something unreadable crossed Riddle's face — perhaps surprise at her audacity, perhaps faint amusement. He seemed about to respond, his lips parting slightly, when Gwenog Jones appeared at Ginny's elbow, her expression thunderous.

"Weasley. There you are." Gwenog's voice was tight, her eyes darting from Ginny to Riddle and back again. She gave Riddle a stiff, wary nod. "Mr. Riddle."

Riddle inclined his head, the picture of civility, though the coldness in his eyes remained. "Captain Jones. Just acquainting myself with your star Chaser."

The way he said 'star Chaser' was laden with irony.

Gwenog's hand clamped down on Ginny's arm, a clear signal. "We were just leaving. Ministry duties await." She practically dragged Ginny away, ignoring Malfoy's sneer.

Ginny allowed herself to be pulled, but not before casting one last, defiant look back at Riddle. He was watching her go, that same unsettling, calculating expression on his face. He hadn't dismissed her, not entirely. And that, strangely, felt more dangerous than outright contempt.

"What in Merlin's name were you thinking?" Gwenog hissed once they were out of earshot, steering Ginny towards the exit. "Picking a fight with Tom Riddle? Are you insane?"

"He was insulting Quidditch," Ginny muttered, shrugging off Gwenog's grip.

"He insults everything, Weasley! That man builds empires on veiled threats and sharp words. You don't poke the manticore just because you don't like its attitude." Gwenog sighed, running a hand through her short hair. "Just… stay away from him. He's not our world. And trust me, you don't want him interested in yours."

Ginny didn't reply. She looked back towards the centre of the room, but Riddle had turned away, once again engrossed in conversation, the brief interaction seemingly forgotten.

She hated him instantly, viscerally. Yet, beneath the anger, a strange, unwelcome curiosity stirred.

Gwenog was right.

He wasn't their world.

But for a moment, their worlds had collided, sharp edges grating against each other, leaving behind a distinct, unpleasant friction.

Chapter Text

The chill of the night air was a welcome shock after the stuffy heat of the Ministry atrium.

Ginny inhaled deeply, letting the dampness settle over her, washing away the lingering scent of perfume and politics.

Gwenog muttered a few more choice warnings about discretion and avoiding powerful enemies before Apparating away with a sharp crack.

Ginny remained on the pavement for a moment, the relative quiet of the London street a stark contrast to the crowded function.

Riddle’s face lingered in her mind – the sculpted features, the unnerving stillness, the eyes that seemed to see too much and reveal nothing. He hadn't raised his voice, hadn't outwardly shown anger, yet the undertone of controlled power had been unmistakable.

He hadn’t needed to shout; his quiet condescension was a weapon in itself, honed and precise.

She hated the way he’d looked at her, like a specimen under glass. Hated the casual dismissal of Quidditch, the arrogant assumption of his own superiority. Hated Malfoy’s sycophantic agreement. Most of all, she hated the flicker of something — not fear, but a grudging awareness — that he’d sparked in her.

He was dangerous, not just because of his rumoured associations or political maneuvering, but because of the sheer force of his intellect and will, worn like perfectly tailored robes.

With a frustrated sigh, Ginny turned and Disapparated, the familiar sensation of being squeezed through a tight tube momentarily distracting her. She reappeared in the narrow alleyway behind the small flat she rented above a noisy pub in wizarding London, a far cry from the sprawling chaos of The Burrow.

It was hers, though — compact, often messy, but blessedly free from hovering parents and an overabundance of brothers.

Inside, she kicked off her uncomfortable dress shoes, letting them clatter against the worn wooden floor. The flat was dark, smelling faintly of old newsprint and the lingering aroma of chips from the pub downstairs.

She didn't bother with the lights, navigating by the glow filtering through the window from the streetlamps below. She poured herself a generous measure of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky, sinking onto the lumpy sofa.

The cheap burn of the alcohol was grounding.

Gwenog’s warning echoed in her ears: Stay away from him. It was sensible advice. Logical.

Riddle moved in circles Ginny had no desire to enter, wielding influence she didn't understand or respect. He represented the side of the wizarding world that prioritized power and purity over passion and fairness. Everything she instinctively distrusted.

And yet… she replayed the conversation. His calm, deliberate provocations. Her own sharp retorts. He hadn’t backed down, but neither had she.

He had engaged, tested, observed. Why?

What similarities could Tom Riddle have in a Quidditch player with a temper?

She took another swallow of Firewhisky. It was probably nothing. A momentary amusement for him, a footnote in his evening. He’d likely forgotten her name already. But the image of his focused, unreadable gaze remained stubbornly fixed in her mind.

A knot settled in her stomach, displacing the earlier anger. It wasn’t fear, exactly, but a premonition. An unwelcome certainty that despite the gulf between their worlds, despite Gwenog's warning and her own visceral dislike, this wouldn't be the last time she crossed paths with Tom Riddle.

The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth, sharper than the Firewhisky.

Weeks bled into months, marked by the relentless rhythm of pre-Quidditch season — grueling practices, bone-jarring pre-season matches, the roar of the crowd a constant hum beneath the surface of Ginny’s life.

The Holyhead Harpies were performing well, clawing their way up, and Ginny’s aggressive playing style was earning her grudging respect, even from rival teams.

She poured everything into the game, the physical exertion a necessary release, the moments of airborne freedom a stark contrast to the grounded weight of memory and resentment.

The encounter with Riddle at the Ministry gala faded, pushed aside by the demands of the pre-Quidditch season. She told herself it was insignificant, a brief clash of personalities best forgotten. Yet, annoyingly, his presence began to manifest at the periphery of her world with unsettling regularity.

It started at a pre-Quidditch pre-match press briefing, mandatory glad-handing disguised as media engagement for the Daily Prophet and various Quidditch publications.

Ginny stood beside Gwenog and the team’s Seeker, forcing a neutral expression as journalists lobbed predictable questions about strategy and team morale.

Then she saw him.

Standing near the back of the crowded room, observing. Not with the casual interest of a fan, but with the focused stillness she remembered.

Tom Riddle, impeccably dressed as always, was flanking a Ministry official Ginny vaguely recognized from the Department of Magical Games and Sports.

He wasn’t looking at the official, however. His dark eyes were fixed on the Harpies' lineup, lingering for a fraction too long on Ginny herself before moving on, his expression utterly unreadable. He didn't approach, didn't speak. But his mere presence felt like an intrusion, a contamination of her space.

She felt a prickle of irritation, deliberately turning her shoulder to block him from her line of sight, focusing intently on a Daily Prophet writer’s question about Bludger defense tactics.

A week later, she was in Flourish and Blotts, searching for a rare text detailing obscure Quidditch maneuvers from the early leagues — specifically, the controversial 'Gryphon's Gambit' used briefly in the 1600s before being deemed excessively dangerous. Understanding historical rule-bending felt relevant to anticipating modern boundary-pushing.

The shop was quiet, smelling of old parchment and binding glue. As she reached for a dusty tome on an upper shelf, a low, cultured voice spoke from nearby.

"An obscure choice, Miss Weasley. Researching techniques more suited to warfare than sport?"

Ginny froze, then slowly turned.

Tom Riddle stood a few feet away, examining the spine of a dense book on advanced spell-crafting. He hadn't even looked up, yet he knew it was her. How? Had he followed her?

The thought sent a chill down her spine, quickly followed by anger.

"Just appreciating the history of competitive spirit," she retorted coolly, pulling down her chosen book with more force than necessary. "Something perhaps lost on those who prefer their conflicts confined to committee rooms."

He finally glanced up, a faint, ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Ah, yes. The spirit that led to the maneuver being banned after causing... significant collateral damage, if I recall correctly. Ambition untempered by foresight."

He held her gaze for a moment, his eyes sharp and analytical, before turning back to his own selection. "Do try not to replicate its historical outcome."

He offered no further comment, seemingly absorbed in his book.

The encounter was brief, almost casual, yet it left Ginny feeling exposed, watched. He hadn't needed to say much; the implication that he was aware of her pursuits, even niche ones, was unsettling enough. She paid for her book quickly, eager to leave the suddenly claustrophobic confines of the shop.

The pattern continued.

A glimpse of him across the Leaky Cauldron’s dining room, deep in conversation with someone Ginny recognized as a notoriously ruthless wizarding barrister. His name mentioned in connection with a new, controversial piece of legislation being debated at the Ministry – legislation that could indirectly impact Quidditch funding.

Then, another formal event — a Ministry reception celebrating some obscure anniversary. Ginny attended reluctantly, sticking close to Gwenog. She saw him holding court again, effortlessly navigating the complex currents of power and influence.

People gravitated towards him – some eager for favour, others wary but respectful. He moved through the room with grace, his attention sharp and selective.

Ginny watched him covertly, noticing the subtle ways he commanded attention, the way conversation paused when he spoke, the deference in the eyes of older, established wizards. He never seemed to exert effort; control simply radiated from him.

Their eyes met across the crowded room. No words were exchanged this time, just a long, challenging stare.

Ginny refused to look away first, fueled by a potent mix of resentment and defiance. He held her gaze, his expression unreadable as ever, before giving a minuscule, almost imperceptible nod — not of greeting, but perhaps of acknowledgement. Like recognizing a familiar piece on a chessboard.

Then, he turned away, dismissing her as easily as he had acknowledged her.

Ginny’s hand tightened around her glass. She wasn’t imagining it. He was aware of her. This wasn’t coincidence; it felt deliberate, calculated. But why?

She was just a Quidditch player. Brash, outspoken, from a family he likely despised. She offered him nothing — no political advantage, no social standing.

Gwenog’s warning echoed again: You don’t want him interested in yours.

Ginny didn’t.

She hated these encounters, hated the feeling of being observed, analyzed. Hated the unwelcome intrusion of Tom Riddle into the edges of her life.

Yet, each time their paths crossed, the sharp edges of her dismissal grew duller, replaced by a persistent, irritating hum of awareness. He was a stone dropped into the placid surface of her carefully compartmentalized life, the ripples spreading further than she liked.

The Tutshill Tornados pre-Quidditch season match was brutal.

Rain lashed down, visibility was atrocious, and the Tornados' Beaters seemed personally offended by the Harpies' very existence.

Ginny scored twice, dodging Bludgers with instinctive, heart-stopping dives, but took a nasty hit to the ribs late in the second half that sent searing pain through her side with every breath.

In the final chaotic minutes, frustration boiling over after a blatant foul the referee ignored, Ginny retaliated. Not with her broom, not with the Quaffle, but with a sharp, deliberately accidental shoulder check that sent the offending Tornado Chaser spinning off course, nearly colliding with his own Keeper.

The whistle shrieked immediately. Penalty to Tutshill.

Ginny landed roughly, ignoring the searing pain in her side and the furious shouts from the opposing team.

Gwenog flew over, face grim. "Weasley! Control yourself! That's going straight to the Disciplinary Committee."

And it did.

The Daily Prophet ran a small piece mentioning the "unsportsmanlike conduct" alongside the Harpies' narrow loss. Whispers circulated about a possible suspension.

Ginny braced herself for the summons, furious at the Tutshill player, furious at the biased referee, but mostly furious at her own lack of control.

A suspension now, even before official Quidditch season start, would be disastrous for the team and her standing.

The owl arrived a few days later, not with a summons, but with a terse notification from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Incident reviewed. Formal warning issued. No further action pending.

Ginny stared at the parchment, bewildered.

A warning? For that?

League discipline was notoriously inconsistent, but usually leaned towards punitive, especially when involving player-on-player aggression without a Bludger involved.

It felt... lenient. Suspiciously so.

Gwenog was equally surprised, though relieved. "Count your blessings, Weasley. Someone on the Committee must be a closet Harpies fan."

But Ginny couldn't shake a feeling of unease.

It felt too easy. Too neat.

Committees weren't known for sudden benevolence. They were arenas of negotiation, influence, favours owed and called in. And the name that floated, unbidden, into her mind was Tom Riddle's.

His connections within the Ministry were well-known.

Could he have…?

Why would he?

To what end?

It made no sense.

Interfering in a minor Quidditch disciplinary matter seemed beneath him. Unless… unless it wasn't about the incident itself, but about demonstrating reach? A subtle display of power directed, somehow, at her?

The idea was both ludicrous and deeply unsettling.

She had no proof, nothing but a gut feeling fueled by those unnerving encounters. She pushed the thought away, telling herself she was becoming paranoid, letting his unsettling presence infect her judgment.

Yet, the next time she saw him, at a dreary charity gala the Harpies were obligated to attend, the dynamic felt subtly shifted. He was across the room, engaged in conversation with the Minister for Magic himself.

As before, his gaze eventually swept the room, inevitably finding hers. A silent acknowledgement of an invisible string connecting them, a string only he perceived, or perhaps, had placed there himself.

He gave that same infinitesimal nod, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards in that ghost of a smile that never reached his eyes.

Ginny looked away sharply, her heart thudding uncomfortably. It wasn't hatred anymore, not purely.

It was overlaid with a confusing, frustrating awareness.

He was forcing himself into her orbit, subtly, persistently. He was watching her, perhaps even interfering in her life for reasons she couldn't fathom.

And the most disturbing part?

A sliver of her, the part that thrived on challenge, the part that had always pushed back against expectations, was morbidly curious to find out why. The rational part screamed danger, echoed Gwenog’s warning. But the simmering defiance, the ingrained refusal to be passively observed or manipulated, began to stir.

He wanted her attention?

Fine.

He would get it.

Not the cowed deference he received from others, nor the sputtering outrage he seemed to expect from her. Something else.

She waited, cultivating a patience alien to her nature. She scanned the society pages of the Daily Prophet, listened to snippets of gossip in the Harpies' changing room, piecing together the circles Riddle moved in.

He favoured certain discreet establishments for meetings — upscale wizarding lounges where privacy was paramount and Galleons flowed freely. One name surfaced repeatedly: The Serpent's Coil, a dimly lit bar near Knockturn Alley known for its potent cocktails and influential clientele who preferred not to be seen at the Leaky Cauldron.

Choosing her moment carefully, a Thursday evening when she knew the Harpies had no obligations and she’d overheard Malfoy mentioning a meeting near that area, Ginny went there alone. She dressed simply but well – dark trousers, a silk shirt the color of forest green, her leather jacket. Armor of a different kind.

The Serpent's Coil lived up to its name.

Dark wood, plush velvet booths shrouded in shadow, the low murmur of conversation underscored by the clink of ice in heavy crystal glasses. The air smelled of expensive cigars and something faintly spicy, magical.

It was exactly the sort of place she despised, yet she walked in with a confidence she didn't entirely feel, scanning the occupants.

And there he was.

Seated in a secluded booth towards the back, not with Malfoy, but with two older, severe-looking wizards Ginny didn't recognize but who radiated an unmistakable aura of old money and influence. Riddle looked completely at ease, nursing a dark liquor, listening intently to one of the men.

Ginny took a seat at the polished bar, ordering a Firewhisky, neat. She didn't stare, but kept him in her peripheral vision, waiting for his companions to leave.

It took nearly an hour. An hour of sipping slowly, ignoring the speculative glances from other patrons, feeling the nervous energy thrumming beneath her skin. Finally, the two wizards rose, shook Riddle's hand with deference, and departed.

Riddle remained seated, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, seemingly lost in thought.

Now.

Ginny slid off the barstool and walked towards his booth, her steps measured, deliberate. She stopped beside the table, close enough that he had to look up.

He did, slowly.

There was no surprise in his eyes this time, only a cool, knowing stillness. As if he'd been expecting her.

"Miss Weasley," he greeted, his voice a low murmur that barely carried above the bar's muted ambiance. "An unexpected pleasure. Lost your way from the Quidditch pitch?"

"I find my way well enough, Riddle," Ginny replied, her voice steady. She didn't wait for an invitation, sliding into the velvet seat opposite him. The table felt unnervingly small, closing the distance between them. "I had a question for you."

A flicker of amusement, cold and predatory, touched his lips. "Oh? I wasn't aware I offered consultations."

"The Disciplinary Committee," Ginny said, cutting straight to the point, holding his gaze. "My hearing regarding the Tutshill match. It disappeared rather conveniently."

Riddle took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving hers. "Did it? I confess I don't follow the minutiae of Quidditch governance. Far too... predictable."

"Don't you?" Ginny leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice. "Because it felt less like predictability and more like influence. The kind wielded by people who move in circles far removed from muddy pitches, but who sometimes find it amusing, perhaps, to rearrange the pieces."

He set his glass down with deliberate care. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken challenge.

"Are you suggesting, Miss Weasley," he finally asked, his tone dangerously soft, "that I intervened on your behalf?"

"I'm suggesting it's a remarkable coincidence," Ginny countered, refusing to back down. "And I don't much believe in those."

He studied her face, his expression unreadable. She could see the sharp intelligence in his eyes, the cogs turning behind the calm facade.

He wasn't denying it.

He wasn't confirming it either.

He was enjoying this, she realized with a jolt of anger.

He was enjoying her suspicion, her defiance.

"Perhaps," he mused, tracing the rim of his glass with a long finger, "someone merely recognized that raw talent, however undisciplined, shouldn't be unduly penalized by bureaucratic incompetence. Perhaps the system, for once, worked as it should."

He paused, letting the implication hang. "Or perhaps you simply have an unknown admirer in a position of power."

It was a deflection, expertly done, yet it felt like a veiled admission, a subtle claim of ownership over the event.

"I don't need admirers, Riddle," Ginny said tightly. "And I certainly don't need favours from people like you."

His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Is that ingratitude I detect, Miss Weasley? Or merely Gryffindor pride getting in the way of acknowledging reality?"

He leaned forward now, mirroring her posture, the space between them shrinking further. His voice dropped lower, intimate yet menacing. "Reality, Miss Weasley, is that influence is currency. It shapes outcomes, large and small. Whether you like the person wielding it is irrelevant. Perhaps you should consider the implications before questioning a fortunate turn of events."

He wasn't threatening her, not directly. But the warning was clear.

He had acted — she was sure of it now — and he was letting her know, subtly, that he could act again, perhaps not in her favor next time. He was pulling her into a game she didn't understand, using her own career as a playing piece.

Ginny stood up abruptly, the velvet seat sighing beneath her. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. "Consider this, Riddle. I don't play games I don't understand.”

A slow, deliberate smile spread across Riddle’s face, devoid of warmth. It was the expression of a chess master watching an opponent make a predictable, albeit spirited, move.

"A pity," he murmured, leaning back slightly, reclaiming his space, his composure absolute. "Because you're already on the board, Miss Weasley. Whether you choose to understand the rules or not… is entirely up to you."

The quiet certainty in his voice was more infuriating than any overt threat. He wasn’t just confirming his interference; he was stating it as a fact of her reality, something she now had to navigate.

Ginny felt a surge of helpless anger. He was right. By confronting him, by acknowledging the possibility of his involvement, she had engaged. She had stepped onto his playing field.

"Stay out of my life, Riddle," she bit out, the words clipped and low. It sounded less like a demand and more like a plea, and she hated herself for it.

He inclined his head, a gesture of mock politeness that grated on her nerves. "Your life," he repeated softly, as if tasting the words. "A fascinating concept. So fiercely guarded. Yet so… susceptible."

He picked up his glass again, his gaze holding hers over the rim. "Enjoy your season, Miss Weasley. Try not to attract any further… official attention."

It was a dismissal, elegantly phrased but absolute. He was done with the conversation, having achieved whatever purpose he'd intended.

Ginny stood there for another second, vibrating with frustration and a confusing sense of having lost ground she hadn’t even known she was defending.

Without another word, she turned sharply and walked away, threading through the tables and out of the oppressive atmosphere of The Serpent's Coil. The cool night air hit her like a physical blow, but it did little to quell the turmoil inside.

She disapparated back to her flat not with the earlier anger, but with creeping dread.

He hadn't just watched her; he had acted. He had used his influence, his power, to meddle in her career, dangling the outcome before her like a prize or a warning.

Why?

To prove he could?

To indebt her?

Or simply because her defiance amused him, and he wanted to see how she would react when pulled into his orbit?

The line between hatred and a perverse, dangerous curiosity blurred further.

He was arrogant, manipulative, undoubtedly involved in things far darker than Quidditch politics.

Gwenog’s warning felt less like advice now and more like an inevitability ignored. You don’t want him interested in yours.

Too late, Ginny thought, sinking onto her sofa in the dark, the silence of the flat pressing in.

He was interested. And she had no idea where that interest would lead, only that it felt like standing on the edge of a precipice, the ground already crumbling beneath her feet.

Chapter Text

The satisfying thud of the Quaffle hitting the practice hoop echoed slightly hollow in Ginny’s ears. Practice was usually her sanctuary, the roar of the wind and the burn in her muscles a reliable balm against the gnawing anxieties that plagued her quieter moments. But since the encounter at The Serpent’s Coil, the sanctuary felt… compromised.

She flew harder, pushing her Comet Two Ninety through complex drills Gwenog devised, her movements sharp, almost violent. She welcomed the sting of the wind against her face, the familiar ache settling into her shoulders. Yet, beneath the physical exertion, a low thrum of unease persisted.

“You’re already on the board, Miss Weasley.”

Riddle’s voice, cool and precise, echoed in her mind, unwelcome and persistent. She scanned the empty stands surrounding the Harpies’ private pitch, half-expecting to see a dark figure watching from the shadows. Logically, she knew it was absurd.

Tom Riddle wouldn't waste his valuable time observing a Quidditch practice session in the damp Welsh countryside. His methods were less direct, more insidious. But the feeling of being watched, of being a piece moved by an unseen hand, lingered like stale smoke.

“Weasley! Less brooding, more scoring!” Gwenog yelled, snapping Ginny back to the immediate present. A Bludger whizzed past her left ear, a deliberate warning shot from her Captain.

Ginny gritted her teeth, channeling the frustration into a burst of speed. She snatched the Quaffle from a teammate mid-pass, executed a near-impossible Sloth Grip Roll to evade the oncoming Keeper, and slammed the ball home. A ripple of appreciation went through the team.

It felt good. Real. Tangible. Unlike the slippery, unnerving game Riddle seemed intent on playing.

Later, in the relative warmth of the changing rooms, stripping off sweat-soaked gear, the usual banter felt slightly muted to Ginny’s ears. She found herself listening more intently to snippets of conversation, searching for… she wasn’t sure what. Any mention of Ministry changes, unexpected directives, anything that might bear Riddle’s invisible fingerprints.

Gwenog entered, toweling her short hair vigorously, her brow furrowed. “Right, listen up. Got a memo from the Department of Magical Games and Sports this morning.”

The room quieted. Memos from the Department usually meant more paperwork or unwelcome scrutiny.

“Standard procedure, apparently,” Gwenog continued, though her tone lacked conviction. “They’re conducting ‘routine operational reviews’ for all League teams this season. Starting with us.”

A collective groan went through the room.

“What kind of review?” Valmai Morgan asked, pulling on a thick jumper.

“Financials, compliance with League regulations, adherence to Ministry safety protocols… the usual bureaucratic sludge,” Gwenog sighed. “Means we’ll have some paper-pusher poking around next week, looking over records, inspecting the facilities.”

Ginny felt a cold knot form in her stomach. Routine? Or orchestrated?

“Since when do they start before the official season even kicks off?” she asked, trying to keep her voice casual.

Gwenog shrugged, frowning. “Beats me. Maybe Fudge is trying to look busy. Or maybe someone higher up decided Quidditch needs a bit more… oversight.” She glanced around the room. “Just make sure everything’s in order. Training logs up to date, equipment manifests correct. No ammunition for them to find fault, understand?”

The team murmured assent, already turning back to their routines, grumbling about Ministry interference. But Ginny couldn’t shake the feeling. It felt too coincidental, coming so soon after her confrontation with Riddle. Was this his next move? A subtle tightening of the leash, a reminder of his reach into the structures that governed her world?

“Influence is currency. It shapes outcomes, large and small.”

She tried to dismiss it. It could be nothing. Bureaucracy grinding its gears inefficiently, as usual. But Riddle had planted a seed of doubt, and it was taking root, twisting around her certainty like insidious ivy.

The following week passed in a blur of heightened tension. Practice felt sharper, edged with the team’s collective annoyance at the impending review. Ginny found herself double-checking everything, her focus fractured between the game and the gnawing suspicion.

She scanned the Daily Prophet more closely, searching for Riddle’s name, any hint of his activities. He appeared infrequently, mentioned in connection with a Wizengamot sub-committee on magical artifacts trade, or pictured attending a high-profile Ministry gala – always impeccably dressed, always radiating that aura of controlled power. Nothing overt linked him to the Department of Magical Games and Sports, but she knew connections in the Ministry ran deep and often unseen.

The Ministry official arrived on Tuesday. A nondescript wizard named Perkins, with thinning hair and spectacles perched on his nose, carrying an overflowing briefcase. He was polite but thorough, spending hours closeted with Gwenog and the team managers, poring over ledgers and compliance forms.

Ginny avoided him, immersing herself in extra drills, pushing herself until exhaustion threatened to drown out the unease. Yet, even on the pitch, she felt the weight of the scrutiny, the sense that unseen forces were observing, evaluating.

On Wednesday evening, needing supplies, Ginny made a quick trip to Diagon Alley. The early evening crowd bustled, witches and wizards hurrying home from work or browsing the shops. She ducked into the Apothecary for muscle-soothing balm, the familiar scents of dried herbs and potions momentarily calming.

As she emerged back onto the cobbled street, adjusting the strap of her bag, her gaze swept idly across the entrance to Gringotts.

And froze.

Standing on the top step, bathed in the light spilling from the bank’s imposing bronze doors, was Tom Riddle. He was concluding a conversation with two goblins, their sharp faces impassive. Beside him stood Abraxas Malfoy, looking as smug and immaculate as ever.

Riddle wasn’t looking her way. He inclined his head slightly to the goblins, then turned to Malfoy, speaking in low tones Ginny couldn’t possibly hear from this distance. His posture was relaxed, yet utterly commanding. Even surrounded by the evening bustle, he seemed to exist within a pocket of focused stillness.

Then, as if sensing her gaze, he lifted his head. His dark eyes scanned the street, not randomly, but with purpose. They swept past witches haggling over cauldron prices, past wizards discussing the latest Quidditch scores, and then they found her.

Locked onto her.

There was no surprise in his expression. Just that same unnerving, assessing look she remembered from the Ministry gala, from Flourish and Blotts, from The Serpent's Coil. A flicker of something unreadable – acknowledgement? Cold amusement? – crossed his features before he gave the barest, almost imperceptible nod.

The same nod as before. Recognition of a piece on the board.

Malfoy followed Riddle’s gaze, his lip curling slightly in disdain as he recognized her. He muttered something to Riddle.

Riddle didn't respond to Malfoy immediately. He held Ginny’s gaze for another long second, the invisible line between them stretching taut across the busy street. Then, with deliberate slowness, he turned his attention back to Malfoy, dismissing her completely. They descended the steps and disappeared into the crowd heading towards Knockturn Alley.

Ginny stood rooted to the spot, the chatter and clatter of Diagon Alley fading into a dull roar in her ears. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

Coincidence? Seeing him again ? Just days after the "routine" review of the Harpies began? Standing there, conferring with goblins and Malfoy, radiating influence at the very heart of wizarding commerce and power?

No. It couldn't be.

The thought slammed into her with the force of a Bludger. He couldn't be orchestrating these encounters, could he? Tracking her movements? It was paranoid. Delusional.

He was a high-ranking Ministry figure, involved in weighty matters of finance and law, seen here concluding business at the wizarding world's central bank. Of course their paths might cross occasionally in the limited geography of wizarding London.

Yet, the timing . The way he looked at her, not with surprise, but with that unnerving, steady acknowledgement. Malfoy's sneering presence only cemented the feeling – Riddle moved in circles defined by power and pure-blood lineage, the very circles that held sway over Ministry departments, disciplinary committees… and perhaps, even seemingly routine operational reviews.

Her mouth felt dry. She turned abruptly, melting back into the flow of pedestrians, needing to put distance between herself and the image of Riddle standing on the steps of Gringotts, a dark silhouette against the gleaming bronze. She walked quickly, head down, the Apothecary bag banging against her hip, the scent of dittany and dried billywig stings suddenly cloying.

Was this his game? Subtle pressure, veiled threats, random appearances designed to keep her off balance, to make her aware of his presence, his influence, without ever doing anything overtly hostile?

It was insidious. More unnerving than an open confrontation. It was the kind of power play she imagined happened constantly in the polished corridors of the Ministry – quiet, deliberate, devastatingly effective.

The operational review concluded the next day. Perkins packed his briefcase, offered Gwenog a tight, bureaucratic smile, and departed. The verdict came via owl shortly after: No major irregularities found. A few minor suggestions regarding equipment inventory logging, but otherwise, the Holyhead Harpies were deemed fully compliant.

Gwenog announced the news with relief, clapping her hands together. "Right then! See? Nothing to worry about. Just Ministry busywork. Now, let's focus on the upcoming season opener against the Arrows!"

The team cheered, the tension that had simmered all week finally dissipating. Talk immediately turned to strategy, rivalries, the thrill of the first official match.

But Ginny couldn't share their relief. It felt too clean. Too easy. Just like the dropped disciplinary charges. Was this another subtle demonstration? See how easily things can go smoothly… or not?

She caught Valmai looking at her quizzically. Ginny forced a smile, joining the chatter about the Appleby Arrows’ notoriously unpredictable Seeker, but the unease remained, a cold counterpoint to the team’s buoyant mood.

That evening, unable to settle, Ginny found herself scanning the sports pages of the Daily Prophet, looking for news about the Arrows. Tucked away near the bottom of a column detailing pre-season injuries was a small, seemingly unrelated paragraph:

“Ministry sources confirm ongoing discussions regarding resource allocation within the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Citing budget constraints, several league support programs, including travel stipends for teams based further from London and developmental grants for reserve players, are under review. A spokesperson noted that ‘efficiency and fiscal responsibility’ are paramount. Teams heavily reliant on such programs may face adjustments in the coming season.”

Ginny read the paragraph twice. Resource allocation. Budget constraints. Travel stipends.

The Harpies, based in Holyhead, relied significantly on those stipends. Developmental grants impacted reserve players like Valmai. Efficiency and fiscal responsibility – phrases that sounded innocuous but often masked politically motivated cuts.

And who moved in circles where such decisions were made? Who spoke of ambition and influence as currency? Who had just been seen conferring with goblins at Gringotts, the heart of wizarding finance?

It wasn't proof. It was just another piece, seemingly disconnected, yet fitting unsettlingly into the pattern she was beginning to perceive. A pattern with Tom Riddle at its centre.

He wasn't just watching her. He was potentially manipulating the very structures that supported her team, her career, her life. Not with direct attacks, but with the slow, deliberate tightening of bureaucratic screws, the subtle redirection of resources, moves that could cripple a team without leaving obvious fingerprints.

She crumpled the newspaper in her fist, the flimsy parchment protesting. Hatred warred with a cold, creeping fear. Gwenog was right. She didn't want him interested in her world. But he was . He was looking beyond the player, beyond the defiant girl who talked back, and assessing the foundations she stood upon.

“One hard fall, isn't it? And then what?”

His words from the Ministry gala echoed back, no longer sounding like a casual dismissal of athletic careers, but like a calculated observation. A statement of vulnerability. Her vulnerability.

Ginny stood up, pacing the small confines of her flat. The anger still burned, hot and familiar, but now it was mingled with something else – a dawning, unwelcome understanding. Riddle wasn’t just trying to intimidate her or amuse himself. This felt bigger. More purposeful.

He saw her defiance, her refusal to be cowed, and perhaps he saw it not as an annoyance, but as… something potentially useful? Or something that needed to be controlled? Redirected?

The Serpent's Coil. The disciplinary hearing. The operational review. The potential funding cuts. The "chance" encounters.

They weren't random dots; they were points being deliberately connected, forming a web. And she was caught in the centre, unsure of the spider's intentions but increasingly aware of its patient, calculating presence.

The rational part of her screamed to pull away, to heed Gwenog’s warning, to disappear back into the relative simplicity of Quidditch. But another part, the stubborn, Gryffindor core that refused to back down from a challenge, felt a grim, unwilling resolve hardening within her.

He wanted her attention? He had it.

He wanted to play games? Fine. But she wouldn't be a passive piece on his board.

The opportunity came sooner than expected, cloaked in the forced gaiety of corporate sponsorship. Nimbus Racing Broom Company, a major backer of the League, was hosting a lavish reception at a high-end London hotel to unveil their latest model, the Nimbus 2003.

Attendance was mandatory for key players from all sponsored teams. Ginny, Gwenog, and the Harpies' Seeker found themselves mingling awkwardly amongst sleek displays of polished broom handles, champagne flutes, and wizards whose robes cost more than Ginny’s entire yearly rent.

It was precisely the kind of event Riddle might grace – a nexus of commerce, influence, and League politics. Ginny scanned the room, a familiar knot tightening in her stomach, half-dreading, half-anticipating his presence.

She spotted him near the enchanted waterfall cascading down a wall of shimmering quartz. He wasn't holding court this time, but standing slightly apart, observing the room with that unnerving stillness, a glass of wine untouched in his hand. He was speaking quietly with Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, whose jovial expression seemed slightly strained under Riddle’s focused attention.

Ginny watched them for a moment, her resolve hardening. This was different from The Serpent's Coil. That had been her seeking him out on his territory. This felt more neutral, and Bagman’s presence, however coincidental, felt like a sign. This concerned her world, the world Bagman nominally oversaw.

She waited, nursing a glass of elf-made wine she didn’t want, until Bagman, looking relieved, clapped Riddle on the shoulder and bustled off towards the buffet. Riddle remained by the waterfall, swirling the wine in his glass, seemingly lost in thought.

Now. Before he could be drawn into another conversation.

Taking a steadying breath, Ginny threaded her way through the clusters of schmoozing wizards and witches, her borrowed dress robes feeling stiff and unfamiliar. She stopped a respectable distance from him, not wanting to cause a scene, but close enough for privacy amidst the general hum of the reception.

"Riddle."

He turned his head slowly, his expression utterly unsurprised. If anything, there was a faint trace of expectation in his dark eyes. "Miss Weasley. Enjoying the… festivities?" His tone was neutral, polite, but held the familiar undercurrent of condescension.

"Not particularly," Ginny said, keeping her voice low but firm. The anger she’d been simmering in felt suddenly close to the surface. "I find manufactured enthusiasm tedious. Much like manufactured 'operational reviews'."

She saw the briefest flicker deep in his eyes – not surprise, but perhaps acknowledgement of her directness. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his wine before responding.

"Ah, yes. Perkins, wasn't it?" He mentioned the reviewer's name casually, as if recalling a minor detail. "I heard the Harpies received a clean bill of health. Commendable. Maintaining standards is so vital for institutions relying on… public trust. And Ministry funding."

The veiled reference to the funding cuts was unmistakable. He was dangling it, testing her reaction.

"Funny how concerned the Ministry suddenly is with our standards, right after I..." She trailed off, remembering the Serpent's Coil, her ill-fated confrontation. "Right after certain individuals might have taken an interest."

Riddle raised a skeptical eyebrow, his expression shifting subtly to one of mild reproof.

"Miss Weasley," he began, his voice dropping slightly, taking on a tone of patient correction, "while I appreciate that your Quidditch fame affords you certain... recognitions," – he lingered on the word 'fame' as if it were slightly distasteful – "it does not grant you license to impugn the professionalism of dedicated Ministry employees like Mr. Perkins, nor to assume nefarious motives behind routine administrative procedures."

He tilted his head, his gaze sharp, pinning her. "Surely, even a celebrated athlete understands that organizations have protocols. Perhaps your time might be better spent focusing on the upcoming season rather than inventing conspiracies?"

His calm, reasonable tone, the way he framed her suspicion as entitled paranoia born of celebrity, hit a nerve. A hot flush crept up Ginny’s neck. She felt suddenly wrong-footed, embarrassed by the implication that she was being arrogant, imagining slights. He was twisting it, making her the unreasonable one, the difficult "celebrity" demanding special treatment or explanations.

But the embarrassment was quickly consumed by a fresh surge of anger. He was deliberately misunderstanding her, patronizing her.

"Don't," she bit out, her voice tight with suppressed fury, "don't you dare stand there talking about protocols and professionalism. This isn't about fame, Riddle, and you know it. This is about you."

She took a half-step closer, lowering her voice further, fueled by hurt pride and defiance. "This is about you playing games from Ministry offices, pulling strings because you enjoy the feeling of control. Interfering in things you pretend to disdain. Why? Because someone didn't show you the proper deference? Because you were bored?"

Her hands were clenched at her sides beneath the folds of her robes. She met his gaze unflinchingly, refusing to be dismissed or made to feel foolish. "I don't care about your damned Ministry protocols. I care about people like Perkins being sent to disrupt my team because you decided to put me on your 'board'. Stay out of it, Riddle. Stay out of Quidditch. Stay out of my life."

For a moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the distant murmur of the crowd and the gentle splash of the enchanted waterfall. Riddle didn't react immediately. He simply watched her, his expression unreadable but intent, as if cataloging her anger, her defiance, the flush on her cheeks.

Then, slowly, a genuine, cold smile touched his lips. It wasn't warm, but it held a spark of something other than mere condescension. Amusement? Interest?

"Such fire, Miss Weasley," he murmured, his voice soft again, almost intimate, yet chilling. "So quick to assume the worst. So determined to see a hidden hand in the mundane grind of bureaucracy." He paused, letting the words hang. "It makes one wonder what you're truly afraid of."

He didn't deny anything. He didn't confirm anything. He simply observed her reaction, turning her own accusations back on her, planting a new seed of doubt. He held her gaze for another loaded second, the smile lingering, before glancing away towards the main reception area as if suddenly recalling other obligations.

"If you'll excuse me," he said coolly, giving her a slight, dismissive nod. "Duty calls. Do try to enjoy the champagne."

And with that, he turned and walked away, merging effortlessly back into the crowd, leaving Ginny standing alone by the waterfall, trembling slightly with a mixture of frustration, residual anger, and the deeply unsettling feeling that she had once again played directly into his hands.

He hadn't given her answers, only more questions, and the distinct impression that he was thoroughly enjoying the game.

Chapter Text

Tom Riddle walked away from the shimmering waterfall, the faint scent of ozone and damp quartz clinging momentarily to his robes before dissolving into the warmer, wine-tinged air of the Nimbus reception. Behind him, Ginny Weasley remained, a small, vibrant point of fury against the shimmering backdrop.

Such fire.

The thought was clinical, an observation rather than an emotional assessment. Her anger was potent, uncontrolled, radiating from her like heat off summer asphalt. Predictable, in its raw impulsiveness, yet… undeniably arresting. So different from the  pleasantries and veiled ambitions that usually surrounded him.

Bagman’s forced bonhomie, the sycophantic nods of lesser Ministry officials, the cautious deference of the Nimbus executives – all faded into a bland tapestry against Weasley’s indignation.

His position – nominally Senior Advisor on Inter-Departmental Coordination, a title vague enough to grant broad access yet specific enough to justify his presence almost anywhere policies overlapped – required navigating such tiresome events.

It was a useful perch, a step towards more meaningful structures of power, allowing him to observe the Ministry’s labyrinthine workings, identify levers of influence, and subtly shape trajectories while others focused on the day-to-day minutiae.

Most of his work involved identifying systemic weaknesses, streamlining inefficient processes, and ensuring key initiatives aligned with… broader strategic goals. Goals few in this room truly comprehended.

Quidditch funding, regulatory reviews – these were merely small cogs in a much larger machine, useful for testing responses, gauging departmental inertia, or applying discreet pressure when necessary.

Her accusations, of course, were simplistic. Attributing complex bureaucratic movements and the subtle redirections of influence solely to his personal whim, to boredom or pique directed at her.

It was the perspective of someone who saw the world in primary colours, in clear-cut aggressions and defenses, like her chosen sport. She lacked the nuance to understand the intricate machinery of power, the delicate levers one could pull, the ripple effects of a word placed in the right ear, a suggestion offered at an opportune moment.

Yes, he had noted the disciplinary report concerning her frankly thuggish retaliation in the Tutshill match. A flagrant foul, easily justifying suspension. Yet, allowing the usual plodding course of League justice seemed… inefficient. An unnecessary obstacle for a player whose raw aggression, however undisciplined, contributed significantly to her team’s dynamic.

A quiet word to a susceptible ear on the Committee – framing it as preventing bureaucratic overreach from sidelining notable talent, reminding them of the optics – had been sufficient. A minor exertion of influence, barely noticeable, useful primarily as an exercise in gauging the Committee's pliability.

Perkins’ review of the Harpies? Hardly manufactured out of malice towards her. It was simply… opportune.

The Department of Magical Games and Sports was notoriously lax in its oversight procedures. Initiating a 'routine' review, starting with a team geographically removed and known for its somewhat independent captain, provided useful data on departmental responsiveness and compliance standards.

Perkins was thorough, if unimaginative, perfect for a standard review that needed to appear routine. That Weasley interpreted it as a personal attack only highlighted her self-absorption, common enough in athletes, perhaps, but more pronounced in her.

He collected another glass of wine – this time he might actually drink it – his gaze drifting impersonally over the crowd.

The funding review whispers were another matter entirely. Not directed at her team, specifically, but part of a necessary evaluation of resource allocation across several departments. Efficiency demanded trimming extraneous expenditures, and subsidies for teams requiring significant travel stipends were an obvious target for review.

Logic, not malice.

If the Harpies were disproportionately affected… well, realities often had sharp edges. That she connected it to him demonstrated a certain associative leap, flawed in its assumptions of motive, but possessing a certain crude alertness.

He found the entire situation intriguing, in a detached way. Ginny Weasley was an anomaly. A Weasley, inherently representing the antithesis of everything he valued – blood purity, strategic ambition, emotional control. Raised amongst sentimental fools and blood traitors. Yet, she possessed a ferocity, a blunt force of will, that transcended her unfortunate lineage.

He’d first registered it at that Ministry gala – not just temper, but a core of defiance when she’d confronted him and Malfoy. Most would have been intimidated into silence. She hadn't been.

He saw it again tonight, the way she stood her ground, accusations tumbling out, fueled by a blend of pride and suspicion. She wasn’t cowed. She wasn’t easily dismissed, despite his efforts. She kept… returning. Pushing back. Demanding answers he had no intention of giving.

He found himself recalling her performance data from the pre-season reports that occasionally crossed his desk, courtesy of his advisory role touching upon departmental liaisons.

Impressive scoring record for the Holyhead Harpies Chaser. High penalty count. Noted for aggressive, sometimes risky maneuvers. Fiercely protective of teammates. Prone to volatile reactions under pressure.

It painted a picture consistent with her confrontations.

Raw potential hampered by a lack of discipline. Strength misapplied.

Ambition, as she’d thrown the word back at him that first night, channeled into brute force rather than finesse.

Why did she hold his attention, however fleetingly? Not out of need. He needed nothing from the Harpies Chaser.

It wasn't malice, not yet anyway. It was… curiosity. An intellectual exercise.

She was a variable, acting on instinct and emotion rather than logic or strategy, yet she kept intersecting with his sphere.

Initially, she was merely background noise, identified by her hair colour and familial association. Her outburst at the gala had shifted her into focus. His subsequent, minor interventions were partly to observe the system's response, partly to see how she would respond.

Her confronting him at The Serpent's Coil, and again tonight, confirmed her lack of fear – or perhaps, her lack of self-preservation. It was foolish. Like watching a brightly coloured, potentially venomous creature react to being prodded.

He wasn't deliberately dragging her into anything complex. Not yet. He was merely observing the ripples caused by his presence, his minor manipulations of her environment. Her insistence on attributing everything to a personal vendetta amused him.

“It makes one wonder what you're truly afraid of.” 

His parting shot had been designed to provoke, to see if she possessed any capacity for introspection beyond outrage. Likely not.

He took a sip of his wine, the taste dry and unremarkable.

Ginny Weasley was a momentary diversion, a study in untamed, undirected energy. Utterly insignificant in the grander scheme he was meticulously constructing. 

Ginny stood rigid by the enchanted waterfall, the cool spray doing nothing to dampen the heat rising in her cheeks. Her hands were still clenched, knuckles white beneath the borrowed silk of her dress robes.

She watched Riddle’s retreating back, the impeccable tailoring, the effortless way he rejoined the flow of the reception, leaving her feeling like she’d just slammed full force into a wall of perfectly polished obsidian.

Frustration churned in her gut, thick and bitter. He hadn't denied a thing. Not really. He'd deflected, patronized, twisted her accusations into evidence of her own paranoia and inflated sense of importance.

He’d made her feel unreasonable, foolish, for daring to question the facade of Ministry operations he hid behind.

And that smile. That knowing smile as he turned away. It wasn't just amusement; it was control.

He was enjoying this. Enjoying her predictable, fiery reactions.

Enjoying the subtle power he wielded, making her dance to a tune only he could hear.

“It makes one wonder what you're truly afraid of.”

Afraid? The implication stung worse than the condescension.

She wasn’t afraid of him. She hated him. Hated his arrogance, his manipulations, the way he seemed to effortlessly glide through the world bending it to his will while pretending otherwise.

What was there to be afraid of?

She balled her fists tighter. She wasn't afraid. She was furious.

“Merlin’s beard, Weasley, you look like you’re about to hex the champagne fountain.”

Gwenog appeared at her elbow, a plate piled high with miniature pastries in one hand, a skeptical look on her face. Her sharp eyes flickered from Ginny’s tense posture towards the direction Riddle had disappeared.

“Problem?” Gwenog asked, her voice lower now, shrewd.

Ginny forced her hands to relax, taking a shaky breath. “Just admiring the… water feature.”

Gwenog snorted, unconvinced. “Right. And I saw who you were ‘admiring’ it with. Thought I told you to steer clear of Riddle.” Her tone wasn’t angry, more weary, laced with concern.

“He was talking to Bagman,” Ginny muttered evasively, turning away from the waterfall.

The urge to vent, to tell Gwenog everything – the suspicions, the confrontations, the unsettling feeling of being watched and manipulated – warred with a stubborn reluctance to sound as paranoid as Riddle had implied she was. Besides, what could Gwenog do? Picking fights with someone like Riddle was career suicide, and Gwenog had the whole team to worry about.

“Doesn’t matter who he’s talking to,” Gwenog said grimly, popping a miniature sausage roll into her mouth. “Just keep your distance. Some currents are too strong to swim against, understand? Especially when you don’t know what rocks are underneath.”

She looked Ginny up and down. “You alright? You look wound tighter than a Snitch’s mainspring.”

Ginny managed a tight smile. “Just hate these things. All talk, no action.”

Gwenog gave a grudging nod of agreement. “Tell me about it. Rather face a Hungarian Horntail than listen to Barnaby Cuffe drone on about broom aerodynamics for another hour.”

She nudged Ginny lightly. “Come on. Let’s grab another drink – non-alcoholic for you, we’ve got final drills tomorrow – and make our excuses soon. Need you sharp for the next couple of weeks.”

Ginny seized on the change of subject. “Drills tomorrow?”

“Yep. Final push before the opener.” Gwenog’s expression turned serious, businesslike. “The official season kicks off in just under two weeks. League Match Day One is Saturday, the seventeenth of October. Appleby Arrows, home pitch. We need to hit the ground flying.”

Two weeks.

The confirmation settled the timeline in Ginny’s mind, but also brought a fresh wave of pressure.

The season opener. The real thing. No more pre-season skirmishes. Every point mattered now.

This was what she lived for, the roar of a real crowd, the stakes high, the outcome determined by skill, speed, and nerve – not by whispers in Ministry corridors.

She nodded, straightening her shoulders, trying to force Riddle and his unsettling games into a locked box in the back of her mind. “Right. Arrows. Their Seeker’s fast, but flaky under pressure.”

“Exactly,” Gwenog said, looking pleased that Ginny’s focus had snapped back to Quidditch. “Their Chasers rely too much on that Pendulum Play. If we shut down their lead Chaser early, they fall apart.”

They started walking slowly towards the bar, Gwenog dissecting the Arrows’ weaknesses with practiced ease. Ginny listened, contributing her own observations, forcing herself to concentrate on formations and counter-strategies.

Quidditch was solid ground. Quidditch made sense. Bludgers and goals and fouls – tangible things you could react to, fight against directly.

Yet, even as she discussed defensive pairings, Riddle’s parting words echoed, unwelcome. “What are you truly afraid of?”

No. She wasn’t afraid. She just needed to focus. Fly faster, hit harder, score more goals. Win. Winning solved everything, didn’t it? On the pitch, at least.

She accepted a glass of Gillywater from Gwenog, the cool liquid doing little to soothe the knot of unease that remained stubbornly lodged beneath her breastbone. 

They didn’t stay much longer.

After another half-hour of forced smiles and deflected questions about the Harpies' prospects, Gwenog managed to extract them from the glittering throng. The relief Ginny felt stepping out of the overly warm hotel lobby and into the cool London night was immense.

“Right,” Gwenog said, pulling her cloak tighter. “Apparition point is just around the corner. Get some sleep, Weasley. Drills start at dawn, sharp.”

“Got it, Captain,” Ginny replied, the familiar title grounding her slightly.

Gwenog gave her a searching look. “And leave the Ministry politics to the politicians. Focus on the game. That’s where you belong. That’s where you’re strongest.”

She clapped Ginny firmly on the shoulder, a gesture of rough camaraderie, before turning and walking briskly towards the designated Apparition point.

Ginny watched her go, then turned towards her own usual spot further down the street. The pavement felt solid beneath her worn boots, a welcome contrast to the plush carpets and slippery pleasantries of the reception.

Focus on the game. Gwenog was right. Quidditch was her arena, her strength. The clean lines of the pitch, the roar of the crowd, the satisfying thwack of Quaffle meeting Keeper’s glove or slamming through a hoop – it was all straightforward, honest conflict.

Unlike Riddle.

His cool, assessing gaze seemed to linger in the periphery of her vision. His voice echoed faintly in her ears, laced with condescension and that unnerving flicker of... something else. Interest? Amusement?

“What are you truly afraid of?”

She kicked at a loose paving stone, frustration bubbling up again.

Afraid?

No.

Annoyed.

Wary.

Furious.

But not afraid.

She wouldn't give him that satisfaction.

He wanted to see her rattled, thrown off balance by his manipulations and mind games?

Fine.

Let him watch.

She would pour everything into the upcoming season. Every practice, every drill, every match. She would fly faster, hit harder, be undeniable. Let her performance on the pitch be her answer. Let the scoreboard speak louder.

Disapparating back to the familiar dimness of her flat, the scent of stale chips and old newsprint was almost comforting after the cloying perfumes of the gala. She shed the borrowed dress robes, tossing them onto the lumpy sofa, and changed back into her usual worn jeans and jumper.

The reflection that looked back at her from the dusty mirror over the fireplace was pale, strained around the eyes, freckles standing out starkly. But the set of her jaw was determined.

Two weeks until the season opener. Appleby Arrows.

That was real. That was the focus.

She wouldn't let Tom Riddle distract her from the only thing that truly mattered. She wouldn’t let him pull her off course.

As she finally drifted towards an uneasy sleep later that night, the image of his knowing smile lingered behind her eyelids.

The game on the pitch was about to begin, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that another, far more dangerous game was already underway, and she was playing whether she liked it or not.

The ground Gwenog urged her to stand on felt solid for now, but Ginny couldn't ignore the subtle tremors running beneath it, hinting at instability she couldn't yet define, orchestrated by a player who never seemed to reveal his hand.

Chapter Text

Dawn broke grey and reluctant over the valley cradling the Holyhead Harpies' training grounds. A chill mist clung to the damp grass, smelling of earth and the nearby sea.

Ginny shivered, pulling her thick practice robes tighter, the familiar golden talon emblem stark against the dark green fabric. Sleep had been restless, plagued by fragmented images: Riddle’s cool smile, the gleam of the Triwizard Cup vanishing, the blur of an oncoming Bludger.

She needed this. Needed the punishing reality of practice to scour the lingering unease from her mind.

The rest of the team was already assembling on the pitch, the air buzzing with low murmurs and the clatter of broomsticks leaning against the equipment shed.

Valmai Morgan, the Seeker, was stretching methodically, her expression focused.

Carys Pritchard, the Harpies’ other Beater – compact, wiry, with eyes that missed nothing – was inspecting her bat with intense concentration.

Then Gwenog Jones strode onto the pitch, broom slung over her shoulder, radiating an energy that seemed to push back the morning chill. Her presence commanded immediate attention. Conversations ceased; all eyes turned to their captain.

“Alright, listen up!” Gwenog’s voice cut through the quiet, sharp and devoid of pleasantries. “Two weeks. Two weeks until we face the Arrows on our turf. They’re fast, flashy, and fall apart like a wet paper bag under pressure.”

Her gaze swept over the team, lingering on each player. “Their Seeker, Davies, folds if you breathe on him too hard. Valmai,” – she nodded at their Seeker – “keep him guessing, keep the pressure on. Carys, Pritchard,” – addressing her fellow Beater – “I want Bludgers buzzing his ears from the first whistle.”

She turned to the Chasers – Ginny and her linemates, Rhiannon Griffiths and Megan Lloyd. “Their Chasers live and die by that sloppy Pendulum Play. Predictable. We break it early, force turnovers. Griffiths, anticipate the cross-pitch. Lloyd, disrupt the flow. Weasley,” – her eyes fixed on Ginny, sharp and assessing – “hit hard, hit fast, but smart . No repeats of the Tutshill fiasco. Controlled aggression. Understood?”

A chorus of “Yes, Captain!” answered her.

“Good.” Gwenog swung her leg over her broom. “Warm-up laps. Let’s move!”

The initial laps were brisk, designed to shake off sleep and warm stiff muscles. Ginny flew tight formations with Rhiannon and Megan, the wind whipping strands of red hair across her face, the familiar rhythm of wing-beats settling her slightly. She focused on the feel of the Comet Two Ninety beneath her, the slight vibration, the way it responded to her shifts in weight. This was real. This was controllable.

After the laps, the drills began in earnest, and any lingering gentleness evaporated. Gwenog, true to her Beater nature, believed in trial by fire.

First came the Bludger Gauntlet.

The Chasers lined up at one end of the pitch. Their task: fly a complex passing sequence towards the far goals while Gwenog and Carys unleashed a relentless barrage of Bludgers from midfield.

“Keep the formation tight! Eyes up! Don’t just dodge, control the space!” Gwenog roared, sending a Bludger screaming towards Megan Lloyd, who yelped and fumbled the Quaffle.

“Lloyd! Grip!”

Ginny tucked the Quaffle securely under her arm as it came to her, feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline as a Bludger hurtled straight at her head. She dropped low, letting it whistle over her, simultaneously firing a pass to Rhiannon, who had anticipated the move and was already cutting towards the hoops. Another Bludger came, aimed at Rhiannon’s blind spot. Ginny instinctively angled her broom, letting the edge of her tail twigs deflect it just enough to send it spinning harmlessly away.

“Good adjustment, Weasley!” Gwenog barked, already lining up another shot.

It was brutal, exhausting work. Maintaining speed, executing precise passes, tracking teammates, and constantly scanning for the two iron missiles intent on knocking them senseless demanded total concentration. There was no room for thoughts of Ministry politics or unnerving smiles. There was only the wind, the leather of the Quaffle, the bone-jarring whoosh of near misses, and Gwenog’s relentless commands.

Next, they drilled specifically against the Arrows’ favored Pendulum Play. The reserve Chasers simulated the wide, swinging passes of the Appleby formation. Ginny, Rhiannon, and Megan practiced intercepting, forcing errors, applying immediate offensive pressure the moment possession was gained.

“Anticipate, Griffiths, don’t react!” Gwenog yelled as Rhiannon narrowly missed a steal. “Weasley, tighter on your mark! Don’t give them breathing room!”

Ginny pushed harder, her muscles burning. She felt the familiar surge of temper when one of the reserve players clipped her intentionally – a simulation of Arrows’ occasional dirty tactics. For a split second, the urge to retaliate flared hot and quick.

Controlled aggression, Gwenog’s voice echoed in her head. She channeled the anger into speed, executing a sharp reverse pass that caught the defense off guard, allowing Megan to score.

Gwenog gave a curt nod. Progress.

While the Chasers took a brief water break, rubbing aching shoulders, the focus shifted to Valmai. Gwenog and Carys turned their Bludger assault on the Seeker, who had to track a tiny, erratically enchanted practice Snitch while enduring the Beaters’ targeted harassment.

Two reserve players acted as blockers, simulating opposing team interference. It was a nerve-shredding drill designed to forge focus under extreme duress. Valmai, pale but determined, weaved and dived, her eyes constantly scanning, ignoring the Bludgers thundering past her.

Finally, Gwenog called for a full scrimmage. Fifteen minutes, game intensity, focusing on transitions and executing the practiced counter-plays. The whistle blew, and the air instantly crackled with the energy of a real match.

Passes snapped, players jostled, Bludgers became strategic weapons rather than just training tools.

Ginny found her rhythm, working seamlessly with Rhiannon and Megan, the non-verbal communication honed over countless hours flowing between them. She scored twice, once with a powerful drive through the centre, once with a feint that drew the Keeper wide before she slotted the Quaffle neatly inside the post.

She took a hard shoulder check near the boundary line that sent pain flaring through her ribs – a reminder of the Tutshill injury. Red mist threatened to cloud her vision.

Stay out of my life, Riddle.

The thought intruded, unwelcome, associating the physical blow with the other, less tangible pressures. She grit her teeth, shoved the thought away, and focused on the Quaffle, stealing it back with a clean, sharp tackle that earned an approving grunt from Gwenog.

When the final whistle blew, Ginny landed heavily, chest heaving, sweat plastering her hair to her temples. Every muscle screamed, but it was a good ache.

A real ache. Earned.

Gwenog landed in the centre of the group, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Her expression was stern, appraising.

“Better,” she announced. “Transitions are smoother. Valmai, good focus under pressure. Carys, sharper targeting.” She paused, her eyes sweeping over the Chasers. “Griffiths, keep reading the cross-pitch. Lloyd, secure the ball on reception.”

Her gaze settled on Ginny. “Weasley. Two goals, good steals. Aggression was mostly channeled.” Mostly. The unspoken qualifier hung in the air. “Keep it that way. We need your fire, not your temper tantrums.”

It was as close to praise as Gwenog often got during practice. Ginny nodded, accepting the assessment.

“Right. Cool down laps. Hit the showers. Physio checks at ten hundred,” Gwenog concluded, dismissing them with a sharp nod before conferring quietly with Carys, already dissecting the scrimmage.

As Ginny flew slow, cooling laps, the physical exhaustion felt like a heavy, welcome blanket. The intricate games Riddle played seemed distant, nonsensical compared to the brutal simplicity of Quidditch. Here, the rules were clear, the dangers obvious, the victories tangible.

She had survived the practice. She had kept her temper (mostly) in check. She had focused on the game.

For now, the pitch felt like solid ground again. The tremors beneath were still there, she knew, somewhere in the back of her mind. Riddle hadn't vanished. But buffered by aching muscles and the familiar scent of broom polish and sweat, he felt momentarily less potent.

The season opener was two weeks away. That was the horizon. That was the fight she understood. And she would be ready.

Tom Riddle sat behind a large, impeccably organized mahogany desk in his Ministry office. The room was sparsely decorated but opulent in its finishes – dark wood paneling, subtly enchanted soundproofing, a single, tasteful landscape painting depicting a stark, mountainous scene. Not a stray parchment marred the polished surface of his desk; everything was filed, ordered, controlled.

He was reviewing a draft proposal regarding the streamlining of inter-departmental magical artifact transport protocols – a tedious but necessary piece of administrative architecture. His quill moved swiftly, making sharp, decisive annotations in the margins, its scratches the only sound disturbing the heavy silence.

A timid knock echoed through the soundproofing enchantments.

"Enter," Riddle commanded, his voice calm but carrying an edge that permitted no hesitation.

The door opened, and a young wizard, barely out of his Hogwarts robes judging by his nervous demeanor, shuffled in clutching a thin folder. Davies, assigned from the Resource Allocation sub-committee's liaison pool – junior staff typically tasked with data gathering and report preparation for various advisors. His robes were slightly askew, his hair ruffled, betraying his haste and anxiety.

"Mr. Riddle, sir," Davies stammered, holding out the folder. "The preliminary summary you requested on departmental supply requisitions overlap for the past fiscal quarter."

Riddle didn't look up immediately, finishing a particularly scathing annotation about redundant security runes. He held out a long-fingered hand, palm upwards, without shifting his gaze from the document before him. Davies quickly placed the folder into his hand, then stood shifting his weight, eyes darting nervously around the intimidatingly neat office, avoiding Riddle's desk.

Riddle placed the transport protocol aside and opened Davies’ folder. His dark eyes scanned the neatly typed pages, moving with practiced speed. Silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the faint ticking of an ornate clock on the mantelpiece and Davies’ increasingly audible shallow breaths.

After perhaps two minutes, Riddle closed the folder softly. The quiet click seemed unnaturally loud. He finally lifted his gaze, fixing Davies with a look devoid of warmth or irritation – something far colder: clinical disappointment.

"Davies," he began, his voice quiet, precise, each word carefully measured. "You were tasked with summarizing overlaps. Identifying redundancies. Quantifying potential savings through centralized procurement."

He tapped a perfectly manicured finger on the cover of the folder. "What you have provided is a mere collation of departmental lists. There is no analysis. No cross-referencing beyond the most superficial duplication of commonly used items like standard quills and inkwells – data readily available and irrelevant for strategic allocation. You have identified no significant redundancies in specialized equipment, offered no quantifiable savings projections, and demonstrated a distinct lack of critical thought."

Davies swallowed hard, his face paling. "Sir, I... I gathered the data from each department as requested. I organized the lists... I thought summarizing them was the first step..."

"The first step, Davies," Riddle interrupted, his voice dropping slightly, becoming silkier, more dangerous, "was to understand the objective. The objective was not transcription. It was analysis. Evaluation. Providing actionable intelligence."

He leaned forward fractionally, his eyes pinning the younger wizard. "If I merely required lists collated, I would have assigned the task to a moderately competent filing clerk from the general pool. I accepted your assignment from the sub-committee under the assumption you possessed a modicum of analytical capability beyond basic administration."

He paused, letting the silence hang heavy again. "An assumption," he continued, his tone glacial, "that appears to have been demonstrably false."

Davies flinched as if struck. "Mr. Riddle, I apologize. I misunderstood the depth required. I can redo it, sir. I'll work through the night..."

"No, Davies," Riddle said, the finality in his voice absolute. "You will not. Incompetence is not rectified by repetition; it is merely prolonged."

He picked up the folder and held it out, dismissing it and its creator in one gesture. "Return to your departmental supervisor. Inform them that your aptitude is perhaps better suited to tasks requiring less… interpretation. Ensure this failure is noted accurately in your performance review file."

The implication was clear: this mistake would follow Davies. It would hinder his advancement, potentially permanently stall his nascent Ministry career, relegating him to the ranks of those who merely shuffle parchment.

Davies took the folder back with trembling hands, his face flushed with shame and fear. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," he mumbled, though there was nothing to be thankful for. He practically stumbled backwards out of the office, pulling the door shut quickly behind him.

Riddle watched the door close, his expression unchanged. He picked up the transport protocol proposal again, his focus instantly returning, the interruption completely dismissed from his mind. Davies' incompetence was irritating but ultimately inconsequential – a minor inefficiency to be pruned from the system.

There was no room for mediocrity in the structures he intended to build. Mistakes born of stupidity or laziness were intolerable. Results were all that mattered.

He dipped his quill back into the inkpot, the sharp scratch resuming its rhythm in the quiet, controlled space of his office. The brief, unpleasant interaction was already forgotten, overshadowed by the larger, more complex work demanding his meticulous attention.

The dismissal of Davies was a momentary, necessary excision. A flawed component removed before it could impede the smoother functioning of the whole.

Riddle’s attention, absolute and undivided, returned instantly to the transport protocols document. His mind re-engaged with the intricate details of warding requirements, chain-of-custody enchantments, and inter-departmental clearance hierarchies.

This task, like so many others he undertook within the Ministry's sprawling bureaucracy, was tedious on the surface. Yet, beneath the layers of mundane regulation lay opportunities. Understanding – and influencing – how sensitive artifacts moved between departments meant understanding leverage points, potential bottlenecks, and vulnerabilities. Control the flow, and you subtly influenced access and knowledge. Streamline the process under the guise of efficiency, and you could embed procedures that favored certain channels, certain personnel… certain future interests.

His quill continued its relentless journey across the parchment. Each annotation was precise, clarifying ambiguities, strengthening security clauses where necessary, subtly loosening others where future flexibility might prove advantageous. It was meticulous work, demanding focus and foresight, building piece by piece the infrastructure of control he envisioned.

The memory of Ginny Weasley's flushed face and angry accusations flickered briefly at the edge of his concentration, an unwelcome spark of vibrant colour against the cool grey tones of Ministry procedure.

Such unbridled emotion. So inefficient. Her confrontations were direct, almost primitive.

Davies represented one kind of failure: incompetence born of insufficient intellect and diligence. Easily identified, easily discarded.

Weasley represented another kind entirely: potential wasted through lack of discipline, strength squandered on impulsive reactions and misplaced loyalties. Her fire, her defiance – these were raw energies. Undirected, they were merely disruptive, like her foul in the Tutshill match.

Channeled… the thought was purely theoretical, an abstract consideration.

Could such volatility ever truly be harnessed? Unlikely.

Sentiment, ingrained Gryffindor recklessness, and that unfortunate bloodline made her inherently unreliable.

Her refusal to be intimidated, her repeated confrontations despite the obvious power imbalance, held a certain… interest. Most individuals, faced with even subtle hints of his displeasure or influence, became pliant, cautious. She pushed back. Foolishly, perhaps, but consistently. It suggested a core of willfulness that was rare, even if currently misdirected towards chasing balls on broomsticks.

He dismissed the thought as irrelevant. She was a temporary diversion, an anomaly whose trajectory happened to intersect briefly with his own carefully plotted course. 

His focus narrowed again, settling onto Clause 7b regarding emergency overrides for containment wards during transit. A potential loophole. Or, perhaps, a necessary contingency. He paused, considering the implications, the quill hovering millimetres above the parchment.

Every detail mattered. Every regulation reviewed, every contact cultivated, every favour subtly incurred or granted was a thread woven into the larger tapestry of his ascent. The Ministry, with its traditions, its bureaucracy, its fools like Fudge and its time-servers like Perkins, was merely the current arena. A structure to be mastered and ultimately, reshaped.

He made a sharp, decisive alteration to Clause 7b, clarifying the authorization hierarchy, ensuring control rested firmly within specific, reliable channels.

Satisfied, he moved on to the next section. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked steadily, measuring the relentless progress of Tom Riddle's ambition.

By the time the enchanted lamps lining the Ministry corridors automatically brightened, casting long shadows and signaling the official close of the working day, Tom Riddle had completed his review of the transport protocols.

The document now bore numerous precise annotations, each designed to refine, clarify, and subtly redirect aspects of the proposed regulations. He set it aside, placing it neatly into an outgoing correspondence tray designated for inter-departmental routing.

He registered the faint, fading sounds of footsteps and chatter from the corridor beyond his soundproofed door – the familiar rush of Ministry staff departing. Most offices would be emptying now, their occupants hurrying towards mundane comforts and evening meals. Such trivialities held no interest for him. Work remained.

His gaze drifted towards a locked drawer in his desk. It contained files unrelated to his official Ministry duties – research notes, correspondence concerning certain rare artifacts, preliminary schematics for warding structures far more complex than anything the Department of Magical Transportation currently employed. 

Mastering the Ministry, understanding its levers and manipulating its systems, was essential. It was a powerful tool, a structure capable of imposing order, enforcing will. But it was still just a structure built by others, constrained by mortal limitations, susceptible to decay and the whims of lesser men like Fudge or the well-meaning incompetence of fools.

True power, lasting power, required foundations far more durable than Ministry regulations or political favour. It demanded permanence, an escape from the messy, unpredictable tides of conventional influence.

He pushed the thought aside, a deeper resolve settling within him. For now, the Ministry served its purpose. 

Reaching into another tray, he drew out the next file requiring his attention – proposed revisions to the registry of Restricted Magical Items. His focus narrowed once more, absolute and unwavering. The slight smile that touched his lips held no warmth, only the cool satisfaction of intricate work progressing exactly as planned.

Outside his soundproofed door, the Ministry hurried towards the end of its day, oblivious to the true scale of the ambition working silently, relentlessly within its walls.

Chapter Text

Saturday, October seventeenth dawned crisp and bright, the kind of clear, sharp autumn morning that felt purpose-built for Quidditch. Even hours before dawn properly broke over Holyhead, a specific, electric tension was palpable in the air – the invisible hum of Match Day.

Ginny was already awake, nursing a mug of strong tea in the pre-dawn quiet of her small flat. Streetlights cast long shadows outside, the city still mostly asleep. She hadn’t needed an alarm; the internal clock honed by years of early practices and game days had jolted her conscious long before necessary.

The official start of the British and Irish Quidditch League season.

Holyhead Harpies versus the Appleby Arrows, home pitch.

The usual pre-match nerves prickled under her skin, a familiar mix of anxiety and fierce anticipation. But layered over it today was that other tension, the brittle awareness of unseen forces and unwelcome attention that had dogged her for weeks.

Stay out of my life, Riddle.

She pushed the thought away, deliberately focusing on the rituals, the controllables. She double-checked her kit bag, laid out meticulously the night before: robes clean and charmed, padding secure, gloves supple, emergency Chocolate Frogs present. Her Comet Two Ninety leaned against the wall, gleaming under the low light, perfectly balanced.

Focus on the game. That’s where you belong. That’s where you’re strongest. Gwenog’s words.

Dad’s advice, too, in its own way. Control what you can control.

By the time the first hints of grey lightened the eastern sky, Ginny was ready. She pulled on warm travelling clothes over her base layers, grabbed her kit bag and broom, and locked the flat door behind her.

The streets were quiet, almost deserted, smelling of damp pavement and the faint tang of the distant Thames. Only a few early delivery vans rumbled past. She walked briskly towards the designated, discreet Apparition point used by League players needing access to the Ministry's internal Floo network connection for secure travel to stadiums. There were no fans here, no colours on display yet – just the quiet solitude of a city not yet awake to the day's main event.

The familiar squeeze of Apparition deposited her moments later into a sterile Ministry transit lounge, followed quickly by the dizzying rush of the Floo. She stepped out of a designated fireplace directly into the private player arrival area deep within the bowels of the Holyhead Harpies stadium complex.

It was still early, hours before the gates would open to the public, but the stadium was far from asleep. The air buzzed with purposeful activity.

Groundskeeper witches charmed the pitch surface in the distance, their spells glowing faintly in the half-light. Security personnel moved along designated routes.

The faint, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of practice Bludgers echoed from an indoor training facility where reserve players were likely already working. The smell was different here – damp grass, ozone from the pitch enchantments, broom polish, and the underlying scent of old stone and nervous energy.

Ginny headed straight for the familiar sanctuary of the home team changing rooms. Inside, the atmosphere was subdued but focused. A few teammates were already present.

Valmai Morgan sat cross-legged on a bench, eyes closed, breathing deeply, her usually restless energy contained in meditative stillness.

Carys Pritchard, the Harpies’ other Beater – compact, wiry, with eyes that missed nothing – was meticulously checking the straps on her spare Beater bat, running a whetstone almost lovingly along its striking edge.

The team physio was setting up his station in an adjacent room, the sharp scent of muscle rub potions faintly discernible.

Ginny found her locker, stowed her travelling gear, and began the slow, methodical process of laying out her Quidditch kit. She nodded greetings to the others but didn't engage in much conversation. This early phase was about internal preparation, centering oneself before the external pressures began to build.

Over the next hour, the rest of the team arrived in ones and twos.

Rhiannon Griffiths and Megan Lloyd huddled together, reviewing magically projected diagrams of Arrows' formations shimmering in the air between them, conjured from a well-worn tactical playbook resting on Lloyd's knee. Animated figures zipped across the projection, demonstrating passing routes and defensive vulnerabilities.

More players visited the physio for pre-game strapping or treatment for lingering aches. The low murmur of conversation grew slightly, but the underlying tension remained palpable.

Around two hours before scheduled kick-off, Gwenog strode in, already partially kitted out, her presence immediately commanding the room. "Alright, listen up. Pitch warm-up in ten minutes. Full flying drills, passing sequences, Beater coordination. Get a feel for the conditions. Shake out the nerves. Then back here for final briefing."

The energy in the room shifted, becoming sharper, more active. Players finished changing into practice gear, grabbed their brooms, and headed out towards the pitch entrance tunnel.

Emerging onto the field felt vastly different than it would in a few hours. The massive stands were empty, row upon row of vacant seats forming silent, echoing amphitheatres around the pristine green oval. The morning sun cast long shadows across the pitch. The only sounds were the whistling wind, the whir of broomsticks, and the sharp calls of the players directing each other.

Far across the field, the Appleby Arrows, having presumably finished their own warm-up earlier, were just visible heading back towards their own changing rooms in their bright yellow and black.

For the next forty-five minutes, the Harpies owned the sky above their home pitch. They ran through complex passing drills, Chasers weaving intricate patterns, testing their communication and timing.

Gwenog and Carys practiced defensive formations, sending Bludgers whistling between designated points with fierce accuracy. Valmai zipped through the air, practicing dives and turns, her eyes scanning the empty stands as if seeking phantom glints of gold.

Ginny threw herself into the drills, welcoming the burn in her muscles, the sting of the wind. Flying formations with Rhiannon and Megan felt instinctive, reassuring. She practiced shots on the reserve Keeper, focusing on accuracy and power, working out the kinks.

The vast emptiness of the stadium allowed for intense focus, free from the roar and distraction of the crowd. This was about refining their teamwork, ensuring every player moved in concert before the true test began.

Finally, Gwenog called them in. "Good work. Sharp focus. Back inside. Get hydrated. Final prep."

They flew back towards the tunnel, the brief period of intense activity leaving them feeling looser, more connected, the initial nervous edge replaced by focused readiness.

Back in the changing room, the atmosphere was charged. Players drank water, made final adjustments to their padding and robes, and spoke in low, urgent tones. The distant, muffled sounds of the first arriving spectators could just be heard now, filtering through the stadium structure – a reminder that the clock was ticking down.

Ginny sat on the bench, toweling sweat from her face, her heart rate beginning to climb again. She ran through the Arrows’ plays in her mind, visualized her routes to the goalposts, reminded herself of Gwenog’s instructions.

Controlled aggression.

This was the final quiet before the storm.

Gwenog stood in the centre of the room, fully kitted out now, her expression intense. She waited until she had everyone’s complete attention.

“Alright,” Gwenog began, her voice low but carrying easily in the suddenly silent room. “This is it. Season opener. Home crowd filling those seats out there right now. No excuses.”

She paced slowly, her cleats clicking softly on the floor. “We know the Arrows. Flashy, fast, arrogant. They rely on Davies finding the Snitch quick and their Chasers racking up early points with that sloppy Pendulum.”

Her eyes locked onto Valmai. “Valmai, Davies is quick, but he rattles easy. Keep him guessing, keep the pressure on. Make him work for every glimpse.”

Valmai nodded, her eyes open now, calm and focused.

Gwenog turned to Carys. “Pritchard, you’re with me. We control the Bludgers, we control the airspace around Davies. No free rides for their Seeker. Keep them busy defending, not attacking.”

Carys gave a curt, sharp nod, hefting her bat slightly.

Then Gwenog faced the Chasers. “Griffiths, Lloyd, Weasley. Shut down the Pendulum. Anticipate, intercept, pressure. They get sloppy when their rhythm is broken. Force the turnovers, convert quickly. Don’t give them momentum.”

She paused, her gaze sweeping across the three of them, finally landing on Ginny. “Weasley. You’re our spearhead. Hit them hard, hit them fast. Exploit the gaps when they overcommit.” Her expression hardened slightly. “But stay disciplined. No cheap shots. No drawn penalties. We beat them with skill and pressure, not retaliation. Controlled aggression. Remember?”

Ginny met her captain’s gaze steadily. “Understood, Captain.” The words felt solid, a promise made not just to Gwenog, but to herself. She wouldn’t let Riddle’s mind games, or her own temper, sabotage this.

Gwenog scanned the room one last time. “They underestimate us. They always do. They see Holyhead, they think remote, maybe a bit rough around the edges. Let them.” A fierce grin touched her lips. “Let’s show them what Harpy talons feel like.”

She slammed her fist against the wooden doorframe. “Let’s go!”

A surge of adrenaline shot through Ginny as the team rose, grabbing their brooms. The walk down the short tunnel towards the pitch entrance felt electrifying now. The roar of the crowd was no longer distant but immediate, a physical pressure against her eardrums, growing louder with every step. Sunlight streamed in at the end of the tunnel, momentarily blinding after the dimness.

Then they burst out onto the pitch.

The noise was deafening. A solid wall of sound hit them.

Thousands of fans crammed into the stands, a swirling sea of green and gold exploding in welcome, punctuated by the defiant yellow and black of the Appleby Arrows supporters scattered throughout. Banners waved frantically, enchanted horns blared, and the roar crested into a wave of pure energy that washed over Ginny, vibrating through her bones.

This was it. This was Match Day.

She took her position, hovering slightly above the turf alongside Rhiannon and Megan, opposite the three Arrows Chasers who looked annoyingly confident in their garish yellow and black striped robes.

The Arrows’ Keeper, a burly wizard named Higgs, winked cockily at them. Ginny ignored him, her eyes scanning the pitch, feeling the energy of the full stadium, the slight breeze coming in from the sea, the reassuring presence of her teammates.

A stern-faced wizard in the official black-and-white striped robes of a League Referee hovered purposefully in the centre circle. Ginny recognized him – Josiah Plunkett, known for his strict adherence to the rules and no-nonsense demeanor.

He had sharp eyes that missed little and a neatly trimmed grey beard that seemed to bristle with authority. The Quaffle was tucked securely under his arm, the Bludgers hovering menacingly nearby, straining against the magical tethers holding them until the release.

Valmai and the Arrows’ Seeker, Davies – a wiry, nervous-looking young man – circled high above, already scanning the air for the elusive glint of gold.

Gwenog and Carys took their positions, bats held ready, eyes narrowed, tracking the restless Bludgers under Plunkett's watchful gaze.

Ginny tightened her grip on her broom handle, her knuckles white. The nervous energy had transformed into focused intensity. Every sense felt heightened. She could smell the damp grass intensified by recent charms, feel the thrum of magic vibrating from the crowd enchantments, taste the metallic tang of adrenaline at the back of her throat.

This was it. No more practice. No more speculation. Just the game.

Referee Plunkett placed his whistle to his lips. The stadium held its breath for a split second, the roar dipping into a trough of pure anticipation.

Fweeeeeet!

The whistle shrieked, piercing the tension.

Referee Plunkett tossed the Quaffle high into the air.

Simultaneously, the Bludgers were released, shooting off like cannonballs in opposite directions.

Chaos erupted.

Fourteen players surged towards the centre of the pitch.

Ginny kicked off hard, her Comet leaping forward, angling towards the rising Quaffle. An Arrows Chaser, Fletcher, shoulder-barged her aggressively, trying to force her off course. Ginny absorbed the impact, holding her line through sheer grit, refusing to yield the space.

Rhiannon, anticipating the challenge, swooped in cleanly, snatching the Quaffle just before Fletcher could reach it.

“Harpies take possession!” bellowed the commentator, Barnaby Cuffe, his voice magically amplified across the stadium. “Griffiths with a clean intercept!”

Rhiannon immediately veered left, pulling away from the scrum, looking for an opening. Megan peeled off to the right, drawing a defender. Ginny powered forward, aiming for the space between the Arrows’ central Chaser and their Keeper.

“Griffiths passes to Lloyd!” Cuffe narrated excitedly. “Arrows’ defense scrambling… Lloyd back to Griffiths… Harpies working it smoothly, looking for a gap…”

Ginny saw the opening fractions of a second before it fully materialized. Rhiannon drew two defenders towards her near the sideline. Higgs, the Arrows Keeper, shifted slightly towards that side, anticipating a shot from the angle.

“Ginny!” Rhiannon’s voice cut through the wind.

The Quaffle came rocketing towards her, a perfectly weighted pass hitting her outstretched hand. Ginny didn’t hesitate. She tucked the ball, dropped her shoulder, and accelerated into the narrow channel straight towards the central hoop. Higgs reacted late, lunging across the goalmouth.

Ginny feinted high, drawing his arms up, then slammed the Quaffle low and hard. It shot past his grasping fingers and smacked satisfyingly through the hoop.

THWACK!

The roar from the Harpy supporters was instantaneous, explosive.

“GOAL TO HARPIES! GINNY WEASLEY OPENS THE SCORING BARELY A MINUTE INTO THE MATCH! TEN-NIL TO HOLYHEAD!”

Satisfaction, sharp and hot, surged through Ginny as she wheeled her broom around, catching Gwenog’s quick, approving nod from across the pitch. Megan flew past, clapping her enthusiastically on the shoulder.

“Textbook start!” Megan yelled over the din.

“Just getting started,” Ginny yelled back, adrenaline singing in her veins.

The Arrows looked momentarily stunned, their initial confidence dented. Fletcher, the Chaser who’d shoulder-barged her, shot Ginny a venomous glare as they reset for the restart under Plunkett's stern gaze. Ginny met his gaze coolly, refusing to be intimidated.

As the game resumed, the Arrows immediately tried to establish their signature Pendulum Play. Their Chasers spread wide, initiating a series of long, sweeping passes across the width of the pitch, designed to stretch the defense and create openings.

“Here it comes,” Rhiannon muttered, positioning herself defensively. “Stay tight.”

“Arrows’ Chaser Carmichael with the Quaffle,” Cuffe announced. “Passing wide to Fletcher… Fletcher swings it back across to Pye on the far side… that’s the Pendulum, folks, dizzying speed if they get it right…”

But the Harpies were ready. Megan pressured Pye relentlessly, forcing a rushed pass. Rhiannon, anticipating the trajectory based on hours of drilling against this exact play, darted forward. Her fingers brushed the Quaffle, not quite intercepting but disrupting the pass enough that Carmichael fumbled the catch.

The ball bobbled loose.

Ginny dove.

She snatched the Quaffle just inches above the grass, pulling up sharply to avoid ploughing into the turf.

“Intercepted by Weasley! Brilliant anticipation by the Harpies’ defense, shutting down the Pendulum before it could gain momentum!”

Ginny didn’t waste time looking for a pass. The Arrows’ defense was momentarily disorganized from their failed attack. She saw a direct path opening towards the goals again and took it, pushing her Comet to its limits. The wind screamed past her ears.

Two Arrows Chasers converged, trying to box her in. She jinked sharply left, then right, throwing them off balance. Higgs braced himself in front of the hoops.

This time, he anticipated the low shot. Ginny saw his intention in the slight drop of his shoulder. She adjusted instantly, pulling up at the last second, looping the Quaffle gently over his head towards the highest hoop.

It sailed through cleanly.

“ANOTHER GOAL FOR WEASLEY! TWENTY-NIL TO THE HARPIES! UNBELIEVABLE START FOR THE HOLYHEAD CHASER!”

The home crowd went wild. The Arrows looked rattled now, disbelief warring with frustration on their faces. Fletcher slammed his fist against his broom handle.

Two goals in the first five minutes. This was the start they needed.

Ginny felt a fierce joy, pure and uncomplicated. This was where she belonged. This was her language.

But even as she celebrated the goal, a Bludger whistled past her ear, dangerously close, humming with angry energy. She instinctively ducked, catching sight of an Arrows Beater, a hulking wizard named Grogan, glaring at her before speeding away.

A warning shot. They were targeting her already.

She glanced towards her own Beaters. Gwenog caught her eye and gave a sharp, almost imperceptible shake of her head. Don’t react. Stay focused.

Ginny took a deep breath, pushing down the reflexive urge to glare back at Grogan.

Controlled aggression. Let the scoreboard do the talking.

The game settled into a faster, more brutal rhythm. The Arrows, stung by the early goals, abandoned the intricate Pendulum for more direct, physical attacks. Play became rougher, tackles harder. Referee Plunkett's whistle started to shrill more frequently, his sharp gestures indicating penalties for illegal contact and dangerous flying.

Ginny found herself constantly marked, often by Fletcher, who seemed determined to make her pay for the early goals. He shadowed her relentlessly, using his body weight to try and block her runs, his elbows finding her ribs with uncanny accuracy during close passes.

“Watch Fletcher, Ginny!” Megan warned, deftly dodging a Bludger sent her way by the second Arrows Beater.

“I see him,” Ginny grunted, wrestling for position near the Arrows’ goalposts.

Rhiannon had the Quaffle, weaving through traffic. Ginny fought to create space, anticipating the pass. Fletcher slammed into her side, not quite a foul in Plunkett's eyes but deliberately unbalancing. Ginny stumbled in mid-air, recovering just in time to see Rhiannon forced to pass elsewhere.

Frustration simmered. Fletcher smirked at her. The urge to shove him, hard, surged through her.

Controlled aggression.

She grit her teeth, spun away, and immediately sought a new offensive position, forcing Fletcher to follow. She wouldn’t let him bait her into a penalty under Plunkett's stern watch.

Meanwhile, high above the chaotic scramble for the Quaffle, Valmai and Davies circled each other warily, the tiny golden Snitch remaining stubbornly hidden. Every so often, a Bludger, directed by Gwenog or Carys with pinpoint accuracy, would scream towards Davies, forcing him into sudden evasive maneuvers, breaking his concentration.

“Excellent Bludger work by Captain Jones, really keeping the pressure on the Arrows’ Seeker!” Cuffe enthused. “Davies looks rattled up there!”

The score remained 20-0 for a tense ten minutes. The Harpies’ defense held firm, disrupting the Arrows’ attacks, while the Arrows’ Keeper, Higgs, seemed to have found his nerve, making several impressive saves against shots from Rhiannon and Megan.

Ginny felt the familiar ache starting in her shoulders, the burn in her thighs from the constant acceleration and maneuvering. The initial euphoria of the early goals had faded, replaced by the grim determination needed for a long, hard-fought match.

She needed to find another way through. Higgs was anticipating her power shots now, and Fletcher was sticking to her like glue.

During a brief lull as players repositioned after a blocked shot, Ginny scanned the field, looking for weaknesses. She noticed how the Arrows’ Beaters, Grogan and his partner, tended to overcommit when trying to clear Bludgers from their defensive zone, sometimes leaving gaps near the sidelines.

An idea sparked. Risky. But potentially effective.

She signaled subtly to Rhiannon, a quick hand gesture they’d practiced for exploiting defensive gaps. Rhiannon, currently holding the Quaffle near midfield, caught the signal and gave a minuscule nod.

Ginny deliberately flew wide towards the left sideline, drawing Fletcher with her. As expected, Grogan, the Arrows Beater, seeing a potential target near the edge, sent a Bludger hurtling in her direction.

This was the moment.

Instead of dodging inwards, towards the more crowded centre, Ginny veered sharply outwards, towards the boundary line, letting the Bludger pass just behind her. It was a gamble – flying so close to the edge limited her options. Fletcher, surprised by the unexpected move, momentarily checked his pursuit.

Seeing Ginny apparently trapped near the boundary, Higgs shifted slightly towards the far posts, anticipating a pass back towards the centre.

That fraction of a second was all Rhiannon needed. Reading the play perfectly, she unleashed a blistering diagonal pass, low and fast, not towards Ginny directly, but towards the space Grogan had vacated near the left goalpost.

Ginny kicked her Comet into a brutal dive, dropping altitude rapidly, skimming just above the grass. She met the Quaffle perfectly, scooping it up without breaking stride. Fletcher scrambled to recover, diving after her, but he was too late.

She was inside his guard, low to the ground, approaching the goal from an unexpected angle. Higgs lunged desperately, but Ginny was already releasing the shot – not a powerful slam, but a controlled, spinning flick aimed at the narrow gap between Higgs’ outstretched boot and the base of the near post.

The Quaffle spun through the air, kissed the inside of the post, and tumbled into the net.

“SHE SCORES! GINNY WEASLEY WITH A STUNNING PIECE OF INDIVIDUAL BRILLIANCE! THIRTY-NIL TO THE HARPIES! SHE FLEW RIGHT ALONG THE BOUNDARY LINE TO SET THAT UP!”

The crowd erupted again. Ginny pulled up sharply, exhilaration surging through her. It had worked. The risk had paid off. She pumped her fist, a wide grin finally breaking through her intense focus.

Fletcher flew past, his face thunderous. “Lucky shot, Weasley!” he snarled.

“Lucky placement,” Ginny shot back, the grin still fixed on her face.

Gwenog flew over, clapping her hard on the back. “Good thinking, Weasley! Risky, but smart. That’s what I want to see!”

Thirty-nil. A comfortable lead, but far from decisive, especially with the Snitch still unseen. The game was far from over.

As the teams reset once more under Referee Plunkett's watchful eye, Ginny felt a renewed sense of confidence. She could do this. She could beat them with skill, with strategy, with controlled fire. 

The match continued, fast and furious. The Arrows, desperate now, played with increased aggression.

Plunkett's whistle blew frequently as tempers frayed and tackles became borderline illegal. Megan took a Bludger to the arm that required a quick dose of Skele-Gro from the sidelines during a brief timeout sanctioned by the referee. Carys expertly deflected a Bludger aimed straight at Valmai’s head, earning a grateful nod from their Seeker.

The score crept up slowly. Rhiannon added another goal with a beautifully executed long shot. The Arrows finally got on the board after a messy goalmouth scramble that left the Harpies’ Keeper fuming.

40-10.

Ginny continued to draw heavy defensive attention. She didn't score again immediately, focusing instead on drawing defenders, creating space for Rhiannon and Megan, making smart passes.

She absorbed several more hard knocks, the pain in her ribs a dull, constant ache, but her discipline held. She didn't retaliate, channeling the frustration into sharper turns, faster sprints.

High above, the Seeker duel remained tense. Valmai and Davies shadowed each other, their eyes constantly scanning, occasionally making identical, lightning-fast feints as they caught a misleading glint of light or a wind-blown leaf. The 150 points for the Snitch catch hung over the game, capable of overturning everything.

Then, about forty minutes into the match, it happened.

A collective gasp went through the stadium. Both Valmai and Davies suddenly broke from their high circling patterns, diving steeply towards the same point near the Harpies' goalposts.

"They've seen it!" Cuffe screamed, his voice cracking with excitement. "The Snitch! Both Seekers are in pursuit!"

The game below dissolved into secondary importance. All eyes tracked the two plummeting figures, green and gold against yellow and black, weaving desperately through the ongoing Chaser and Beater battles, oblivious to everything but the tiny, glittering speck of gold darting erratically ahead of them.

Referee Plunkett hovered nearby, ensuring no illegal interference occurred in the frantic chase.

The roar of the crowd shifted, becoming a focused, high-pitched shriek of encouragement and anxiety.

Valmai was slightly behind Davies, but flying a cleaner line, her smaller frame allowing her to navigate the denser traffic near the goals more easily. Davies flew with frantic energy, elbowing a Harpy reserve player out of his path in his haste – an action that earned a sharp warning look from Plunkett, though he didn't stop the play.

Ginny, along with every other player not directly involved in the Snitch chase, instinctively pulled back slightly, creating space, their own part of the game momentarily suspended. She watched, heart pounding, as Valmai gained ground, her hand outstretched, fingers straining.

The Snitch zipped left, then right, impossibly fast.

Davies lunged, his fingers brushing the fluttering golden wings. Missed.

Valmai adjusted instantly, anticipating the Snitch's evasive maneuver. She executed a breathtaking roll, coming up underneath Davies, her own hand shooting out.

For a heart-stopping second, both Seekers seemed neck-and-neck with the Snitch hovering tantalizingly between them.

Then Valmai’s fingers closed around the tiny, struggling ball.

A split second of stunned silence, then pandemonium erupted.

“SHE’S GOT IT! VALMAI MORGAN CATCHES THE SNITCH! HARPIES WIN! HARPIES WIN!”

Referee Plunkett’s whistle blew frantically, the long, piercing blast signaling the end of the match. Green and gold smoke exploded from supporter sections. The roar was deafening, overwhelming.

Valmai pulled up sharply, holding the captured Snitch high above her head, a triumphant grin splitting her face. Davies slumped over his broom handle in despair.

They’d done it. First match of the season, a decisive win against a tough rival.

Ginny felt a wave of pure, unadulterated joy wash over her, momentarily eclipsing the aches and bruises. She flew towards Valmai, joining the jubilant scrum of Harpy players engulfing their Seeker in triumphant hugs and shouts.

Gwenog reached Valmai first, pulling her into a fierce hug that lifted her off her broom. Carys, Rhiannon, Megan – everyone crowded around, laughing, shouting, celebrating.

The final score: Holyhead Harpies 190, Appleby Arrows 10.

A crushing victory.

As the initial euphoria began to subside, Ginny hung back slightly, watching her teammates celebrate, a deep sense of satisfaction settling within her.

She’d played well. She’d scored three goals. Most importantly, she’d kept her focus, kept her cool, despite the pressure and provocation. She had met the challenge on her own terms, in her own arena.

Let Riddle play his games in Ministry offices. Here, on the pitch, under the bright autumn sun, victory was real, tangible, earned through skill and sweat and teamwork.

She caught Gwenog’s eye across the celebrating huddle. Her captain gave her a long, appraising look, then a slow, genuine smile spread across her weathered face.

A smile that acknowledged not just the goals, but the discipline.

It felt better than any goal.

Chapter Text

The roar of the crowd washed over Ginny in wave after deafening wave as she hovered amidst the joyous chaos of her celebrating team. Valmai was still being passed around, laughing breathlessly, the captured Snitch clutched tight in her fist like a precious, rebellious jewel.

The air thrummed with exhilaration, the sweet relief of a hard-fought victory.

“Morgan, you absolute star!” Megan Lloyd shrieked, pulling Valmai into another crushing hug.

“Thought Davies had it there for a second!” Rhiannon Griffiths gasped, eyes wide.

“Never!” Valmai grinned, her usual nervous energy transformed into pure radiance. “Just had to wait for him to flinch.”

Ginny felt a wide, genuine smile stretch across her face, easing the tightness around her eyes. The aches in her ribs and shoulders were momentarily forgotten, drowned out by the sheer elation of the win.

190-10.

A statement victory to open the season.

Gwenog finally managed to detach herself from the celebratory scrum, her face flushed with pride, though her captain’s demeanor quickly reasserted itself. “Alright, alright, settle down! Plenty of time for back-slapping later. Let’s show some sportsmanship.”

Her gaze swept over them, firm but pleased. “Good game. Solid win. Line up.”

The Harpies reluctantly disentangled themselves, forming a slightly ragged line mid-pitch, brooms held steady. Across from them, the Appleby Arrows formed their own line, their bright yellow and black robes seeming less cheerful now. Their shoulders slumped, faces a mixture of disappointment and exhaustion.

Fletcher, the Chaser who’d targeted Ginny, pointedly avoided her gaze, his expression sullen. Davies looked utterly crushed, staring blankly at the turf below.

The captains met in the centre. Gwenog offered a firm handshake to the Arrows’ captain, a tall wizard named Hawthorn.

“Hard-fought match, Hawthorn,” Gwenog said, her voice carrying clearly in a momentary lull in the crowd noise.

“You outplayed us today, Jones,” Hawthorn replied stiffly, though with grudging respect. “Your Chasers were sharp, and Morgan flew brilliantly.” He glanced towards Valmai, who flushed slightly under the praise.

The teams then flew past each other in the traditional post-match handshake line. Most of the Arrows offered quick, mumbled congratulations, their handshakes limp.

Higgs, the Keeper Ginny had beaten three times, gave her a slightly sour look but muttered, “Good shots.”

When Ginny reached Fletcher, he barely brushed her hand, his eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder.

“Got lucky,” he hissed under his breath, loud enough only for her to hear.

Ginny felt a familiar flash of anger but clamped down on it instantly.

Controlled aggression. Winning was the best response.

She simply met his resentful gaze with a steady look and flew on without comment, the silent dismissal more effective than any retort.

As the formal handshakes concluded, the pitch began to fill with officials, team management, and the first wave of journalists brandishing Quick-Quotes Quills and flashing magical camera bulbs.

Barnaby Cuffe, the commentator, swooped down, microphone magically amplified. “Captain Jones! A magnificent opening victory! Weasley unstoppable with three goals, Morgan snatching the Snitch from right under Davies’ nose! Your thoughts?”

Gwenog managed a professional smile. “Proud of the team’s effort. We stuck to our game plan, applied pressure, and got the result. Valmai showed incredible nerve, and the Chasers executed well. Solid start, but it’s a long season.”

Ginny found herself momentarily cornered by a brisk witch from Witch Weekly's sports pages, her quill hovering eagerly.

“Ginny Weasley! A sensational hat-trick today! You seemed particularly aggressive, especially on that daring boundary-line goal. Were you trying to send a message to the Arrows?”

Ginny forced a polite smile, repeating the mantra in her head. “Just focused on finding the openings and helping the team win. The Arrows defended hard, but we managed to break through. It was a team effort.”

She deliberately avoided any mention of Fletcher’s tactics or her own internal battle for control. No need to give them ammunition.

Mr. Cadwallader, the Harpies’ flamboyant Manager and primary liaison with their sponsors – a stout, ruddy-faced wizard whose enthusiasm often bordered on overwhelming – bustled over, beaming, flanked by representatives from Nimbus and Brew’s Brilliant Brooms.

“Magnificent, Jones! Absolutely magnificent!” Cadwallader boomed, clapping Gwenog on the back. “Weasley, splendid goals! Morgan, that catch! Drinks are on me tonight, ladies! Nimbus is delighted, delighted!”

The sponsors echoed his sentiments, offering congratulations and promises of continued support, their eyes gleaming with the reflected glory of the win.

It was the obligatory whirlwind of post-match glad-handing and soundbites. Ginny navigated it with practiced patience, offering brief, non-committal answers, eager to escape the noise and the scrutiny.

She caught snippets of the Arrows’ miserable exit, their captain fielding pointed questions about their defensive collapse and Davies’ failure to secure the Snitch.

Finally, Gwenog managed to herd the team back towards the tunnel, shielding them from the more persistent reporters. “Alright, team meeting, changing room, now!”

The relative quiet of the tunnel was a relief. The roar of the departing crowd still echoed behind them, but here, surrounded by her teammates, the adrenaline began to slowly recede, replaced by a profound sense of weary satisfaction.

The changing room, often tense before a match, was now buzzing with relieved energy. Jokes flew back and forth, players rehashed key moments, and the distinct smell of liniment began to fill the air as the physio started tending to the inevitable collection of bruises and strains.

“Did you see the look on Fletcher’s face when you scored that third one?” Megan laughed, nudging Ginny as they stripped off their outer robes. “Thought he was going to swallow his broom.”

“He nearly took my head off with that Bludger right after,” Ginny retorted, examining a fresh bruise already blooming on her forearm where an stray elbow had connected.

“Yeah, Grogan was gunning for you,” Carys Pritchard confirmed, carefully wiping down her Beater’s bat. “Good thing Gwenog kept his partner busy on the other side.”

Gwenog herself entered, having dealt with the last of the management pleasantries. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, surveying the scene. The jubilant noise quieted slightly under her gaze.

“Alright,” she said, her voice cutting through the chatter. “Good win. Really good win.”

A rare, wide smile creased her face, met with cheers from the team. “We executed the plan. Defence was tight, Chasers were clinical, and Valmai…” she nodded towards their Seeker, who beamed, “…nerves of steel. That’s how we play Harpies Quidditch.”

She let the praise hang for a moment before her expression turned serious again. “But don’t get complacent. The Arrows were rattled today. Other teams won’t fold so easily. We saw weaknesses – communication breakdown near our own hoops twice, couple of sloppy passes under pressure.”

She pointed towards Megan. “Lloyd, that Bludger hit – need better awareness when you’re carrying.” Megan nodded, accepting the critique.

Gwenog’s eyes found Ginny. “Weasley. Three goals. Smart flying on the third one. And you kept your head.” She paused, the unspoken reference to the Tutshill incident clear. “That’s the discipline I need from you, every match. Understand?”

“Yes, Captain,” Ginny said, feeling a warmth spread through her chest that had nothing to do with exertion. That acknowledgement meant more than the roaring crowd.

“Good.” Gwenog pushed off the doorframe. “Physio checks for everyone. Especially you, Lloyd. Showers, get cleaned up. Mandatory sponsor reception at The Gilded Snitch tonight, eight sharp. Dress robes. Look presentable.”

A collective groan went through the room at the mention of another formal event.

“Yes, I know,” Gwenog sighed sympathetically. “But Cadwallader’s arranged it, sponsors expect it after a win like this. Be there, be polite, don’t stay all night. We’ve got recovery sessions tomorrow.”

With that, she headed towards the showers, leaving the team to dissect the game further and tend to their battered bodies.

Ginny peeled off her sweaty base layers, wincing as the fabric pulled against bruised skin. Under the stinging heat of the shower, she let the water wash away the grime and exhaustion, but the deep bone-weariness remained. She replayed moments of the match – the satisfying thud of her goals, the near-miss with Grogan’s Bludger, Fletcher’s frustrated glare, Valmai’s triumphant catch.

She had done it. She’d played her game, controlled her temper, and they had won.

It felt good. Solid. Real.

Later, wrapped in a towel, she overheard snippets of conversation about the next day's likely Daily Prophet coverage.

“Bet Skeeter finds a way to twist it,” Rhiannon muttered, toweling her hair dry.

“Nah, she wasn’t here,” Carys said. “Probably assigned to the Wasps-Cannons match. We’ll get Higgins, probably. Straight reporting. ‘Weasley Hat-Trick Seals Harpy Victory’, something like that.”

“Hope they mention Valmai’s catch properly,” Megan added. “She earned the headlines.”

Ginny felt a flicker of annoyance at the mention of Skeeter, quickly suppressed. It didn’t matter what the papers said. They had won. That was the truth that counted.

The Gilded Snitch was one of those overly opulent wizarding restaurants in London that catered to the wealthy and the celebrated. Glimmering chandeliers shaped like Snitches hung from the high ceilings, casting golden light on tables draped in heavy velvet.

Waiters in crisp white uniforms moved silently, carrying trays laden with elaborate food and expensive drinks. Hummed with loud conversation, forced laughter, and the clinking of glasses.

Ginny hated it almost as much as she hated Ministry galas.

She stood near the edge of the private room reserved for the Harpies’ victory celebration, clutching a glass of bubbly water, feeling stiff and out of place in her best dark green dress robes.

Gwenogp had insisted on something respectable, and this was one of the few nice robes Ginny owned that weren't Quidditch-related.

Most of the team seemed to be making the best of it, mingling with sponsors, team management, and a few invited League officials.

Valmai was basking in the spotlight, recounting her winning dive for the third time to an enthralled group including Mr. Cadwallader.

Gwenog was locked in what looked like a serious conversation with a Nimbus representative, likely discussing broom upgrades or contract clauses.

Ginny exchanged polite nods with a few familiar faces but largely kept to herself, observing the room.

It was a performance, just like the pre-match press briefings, but with better food and more alcohol.

fAake smiles, hollow compliments, veiled negotiations happening under the guise of celebration.

She scanned the entrance automatically, a habit she’d developed lately, half-expecting, half-dreading the appearance of a certain impeccably dressed Ministry official.

These kinds of events, blending sports, commerce, and influence, seemed like his natural habitat.//>

But the entrance remained clear of him. Perhaps he considered a mere team victory reception beneath his notice. The thought brought a measure of relief, though annoyingly, also a faint, unwanted flicker of… something else.

Curiosity? Disappointment?

She squashed the feeling irritably.

The less she saw of Tom Riddle, the better.

She found a relatively quiet corner near a potted Fanged Geranium (currently dormant, thankfully) and nursed her drink, trying to project an air of polite engagement while mentally calculating how soon she could plausibly make her escape.

Time crawled.

She endured a rambling anecdote from Barnaby Cuffe about a legendary match from the 1950s, politely deflected intrusive questions from a minor sponsor’s over-enthusiastic wife about her family (“All those brothers! How did your poor mother cope?”), and managed to avoid getting cornered by Mr. Cadwallader again.

The party had been going for well over an hour when a subtle shift occurred near the entrance. Conversations near the door paused momentarily, heads turned. Ginny’s gaze instinctively followed.

Tom Riddle stood framed in the doorway.

Late. Surprisingly so.

He wore immaculate black dress robes, perfectly tailored as always, his dark hair neatly styled. He surveyed the room with that familiar cool, assessing gaze, a polite expression fixed on his handsome features. He offered a brief nod to the host who hurried over to greet him.

Everything about his outward appearance was flawless.

Yet, as Ginny watched him exchange pleasantries, her initial reaction of annoyance and resignation shifted into something else. A prickle of unease.

Something was… off.

It wasn't anything obvious.

Not a hair out of place, not a crease in his robes, not a flicker of emotion on his face. His posture was perfect, radiating calm control.

But Ginny, hyper-attuned from the intensity of the match, her senses still buzzing with residual adrenaline and a growing, wary focus specifically on him, perceived something discordant beneath the polished surface.

It was like the air around him vibrated at a slightly wrong frequency.

A faint, almost imperceptible tension, a tightly coiled energy barely contained beneath the veneer of effortless composure. His usual stillness felt less like calm and more like suppression.

Had he come straight from dealing with something… demanding?

Something that required a significant exertion of will, leaving faint, invisible ripples in its wake?

The thought was formless, based on nothing more than intuition, a gut feeling honed by their previous encounters and the sense of power he usually projected so smoothly. Now, that smoothness seemed fractionally disturbed, like water briefly agitated before settling again.

She watched as he accepted a glass of wine, his movements precise as ever, yet Ginny sensed an underlying rigidity, a control that felt less effortless and more effortful than usual.

His eyes scanned the room again, dismissing the fawning sponsors, skipping over the celebrating athletes, until they inevitably found hers.

His gaze locked onto her across the crowded room.

The usual assessment was there, but perhaps… just perhaps… a fraction less focused?

Something flickered deep within his dark eyes before it was gone, replaced by the familiar, unreadable mask.

He gave her that minuscule nod of acknowledgement, the one that always felt less like a greeting and more like spotting a piece on a board.

Then, breaking with his usual pattern of observing from a distance or holding court with influential figures, he began to move purposefully through the crowd, directly towards her corner.

Ginny’s stomach tightened.

She hadn’t expected him to approach her so directly, especially not tonight, amidst her team’s celebration.

She straightened unconsciously, bracing herself, the earlier weariness replaced by renewed tension. Her brief, uncertain perception of his unusual state vanished, overridden by the familiar wariness his presence always evoked.

He stopped a few feet away, creating a small pocket of relative quiet around them amidst the party's cheerful din. 

"Miss Weasley," he greeted, his voice the usual cultured murmur, perfectly modulated. If there had been any strain, it was undetectable now. "Allow me to offer my congratulations on your team's victory. And on your own… spirited performance."

The word ‘spirited’ hung in the air, layered with potential meanings – admiration, condescension, perhaps even a reference to her past temper.

"Thank you, Riddle," Ginny replied, keeping her voice cool and steady, refusing to be drawn by the ambiguity. "We played well."

"Indeed." He took a slow sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving hers. "Three goals, I believe? And commendably," – he paused, letting the word land – "disciplined, under pressure. One might almost think you took certain… prior observations to heart."

There it was.

The subtle claim, the insinuation that her improved control was somehow linked to him, to their previous encounters.

The arrogance of it ignited her frustration, overriding the fleeting sense of unease she’d felt moments before.

"Or one might think," Ginny countered sharply, abandoning her earlier resolve to ignore him, "that I simply focused on playing Quidditch, which is my actual job. Something that doesn’t involve lurking in Ministry corridors or showing up late to parties."

The jab about his lateness was impulsive, fuelled by irritation and the lingering adrenaline of the match.

She saw the faintest tightening around his eyes, so quick she might have imagined it, before his expression smoothed back into polite neutrality.

"My apologies," he said, the tone smooth as polished glass, revealing nothing. "Pressing Ministry matters demanded my attention. Not all of us have the luxury of spending our afternoons chasing balls."

The familiar dismissal of her profession, delivered with effortless condescension.

"And some of us," Ginny retorted, refusing to back down, "prefer victories earned openly on the pitch, rather than through… other means."

She didn't elaborate, but the implication of his behind-the-scenes manipulations hung between them.

A slow smile touched Riddle's lips. It didn't reach his eyes, which remained fixed on her, intense and assessing. "Every victory requires strategy, Miss Weasley. Whether on a Quidditch pitch or in the halls of power. And controlling one's… impulses… is often key to achieving the desired outcome."

He leaned forward slightly, invading her personal space just enough to be unsettling. His voice dropped lower, almost intimate, yet carrying a distinct chill. "You demonstrated improved control today. Admirable. But maintaining it, under sustained pressure… that is the true test, wouldn't you agree?"

Was that a threat? A warning?

Or just another move in his psychological game, designed to keep her off balance?

The intensity she thought she'd sensed earlier seemed focused now, directed entirely at her, sharp and penetrating. Whatever had briefly disturbed his composure was gone, replaced by the familiar, dangerous focus she knew too well.

"I manage," Ginny said tightly, holding his gaze, refusing to show any sign of intimidation. The air crackled between them, thick with unspoken challenge.

Riddle held her gaze for another long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he straightened, taking a fractional step back, the intensity receding slightly, replaced by his usual cool detachment.

The faint, almost imperceptible tension Ginny had sensed earlier seemed to coalesce, focusing into the dark intensity of Riddle’s gaze. He was playing with her, dissecting her reactions, enjoying the subtle power dynamic shift his mere presence created.

The familiar heat of anger began to burn away the weariness, the aches, the caution Gwenog had instilled.

“What do you want, Riddle?” Ginny asked abruptly, cutting through the polite facade of their exchange. “Why are you doing this?”

Riddle’s eyebrows rose fractionally, a picture of mild surprise, though his eyes remained sharp, watchful. “Doing what, Miss Weasley? Offering congratulations? Engaging in polite conversation?”

“Don’t,” Ginny snapped, taking a small, involuntary step closer, forgetting the potted geranium rustling nervously beside her. “Don’t play games. You interfere with disciplinary hearings. You have Ministry officials poking around our team finances disguised as ‘routine reviews’. You show up everywhere, watching. Now you’re here, dissecting my performance like I’m some kind of experiment.”

Her voice trembled slightly with suppressed fury. “Is this just how you operate? Is this just… you? Or do you actually have some kind of point to make? Some motive beyond amusing yourself at my expense?”

He didn’t answer immediately, swirling the wine in his glass, his expression thoughtful, almost detached. The slight smile returned, cool and contemplative. “Such directness. A Gryffindor trait, I suppose. Though often counterproductive.”

He paused, seeming to consider her questions. “My motives, Miss Weasley, are seldom simplistic. As for whether this is ‘just me’… let us say I find efficiency and order appealing. And I observe things that interest me.”

His gaze lingered on her face, making her skin prickle. “Your trajectory, for instance. From overlooked youngest sibling to star Chaser known for… volatility. It presents a certain… narrative arc.”

He tilted his head slightly. “It’s curious, isn’t it? How our paths never significantly crossed at Hogwarts. We occupied the same castle for several years, yet remained largely unaware of each other’s existence.”

Ginny scoffed, crossing her arms defensively. “Different orbits, Riddle. And frankly, I preferred mine. Hanging around the Slytherin dungeons spitting about blood purity wasn’t exactly my idea of a good time.”

The dismissal was sharp, laden with the ingrained prejudice of house rivalry and genuine dislike for the attitudes she associated with him and his ilk – Malfoy, Nott, Lestrange.

A low chuckle, devoid of genuine warmth but carrying a note of dry amusement, escaped him. “Ah, yes. The noble Gryffindors, champions of righteous camaraderie.”

The sarcasm was subtle but unmistakable.

He took another sip of wine, his eyes glinting over the rim of the glass. “And yet… here we are now. Interacting. Does the present company offer something the past lacked, Miss Weasley? Perhaps a challenge the Quidditch pitch fails to provide?”

The insinuation, the subtle suggestion that she might be drawn to him, to this antagonistic dance, sent a fresh wave of indignation through her.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Riddle!” she shot back, her voice rising slightly before she consciously lowered it, aware of nearby guests pretending not to listen. “You’re the one who keeps appearing! You’re the one initiating these… conversations. You’re the one interfering! So don’t try and twist this like I’m seeking you out.”

He merely smiled, that infuriatingly calm, knowing expression that made her want to hit something. Or someone. “Am I? Or are you simply more… attuned, now? Aware of currents you previously ignored?”

He studied her flushed face, the angry spark in her eyes. “Such fire,” he murmured again, almost thoughtfully. “It reminds me… you were often seen with Potter at Hogwarts, weren't you?”

The name hit Ginny like a physical blow.

Harry.

The casual mention, dropped so deliberately into their tense exchange, felt like a violation. The noise of the party seemed to recede into a distant roar.

“Another one who attracted… significant attention,” Riddle continued, his voice observational, utterly devoid of the emotional weight the subject carried for Ginny.

He sounded like he was discussing a case study, not a person. Not Harry.

“His disappearance during the Tournament remains a reminder of how quickly potential can be extinguished.”

Ginny’s breath hitched.

Potential extinguished.

Was that all Harry was to him?

A statistic? An example?

“A great loss for Gryffindor, naturally,” Riddle added, his tone conveying nothing more than factual acknowledgement of house affiliation.

The phrasing felt dismissive, tribal, completely ignoring the human tragedy, the gaping hole left in the lives of those who loved Harry.

He made it sound like losing a valuable Quidditch player, not losing… Harry.

“The Ministry inquiry, as you know,” he went on, his gaze sharp, perhaps gauging her reaction to this specific point, “was unfortunately inconclusive. Files sealed. A regrettable necessity, apparently, to prevent public panic over a malfunctioning Portkey.”

He delivered the official Ministry line – the lie, Ginny felt instinctively – with such detachment.

He spoke of the event that had shattered her world, stolen her friend, haunted her memories, as if discussing bureaucratic procedure.

He spoke of the sealed files, the unanswered questions, the suffocating silence that followed, as a mere footnote, a ‘regrettable necessity’.

All the control Ginny had fought so hard to maintain throughout the match, throughout the evening, shattered. The carefully constructed dam of discipline burst, unleashing a raw, instinctive wave of grief and fury.

He had dared.

He had dared to bring up Harry, Harry’s vanishing, the indifference of the Ministry – the very institution Riddle now represented and manipulated – and speak of it as if it was nothing.

It wasn’t just offensive; it felt like sacrilege.

It felt like he was deliberately poking at the rawest wound she carried, testing its depth, observing her pain with curiosity.

Before she could think, before she could process the consequences, her hand moved. Driven by rage and a protective loyalty to Harry’s memory, she swung.

Her palm connected with Riddle’s cheek with a sharp crack that seemed impossibly loud, momentarily silencing the immediate vicinity.

Gasps rippled through the nearby clusters of guests.

Heads snapped around.

Conversations died mid-sentence.

Mr. Cadwallader, mid-boast to a sponsor, choked on his champagne.

Even the Fanged Geranium seemed to recoil slightly.

Ginny stood trembling, her hand stinging, her chest heaving. She stared at the faint red mark blooming on Tom Riddle’s pale cheek, horror warring with the residual blaze of her anger.

Riddle didn’t flinch.

He didn’t raise a hand to his face.

He simply stood there, utterly still, the cool mask momentarily fractured not by pain, but by something else.

A genuine surprise, perhaps, quickly submerged by a coldness in his dark eyes.

He turned his head slowly, the movement precise, deliberate, fixing her with a look that was suddenly devoid of any pretence of amusement.

It was pure, focused intensity, sharp and dangerous.

The silence stretched, amplifying the sudden tension in the room.

Dozens of eyes were fixed on them, shocked, bewildered, waiting.

Ginny felt trapped, exposed, the adrenaline draining away to leave her shaking and acutely aware of what she had just done.

She had slapped Tom Riddle, a powerful Ministry official, in the middle of a crowded, public reception.

Oh, Merlin.

Chapter Text

The air in the cellar was thick with the smell of damp stone, dust, and something else – the sharp, metallic tang of fear-sweat.

It clung to the walls, absorbed by the oppressive silence that pressed in between the ragged, hitching breaths of the man slumped in the centre of the room.

Algernon Rookwood.

Mid-level functionary from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, with aspirations far exceeding his capabilities and a foolishly inflated sense of his own cunning.

Currently, those aspirations were dissolving into abject terror.

He was bound to a sturdy wooden chair with magically reinforced ropes that tightened with every struggle.

His spectacles were askew, one lens cracked. His Ministry robes, usually so carefully maintained, were rumpled and stained dark in patches where sweat had soaked through.

His face, normally plump and ruddy, was corpse-pale, glistening with perspiration despite the cellar’s chill. His eyes darted wildly between the four figures standing before him, reflecting the flickering, unreliable light of the single, bare lumen charm hovering overhead.

Tom Riddle stood closest, positioned directly in Rookwood’s line of sight.

Perfectly composed, his black robes immaculate, absorbing the dim light. Not a strand of his dark hair was out of place.

He observed Rookwood with detached curiosity.

There was no anger in his expression, no heat. Just an analytical assessment.

Beside and slightly behind Tom stood Abraxas Malfoy, Nott, and Rosier.

Malfoy, pale but striving for an aristocratic hauteur, held himself stiffly, his silver-grey eyes fixed on Tom, carefully avoiding looking directly at the whimpering wreck in the chair for too long.

Nott, broader and darker than Malfoy, shifted his weight nervously, his knuckles white where he gripped the handle of his wand inside his robes.

Rosier, leaner and sharper-featured, watched Rookwood with a kind of predatory stillness, yet even his focus flickered constantly towards Tom, seeking cues, radiating deference.

The tension around the three followers was thick with unspoken fear, directed not at Rookwood, but at the figure commanding the scene with effortless authority.

“Algernon,” Tom began, his voice quiet, measured, cutting through Rookwood’s ragged breathing.

It wasn’t loud, but it commanded absolute attention in the small, enclosed space.

“A simple review of facts is all that is required. You acquired the acquisition manifest for the Selwyn collection shipment three days ago, using clearance codes temporarily assigned for the cross-departmental audit.”

Rookwood flinched, shaking his head frantically. “A misunderstanding, Mr. Riddle… Tom… sir… Standard procedure, accessing related files during the audit…”

“Standard procedure,” Tom interrupted smoothly, taking a step closer, “does not involve making a copy of specific, highly restricted artifact listings. Nor does it involve arranging clandestine meetings near the Hog’s Head inn with known associates of Cygnus Black’s faction.”

Rookwood gasped, his eyes widening in panic. “No! It wasn’t… I was merely…”

Tom tilted his head slightly, a gesture of mild inquiry that held no actual curiosity.

He already knew.

“Merely attempting to leverage sensitive information for personal gain? Attempting to sell details of acquisitions under my purview to those who might seek to interfere?” He paused. “Or perhaps you intended wider dissemination? A leak to the Prophet? Or perhaps… even to the attention of the esteemed Albus Dumbledore?”

Rookwood started trembling violently, rattling the chair. “No! Never! I swear on my magic, I wouldn’t…”

Tom raised a hand, silencing him instantly. The gesture was slight, almost casual, yet it carried absolute finality. Rookwood choked back a sob.

“Oaths sworn under duress hold little weight, Algernon,” Tom said softly. “And your magic… well, its reliability seems questionable, given your present circumstances.”

He glanced briefly at Malfoy. “Abraxas, you confirmed the contact?”

Malfoy stiffened, swallowing visibly before replying, his voice tight but steady. “Yes, Tom. Our source within Black’s circle confirmed Rookwood initiated contact, offering ‘information of significant value regarding recent Ministry-facilitated acquisitions’.”

Tom nodded slowly, his dark eyes returning to Rookwood. “Betrayal, Algernon, is fundamentally inefficient. It disrupts carefully constructed arrangements. It necessitates… corrective measures.”

He drew his wand – yew, thirteen and a half inches, phoenix feather core. Its appearance was elegant, almost understated, yet the air in the cellar seemed to grow colder, heavier, as he held it loosely at his side.

Rookwood’s eyes were fixed on the wand tip, mesmerized by terror.

“However,” Tom continued, his tone still conversational, almost pedagogical, “before implementing such measures, absolute certainty is preferred. Loose ends are untidy.”

He raised his wand, pointing it directly at Rookwood’s face. Rookwood squeezed his eyes shut, whimpering.

“Legilimens.”

The spell was cast without inflection, almost whispered, yet its impact was immediate and brutal.

Tom felt the familiar sensation of consciousness merging, pushing past the frantic, ineffective mental barriers Rookwood tried feebly to erect. It was like stepping through flimsy paper walls into a cluttered, panicked mindscape.

He sifted through the chaotic jumble of Rookwood’s recent thoughts and memories, effortlessly bypassing the mundane anxieties about mortgage payments and departmental rivalries.

He saw the moment of greedy decision in Rookwood’s office, the illicit copying of the manifest, the nervous anticipation before the clandestine meeting, the thrill of perceived cunning quickly souring into fear as the contact proved cagier than expected, demanding proof, setting up a second meeting…

He saw the intended target: Cygnus Black, yes, hoping Black would pay handsomely and discreetly dispose of any trail leading back to Rookwood. But deeper, buried beneath layers of self-justification, was a contingency – if Black proved difficult, perhaps an anonymous tip to Dumbledore, positioning himself as a reluctant whistleblower, hoping for protection.

Pathetic. Predictable.

Tom navigated the memories with precision, extracting the relevant data – names, dates, planned meeting locations, the exact information Rookwood intended to sell.

He felt Rookwood’s mental presence recoiling, shrieking under the violation, the exposure of his thoughts and intentions.

There was a brief, perverse satisfaction in observing the complete collapse of the man’s defiance, the utter stripping away of his secrets.

He withdrew his consciousness as smoothly as he had entered, severing the connection.

Rookwood gasped and sagged in the chair, tears streaming down his face, mucus bubbling from his nose. The mental violation had left him shuddering.

Tom lowered his wand slightly, his expression unchanged. He glanced at Nott and Rosier, who flinched under his gaze. “Confirmation is satisfactory. His intentions were precisely as suspected, extending even to considering involving Dumbledore, should his initial plan falter.”

A collective intake of breath from the three followers. Mentioning Dumbledore in this context added another layer of treason, of unforgivable stupidity in their eyes.

Rookwood looked up, his face a mask of terror and desperation. “Please… Mr. Riddle… Tom… I was a fool! I won’t speak! I’ll do anything… Obliviate me! Please!”

Tom regarded him impassively for a long moment. “Obliviation, Algernon? A tempting solution for the simpleminded. Neat. Tidy.” He paused. “But ultimately… insufficient.”

He raised his wand again, the tip aimed squarely at Rookwood’s chest. The air crackled faintly.

Malfoy took an involuntary half-step back.

Nott wiped a bead of sweat from his temple.

Rosier’s eyes gleamed with a mixture of fear and morbid anticipation.

“Betrayal requires a more… memorable lesson,” Tom stated, his voice dropping to a near whisper, yet resonating with absolute authority. “For you, and for any others who might contemplate such inefficiency.”

“Crucio.”

The curse hit Rookwood like a physical blow.

He screamed.

A high-pitched, tearing sound that clawed at thr walls, echoing horribly in the confined space.

His body arched violently against the ropes, muscles locking, spine bowing impossibly.

The chair scraped against the floor as his convulsions shook it.

His eyes rolled back in his head, showing only whites. Saliva flew from his lips, flecking his chin and chest.

The scream devolved into agonized shrieks, punctuated by choked gasps as his lungs fought for air between the waves of blinding, searing pain that the curse inflicted directly onto his nerve endings.

Tom held the spell steady, his wand hand perfectly still, his expression focused. He watched the effects dispassionately, noting the responses – the violent tremors, the rapid, shallow breathing, the sweat pouring from the man’s body, the way Rookwood bit his own lip until blood flowed freely, staining his chin crimson.

There was no pleasure in Tom’s observation, no sadistic glee.

Only the cold assessment of a necessary process unfolding.

The pain was a tool, refined and efficient, breaking down resistance, ensuring compliance, etching a lesson so deep it would scour the very soul – assuming Rookwood survived with his mind intact. Which was not, Tom mused, a primary objective.

Nott looked green, his hand gripping his wand so tightly his knuckles were white.

Rosier watched with rapt, horrified fascination, his own breathing shallow.

Malfoy maintained his composure best, his face pale but mask-like, though the slight tremor in his left hand betrayed his inner turmoil.

Their fear was useful, another layer of control. Witnessing this served as its own potent warning.

Tom varied the intensity of the curse, letting the agony peak, then subside slightly, only to surge again, preventing Rookwood’s mind from finding any refuge in numbness or unconsciousness.

He kept him hovering on the edge, fully conscious, fully immersed in the unrelenting torment.

Rookwood’s shrieks became hoarser, broken sounds, interspersed with desperate, incoherent pleas. “Stop… please… mercy… make it stop… Aaaaargh!”

His body thrashed against the ropes, the friction rubbing his wrists raw. The smell of urine joined the fear-sweat in the stagnant air.

After what felt like an eternity, but was likely only a minute or two measured by the ticking of the clock only Tom seemed aware of, he lifted the curse as abruptly as he had cast it.

Silence slammed back into the cellar, broken only by Rookwood’s ragged, sobbing gasps and the frantic pounding of blood in the ears of the onlookers.

Rookwood slumped forward, held upright only by the ropes, head lolling on his chest. His body trembled uncontrollably, soaked in sweat and tears, blood smearing his chin and neck. He seemed barely conscious, utterly broken.

Tom lowered his wand, examining its tip as if checking for dust. \“Adequate,” he murmured, more to himself than to the others.

He looked at the pathetic figure in the chair with faint distaste. Such weakness was contemptible.

He turned to his followers, his voice businesslike, cutting through the lingering tension. “Nott, Rosier. Clean this up. Ensure he is… relocated. Somewhere remote. An unfortunate hiking accident, perhaps? Or perhaps discovered babbling incoherently near the coast, his mind irrevocably damaged by uncontrolled wild magic exposure? Be creative, but ensure no traces lead back here, or anywhere convenient.”

He paused, his eyes sharp. “His disappearance should serve as a quiet deterrent. See that the relevant items found on his person – copies of manifests, contact notes – are incinerated thoroughly. Leave nothing.”

Nott and Rosier nodded quickly, avoiding looking directly at Rookwood now. “Yes, Tom.” “It will be done, Tom.” Their eagerness to comply, to escape his presence and the scene itself, was obvious.

Tom turned to Malfoy, who visibly relaxed as the instructions moved away from direct involvement with the disposal. “Abraxas. We have an engagement.”

Malfoy blinked, momentarily confused by the abrupt shift. “An engagement?”

“The Nimbus reception for the Harpies’ victory,” Tom clarified patiently. “At The Gilded Snitch. We are expected.”

Malfoy stared at him, aghast.

They had just witnessed – participated in, through their presence – brutal torture, and Riddle was talking about attending a Quidditch team’s party?

It was jarring, almost surreal.

“Now?” Malfoy asked, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

Tom gave him a cool look. “Is there a scheduling conflict I am unaware of? Maintaining appearances is crucial, Abraxas. Especially now. Mingling, observing… it reinforces normalcy. Besides,” a flicker of something unreadable crossed Tom’s face, “I find myself curious to observe the victors in their moment of celebration. Particularly Miss Weasley.”

Malfoy’s expression tightened slightly at the mention of Ginny Weasley, but he quickly masked it. He understood the importance of appearances, of the intricate game Tom played within the Ministry and society.

He nodded stiffly. “Of course, Tom. As you wish.”

Tom ran a critical eye over his own robes, smoothing a crease near his cuff. He conjured a small, ornate mirror, checking his reflection briefly. Satisfied, he vanished it. His composure was absolute, the preceding events seemingly wiped clean, leaving no residue on his perfect facade.

“Excellent.” He gestured towards the cellar stairs. “Let us not be unduly late.”

He turned and ascended the stone steps, his movements fluid and controlled, leaving Malfoy to cast one last, uneasy glance back at the whimpering form of Rookwood and the grim-faced Nott and Rosier beginning their unpleasant task, before hurrying to follow his master.

The door at the top of the stairs closed with a thud, sealing the darkness and the lingering scent of pain and fear within the cellar walls.

Tom stepped out into the crisp autumn evening air of the quiet side street where the discreetly charmed entrance to the property lay hidden. The sounds of distant London traffic were muted here. He took a moment, adjusting his cufflinks.

The transition from the brutal necessities of maintaining order to the superficial demands of society required only a minor shift in mental focus.

One mask replaced by another, seamlessly.

He felt… centered.

The small tremor of disorder caused by Rookwood’s betrayal had been decisively corrected.

Control had been reasserted.

The incident reinforced the constant vigilance required, the pathetic tendency of weaker wills towards greed and stupidity.

Now, for the Gilded Snitch.

A different kind of battlefield, perhaps, but one requiring its own strategies.

And Miss Weasley… a variable whose reactions remained… interesting. He wondered if her newfound discipline on the pitch would extend to controlling her unfortunate impulses off it.

Unlikely. But observing the attempt might provide a crumb of amusement.

The first light of dawn had yet to breach the enchanted gloom of the London skyline when Tom sat, not in his meticulously ordered Ministry office, but within the imposing study of his private residence.

The townhouse, located in a quiet, unplottable square nestled deep within one of London’s older, more discreet wizarding enclaves, was shielded by layers of complex wards far exceeding standard Ministry protections. Its precise location was known only to a select few, its existence deliberately obscured.

Here, the silence was absolute, the security unparalleled – subtle, ancient magic and carefully guarded secrecy.

He preferred working here in the quiet hours before the Ministry officially stirred, finding the pre-dawn stillness conducive to deeper concentration.

A single, precisely directed beam of cool light illuminated the surface of his vast, darkwood desk, leaving the rest of the room shrouded in shadow, the rows upon rows of leather-bound books lining the walls mere silhouettes.

A cup of black tea, untouched and likely cold, sat beside a neat stack of files.

His attention, however, was currently fixed on the freshly delivered copy of the Daily Prophet, spread open before him. The paper still smelled faintly of ink and the agitated owl that had delivered it moments ago.

He scanned the front page, his expression unreadable. His eyes bypassed the main, sensationalist headline for a moment, deliberately seeking out a smaller column tucked away near the bottom fold, beneath an advertisement for Brew’s Brilliant Brooms (“As Ridden by the Victorious Holyhead Harpies!”).

MINISTRY EMPLOYEE IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT

Algernon Rookwood, a long-serving administrator in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, was tragically found deceased yesterday evening near a popular hiking trail in the Peak District. Auror preliminary reports suggest Mr. Rookwood suffered a fatal fall after apparently becoming disoriented. Signs of distress and recent magical expenditure consistent with accidental exposure to volatile wild magic were noted at the scene. The Department expresses its deepest condolences to Mr. Rookwood’s family. An internal review is pending.

Tom read the brief article twice, his lips curving into the faintestof smiles.

Fatal fall. Disoriented. Volatile wild magic exposure.

Nott and Rosier.

Predictable.

Lacking finesse, certainly, but undeniably thorough in their interpretation of "relocated."

He had instructed them to ensure Rookwood resurfaced babbling, his mind shattered, a living warning.

Death, however, was tidier. Less potential for inconvenient recoveries or awkward questions later.

Perhaps they had feared Rookwood might somehow retain fragments, or perhaps they simply defaulted to the most permanent solution, eager to prove their ruthlessness, their utility.

It mattered little. The outcome was efficient.

Rookwood, the greedy, foolish little functionary attempting to peddle secrets beyond his station, was neutralized. Permanently.

Tom recalled the cellar scene – secured in a separate, equally well-warded property used for such necessities.

Rookwood’s blubbering terror, the acrid stench of fear and urine, the satisfying psychic recoil under Legilimency, the raw screams elicited by the Cruciatus.

Necessary measures.

Unpleasant, perhaps, but essential for maintaining order and discouraging future betrayals.

The lesson needed to be memorable, not just for the victim, but for the witnesses.

Malfoy’s pallor, Nott’s nausea, Rosier’s morbid fascination – all noted, all filed away.

Their fear was as much a tool as the curse itself.

As for traces? Impossible.

The cellar property was as shielded as this residence.

Rookwood’s magical signature would be hopelessly scrambled by the lingering effects of the Cruciatus, making the "wild magic exposure" theory plausible to investigators lacking the will or the resources to dig deeper.

Nott and Rosier, clumsy as they might be socially, were meticulous enough when following direct orders under threat of his displeasure. They would have scrubbed the scene, planted the appropriate misleading signs, ensured the body was discovered in a location far removed from any conceivable connection.

Even if Bones or Scrimgeour themselves led the Auror investigation, they would find nothing concrete.

A tragic accident.

An administrator out of his depth.

A closed case.

Tom’s gaze drifted upwards, past the broom advertisement, to the screaming headline dominating the front page, accompanied by a large, dramatically angled photograph.

MINISTRY OFFICIAL SLAPPED AT HARPIES VICTORY BASH!
WEASLEY TEMPER FLARES AT GILDED SNITCH!

The photograph captured the moment just after impact.

Ginny Weasley, her face flushed, eyes blazing with fury, hand still raised slightly, Caught mid-recoil.

Himself, Tom Riddle, impeccably dressed, head slightly turned, the faint red mark against his cheek, his expression captured in that split second of frozen stillness before control fully reasserted.

The background showed blurred, shocked faces of onlookers – Cadwallader with his mouth agape, other players and sponsors staring wide-eyed.

Beneath the headline, Rita Skeeter’s distinctive, venomous prose began:

“Forget the Snitch, folks, the real fireworks last night were served up alongside the canapés! In an exclusive report from the Holyhead Harpies’ victory celebration at the swanky Gilded Snitch, this reporter can reveal a shocking public altercation that left the wizarding elite gasping! Rising Ministry star Tom Riddle, Senior Advisor and known associate of Minister Fudge himself, found himself on the receiving end of a stinging slap from none other than hot-headed Harpy Chaser, Ginny Weasley!

Sources close to the incident (who wisely wish to remain anonymous) whisper that the confrontation began after a seemingly innocuous conversation turned tense. Miss Weasley, known for her fiery temper both on and off the pitch (remember that Tutshill tackle, dear readers?), allegedly took umbrage at remarks made by the famously composed Mr. Riddle. What exactly was said remains shrouded in mystery, but witnesses describe Miss Weasley shouting accusations before delivering the slap heard ‘round the room!

Mr. Riddle, ever the picture of decorum, reportedly remained calm. Miss Weasley was swiftly escorted away by her team captain, Gwenog Jones, looking shaken but defiant. Neither party offered comment when approached later.

What could provoke such an unprecedented public outburst from the Gryffindor Chaser against one of the Ministry’s most influential figures? Is there more to this story than meets the eye? Is Weasley’s famous temper becoming a liability for the Harpies? Or did Mr. Riddle perhaps touch a nerve best left untouched? Stay tuned, dear readers, as Witch Weekly promises further investigation into this sensational clash! (Further coverage, analysis, and wildly speculative fashion critiques on page 5.)”

Tom read the entire article, including the speculative drivel on page 5, with a detached, almost academic interest.

Skeeter, predictably, sensationalized everything, hinting at mysteries where there were none, focusing on the drama and the personalities.

He recalled the scene with perfect clarity.

The cloying atmosphere of the party, the forced gaiety.

His own subtle, internal tension, the residue of the Rookwood situation, carefully masked but perhaps unconsciously perceived by the Weasley girl’s animal instinct.

Her direct, almost crude confrontation.

Her predictable accusations regarding the disciplinary hearing, the operational review.

He remembered her face, flushed with exertion and anger, eyes bright with defiance.

Her sharp retorts, lacking finesse but carrying undeniable force. H

er defensive posture when he mentioned Hogwarts, her visceral reaction to Slytherin prejudice.

And then, the mention of Potter.

He had watched her reaction carefully.

The sudden stillness, the flicker of pain in her eyes, the tightening of her jaw.

He had observed the precise moment righteous anger tipped into uncontrollable grief-fueled fury.

It was like watching a potion reach its critical point, bubbling over with volatile energy.

“His disappearance… potential extinguished… Ministry inquiry inconclusive… regrettable necessity…”

He had chosen the words deliberately.

Testing her control.

Probing the depth of her attachment to the vanished Gryffindor icon.

Observing the fault lines in her composure.

Her reaction had been… stronger than anticipated.

The slap itself.

The sharp crack echoing in the sudden silence.

The stinging sensation on his cheek, less painful than surprising.

The audacity of it.

A lesser wizard might have retaliated instantly, instinctively. Cursed her where she stood.

The impulse had certainly flickered the muscle memory of command and correction.

But control was paramount. Especially in public.

His composure, his stillness in the face of her assault, was its own form of power, turning her outburst into a display of her own lack of discipline against his unshakeable calm.

He touched his cheek lightly now. The faint redness had long since faded, leaving no trace. But the memory remained, filed away.

And now, reading Skeeter’s breathless prose, seeing how Weasley’s impulsive act had completely overshadowed the brief, mundane notice of Rookwood’s ‘tragic accident’… a dry amusement stirred within him.

How utterly ironic.

Ginny Weasley, in her blind fury, in her desperate defense of Potter’s memory, had inadvertently done him a small service.

Her sensational, public outburst had provided the perfect distraction, burying the potentially awkward news of a Ministry employee’s demise under layers of gossip and speculation about her temper and his supposed provocation.

The wizarding world, fed by Skeeter and her ilk, would chatter endlessly about the slap, about the Harpy’s fiery nature, about the enigmatic Ministry official. They wouldn’t spare a second thought for Algernon Rookwood’s unfortunate ‘hiking trip’.

He hadn’t planned it, of course. He didn’t rely on such chaotic variables. His plans were meticulous, his disposal of Rookwood untraceable regardless of media attention.

But the coincidence… the way her uncontrolled emotion served his controlled purpose… it was undeniably smug-worthy.

She thought she was fighting back, defending cherished memories, lashing out against perceived injustice and manipulation.

Instead, she had simply become a more prominent, more volatile piece on the board, drawing attention to herself while inadvertently sweeping another, inconvenient piece cleanly away.

Tom leaned back in his chair, the Prophet resting forgotten on the desk. The first true light of dawn was beginning to filter through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the room.

The slap, however insulting, however unprecedented, changed little in the grand scheme.

An irritation. A display of fascinatingly poor impulse control.

But it did require acknowledgement. An action of such public defiance could not be entirely ignored.

It demanded a response, eventually. Carefully considered, of course. Proportional. Instructive.

She had sought his attention, reacting predictably to his provocations. Now, she had it. More intensely, perhaps, than she had bargained for.

He considered her potential.

Raw power, yes.

Fierce loyalty, apparently.

Undeniable willfulness.

All utterly undisciplined.

A dangerous combination, in the wrong hands. Or perhaps… a potentially useful one, if correctly channeled, redirected, broken and remade?

An abstract thought. Likely impractical. Her ingrained Gryffindor sentimentality, her unfortunate blood status, her fixation on ghosts like Potter… these were significant flaws.

For now, she remained an interesting variable.

A study in contrasts – the controlled aggression on the pitch versus the explosive lack of control off it.

He allowed himself another small smile.

Let the masses chatter about the slap. Let Skeeter spin her tales. It mattered not.

He had work to do. Real work.

The foundations of true power were not built on gossip columns or Quidditch victories, but on secrets, influence, fear, and magic far beyond the comprehension of those who would be distracted by a Chaser’s temper tantrum.

He pushed the Daily Prophet aside, its sensational headlines already dismissed, and reached for the top file in his waiting stack – detailed plans for restructuring certain key Ministry communication wards.

The game continued, on multiple levels, and Tom Riddle remained firmly in control.

Chapter Text

The rhythmic thud of Bludgers against practice dummies and the sharp calls of players echoed across the Harpies’ training pitch as Ginny hurried through the tunnel connecting the changing rooms to the field.

She was late. Not drastically, but enough that the warm-up drills were clearly already supposed to be underway.

An uneasy night spent tossing and turning, replaying the Gilded Snitch incident and her own appalling lack of control, had morphed into a sluggish morning where even the prospect of practice felt heavy, tainted.

She emerged into the bright, crisp air, pulling her practice robes tighter, her Comet Two Ninety gripped firmly in her hand. The rest of the team was already assembled mid-pitch, hovering in loose formation, their expressions unusually subdued.

Gwenog Jones stood before them, arms crossed, radiating an aura of controlled fury that made the wind around her crackle almost visibly.

Gwenog hadn’t even started the drills yet.

She was just… standing there, emanating silent rage.

That was unusual.

Gwenog usually channeled her moods into brutal practice sessions, not simmering stillness.

Something was definitely wrong, beyond Ginny’s lateness.

“Alright, Weasley, nice of you to finally join us,” Gwenog snapped as Ginny approached, her voice tight and low, lacking its usual booming projection.

The other players shifted uncomfortably, avoiding Ginny’s eye.

“Sorry, Gwenog, I…” Ginny started, but Gwenog cut her off with a sharp, impatient gesture.

“Save it. Everyone, five warm-up laps, standard formation. Then Bludger Gauntlet. We’re facing the Wigtown Wanderers next Saturday – they’re physical, sloppy, but they hit hard. We need to be sharper than last week.” Gwenog’s tone was clipped, harsh.

The mention of the Wanderers match, usually a source of tactical discussion, felt like an afterthought delivered through gritted teeth.

The team murmured assent and began to move, relief noticeable as they kicked off, eager to escape the captain’s immediate vicinity.

Ginny moved to mount her own broom, ready to join the laps, eager to lose herself in the physical exertion, to fly away the lingering shame and anxiety.

“Not you, Weasley.”

Gwenog’s voice stopped her cold, one foot already poised on the broom’s footrest.

Ginny turned, confused. “Captain?”

Gwenog took a step closer, lowering her voice so only Ginny could hear, though her intensity felt like a shout. Her eyes, usually sharp and assessing, were glacial. “Get off the pitch.”

Ginny stared at her, bewildered. “What?”

“You won’t be playing against the Wanderers,” Gwenog stated flatly, her jaw tight. “You won’t be playing against anyone. Not for the foreseeable future.”

The words hit Ginny like a Bludger to the chest, stealing her breath. “What are you talking about? Gwenog, I…”

“I’m talking about this!” Gwenog suddenly produced a crumpled copy of the Daily Prophet from within her robes, shoving it towards Ginny’s face.

The headline screamed: MINISTRY OFFICIAL SLAPPED AT HARPIES VICTORY BASH! WEASLEY TEMPER FLARES!

The incriminating photo showed Ginny, hand raised, face contorted in fury, opposite a perfectly still Tom Riddle.

Ginny flinched back, heat flooding her face.

She’d seen it, of course.

How could she miss it? It was plastered everywhere.

But seeing it wielded like this, by her captain, on the training pitch… it felt like being branded.

“I’m talking about your complete lack of self-control!” Gwenog hissed, her voice vibrating with suppressed rage. “I’m talking about you jeopardizing everything this team works for because you can’t handle your temper! You think Quidditch is just about flying fast and scoring goals? It’s about discipline! Teamwork! Representing this club, our sponsors!”

“Gwenog, I know I messed up, I lost my temper, but…” Ginny pleaded, her voice rising in desperation. “It won’t happen again! I can control it! Don’t sideline me for this, please! Don’t suspend me from playing!”

“‘Suspend you from playing’?” Gwenog echoed incredulously, letting out a harsh, humourless laugh. “Weasley, you think this is just about me being angry? You think I’m taking you off drills for a week?”

Her expression hardened further, becoming grim, almost bleak. “I’m not suspending you for a match or two, Ginny. I’m taking you off the active roster. Indefinitely. Likely for the rest of the season.”

“What?!” The word ripped out of Ginny, disbelief warring with rising panic. “The whole season? You can’t! Gwenog, that’s my life! You can’t do that!”

“I can!” Gwenog’s voice rose, finally cracking through her tightly held control, startling the players circling overhead who immediately pretended not to notice. “I am the Captain of the Holyhead Harpies! This is my team, my responsibility! And I manage it by making the tough calls, even when they gut me!”

She took another step closer, her eyes blazing now. “You think this was my choice? You think I want to sideline my star Chaser, the one who just scored a hat-trick in the season opener?”

She shook her head, a muscle twitching violently in her jaw. “Merlin, Weasley, use your head for something other than deflecting Bludgers! Who did you slap?”

“Riddle,” Ginny muttered sullenly, though the name felt like ash in her mouth.

“Tom Riddle!” Gwenog corrected sharply. “Not just some bloke down the pub! Ministry heavyweight! That Senior Advisor who seems to have his fingers in every pie! People say he has Fudge's ear! He moves in circles that can make or break careers, leagues, teams! And you assaulted him! Publicly! With Skeeter practically drooling in the corner!”

She lowered her voice again, leaning in conspiratorially, her anger tinged with a weary bitterness Ginny had never seen before. “I got an owl this morning, Ginny. Official parchment. Department of Magical Games and Sports letterhead, signed by Bagman himself, though I’d bet my best broom the directive came from higher up.”

Ginny’s blood ran cold. “What… what did it say?”

Gwenog’s eyes bored into hers. “It ‘expressed grave concerns regarding recent events reflecting poorly on the League’s image’. It mentioned ‘player conduct detrimental to professional standards’. And it strongly,” – she emphasized the word heavily – “‘advised’ that immediate disciplinary action be taken regarding the player involved – namely you – to ‘restore confidence’.”

She paused, letting the bureaucratic jargon sink in. “And then came the kicker. A subtle little paragraph about upcoming League funding reviews, sponsor relation assessments, and the importance of ‘positive team representation’ for securing continued support and favourable fixture scheduling.”

Ginny felt sick.

It wasn’t direct. It wasn’t an explicit order. But the implication was crystal clear.

Remove Weasley from active play, or the Harpies face consequences.

Financial pressure.

Scheduling nightmares.

Sponsor withdrawals.

All delivered through official channels, plausibly deniable, leaving no direct fingerprints leading back to Riddle, but the timing, the context… it screamed manipulation.

“It’s him,” Ginny whispered, horrified. “Riddle did this.”

“Does it matter who pulled the strings?” Gwenog snapped back, though her eyes held a flicker of grim agreement. “The Ministry holds the power, Weasley! They sign off on funding, they sanction the League! Whether it’s Riddle personally getting revenge, or Bagman trying to appease him, or Fudge wanting to avoid awkward questions – the result is the same! Your actions put this entire team at risk!”

She straightened up, her voice regaining its hard, authoritative edge. “I cannot have your personal vendettas, your uncontrolled temper, jeopardizing seventeen other players’ careers! I can’t have sponsors pulling out because our Chaser is front-page news for assault! I can’t risk the League finding excuses to cut our travel stipends or give us the worst match slots because you decided to play vigilante at a party!”

“But it’s not fair!” Ginny cried out, tears of frustration stinging her eyes. “He provoked me! He… he said things! About Harry!” The name felt torn from her throat.

Gwenog’s expression softened fractionally, a flicker of understanding crossing her harsh features.

She knew about Ginny’s closeness to Harry Potter, the shadow the Triwizard Tragedy cast over her. But the softness vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by unwavering resolve.

“I don’t care if he insulted your Great-Uncle Bilius’s favourite teapot, Weasley!” Gwenog stated firmly. “You walk away. You bite your tongue. You file a complaint through official channels if you must, though Merlin knows that’s useless against someone like him. You do not resort to physical assault! Not ever! Especially not when the stakes are this high!”

She took a deep breath, the picture of command. “So, that’s it. You’re off the active roster. Effective immediately. You can attend practices if you want, keep up your conditioning – Merlin knows you need the discipline – but you will not fly in any official matches or League-sanctioned scrimmages. You will not represent the Holyhead Harpies in any public capacity until this blows over, or until I receive explicit clearance from the Department that satisfies me this won’t hang over the team’s head. Which, frankly, feels unlikely anytime soon.”

Her voice dropped again, low and final. “Consider yourself lucky I’m not dropping you from the squad entirely right now, which was the other option clearly hinted at in Bagman’s ‘advice’. Don’t push me, Ginny. Don’t make me regret giving you even this much leeway.”

Ginny stared at her, speechless.

The finality in Gwenog’s voice, the grim certainty in her eyes, crushed the last vestiges of defiance.

Season over.

Sidelined indefinitely.

Not because she wasn’t good enough, not because of injury, but because she lost control, because she slapped him.

Because Tom Riddle, with a subtle nudge through the bureaucracy he commanded, could casually derail her entire life.

The injustice burned, hot and suffocating.

The roar of the wind from her teammates circling overhead seemed distant, muffled.

The bright, crisp morning felt suddenly grey and oppressive.

“Now get off my pitch,” Gwenog repeated, her voice flat, devoid of its earlier heat, leaving only cold, hard dismissal.

She turned away, deliberately breaking eye contact, and raised her voice to address the circling players. “Alright! Stop gawking! Let’s get these laps done! Pick up the pace!”

Gwenog didn’t look back. She strode towards the centre of the pitch, already barking corrections at the formation, immersing herself back into the role of captain, leaving Ginny standing alone, grounded, amidst the swirling motion of the team she was no longer truly part of.

For a long moment, Ginny couldn’t move. Her feet felt rooted to the turf. Her broom handle was slick with sweat in her suddenly nerveless grip.

The shouts of the players, the thud of practice Bludgers Gwenog now started launching with vicious accuracy, the familiar sounds of her world – they all seemed to be happening behind a thick pane of glass.

Season over.

The words echoed in the numb space where her fury and defiance had been.

Riddle had won this round, effortlessly, without even having to raise his voice or lift a finger directly.

He had used her own actions, her own lack of control, against her, turning the very system she relied on – the League, her team – into the instrument of her punishment.

A wave of nausea washed over her.

She felt utterly, sickeningly powerless.

With a choked sob she barely managed to suppress, Ginny turned.

She didn’t look at her teammates flying above, didn’t register their furtive, pitying, or perhaps even resentful glances.

Head down, shoulders slumped in a way that felt utterly alien, she walked slowly, deliberately, back towards the tunnel, back towards the empty changing room.

Each step felt heavy, weighted down by the sudden, crushing reality of her situation.

The solid ground Gwenog had urged her to stand on – the Quidditch pitch – had just crumbled beneath her feet, swallowed by the treacherous currents of a game she had never wanted to play, against an opponent who seemingly couldn't lose.

As she stepped into the echoing quiet of the changing room, the distant sounds of practice – Gwenog’s sharp commands, the whir of brooms – served only as a brutal reminder of everything she had just lost.

She sank onto the bench in front of her locker, the one bearing her name, her number, the Harpy emblem, and dropped her head into her hands, the cold, hard reality pressing down like a physical weight.

What now?

What was left when Quidditch was ripped away?

The question hung unanswered in the empty room, mocking her with its implications.

Tom Riddle hadn’t just slapped back; he’d knocked her clean off her broom, leaving her grounded and gasping for air.

And the most frightening part?

She had handed him the weapon herself.

The days that followed blurred into a monotonous grey ache.

Ginny dutifully showed up for practices, a ghost haunting the edges of the pitch.

Gwenog allowed her access to the training facilities, the gym, even the air above the pitch for solo conditioning drills when the main team wasn’t using it, adhering strictly to the letter of her decree: Ginny could maintain fitness, but she was not part of team activities.

Watching her teammates run through drills designed for the upcoming Wanderers match felt like swallowing galleons.

Seeing Rhiannon and Megan trying to adjust to playing alongside Nia Jenkins, the competent but less instinctive reserve Chaser pulled up to fill Ginny’s spot, was pure agony.

Every missed pass, every hesitant move where Ginny knew instinctively she would have been, felt like a personal failure, a fresh twist of the knife.

The other players were awkward around her.

Some offered brief, pitying smiles.

Others, like Megan, tried to engage her in normal conversation about tactics or gossip, but the attempts felt forced, strained by the massive, unspoken disruption Ginny had caused.

Carys Pritchard barely acknowledged her, her focus entirely on the team’s performance, perhaps seeing Ginny now as a liability neutralized.

Valmai seemed genuinely sorry but was too caught up in the pressures of her own role to offer more than a sympathetic shrug.

Gwenog remained distant, professional but cold. Her interactions with Ginny were limited to curt nods or brief instructions regarding conditioning schedules. The easy camaraderie they’d sometimes shared, the grudging respect forged in shared effort, was gone, replaced by the rigid formality of captain and sidelined player.

Gwenog was focused solely on holding the team together, mitigating the damage Ginny had inflicted.

The Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly continued to rehash the “Slapgate” scandal, as Skeeter had dubbed it, speculating wildly about the cause, Ginny’s future, and Riddle’s enigmatic silence.

Ginny avoided the papers, but snippets inevitably reached her – whispers in the changing room, headlines glimpsed over shoulders in Diagon Alley. Each mention was a fresh wave of shame and anger.

She threw herself into conditioning with punishing intensity.

Laps around the pitch until her lungs burned and her vision blurred.

Weight training until her muscles screamed in protest.

Hours spent practicing solo drills, slamming Quaffles against the practice hoops with brutal force, the repetitive thud a poor substitute for the roar of the crowd, the complex dance of a real match.

The physical exertion provided temporary numbness, but the moment she stopped, the reality of her situation crashed back in.

Sidelined. Powerless.

Her life’s passion reduced to solitary, meaningless drills while her team prepared for battle without her.

And always, lurking beneath the frustration and self-recrimination, was the image of Tom Riddle.

He had engineered this, she was certain, using her own temper as the trigger. He had wanted to punish her, to demonstrate his reach, and he had succeeded spectacularly.

Hatred burned cold and steady in her gut, a different kind of fire than her usual explosive temper. This was deeper, mixed with a sickening sense of helplessness and a grudging, horrified awareness of the power he wielded so subtly.

One particularly grim afternoon, after a solitary, rain-soaked practice session where every shot felt clumsy and every dive pointless, Ginny found herself slumped on the changing room bench, staring blankly at her muddy boots.

The rhythmic dripping of water from the leaky ceiling seemed to echo the slow drip of her resolve.

What was the point?

Training for nothing?

Waiting indefinitely for a reprieve that might never come?

She picked up her broom, the Comet Two Ninety feeling foreign in her hands, no longer an extension of her will but a useless piece of wood. She ran a hand over the smooth handle, the familiar grain doing nothing to soothe the emptiness inside.

Maybe Gwenog was right.

Maybe she should just quit.

Disappear from the League altogether.

Go home to the Burrow, help Fred and George in their joke shop, fade back into the comfortable chaos of her family, away from Ministry politics and manipulative bastards like Riddle.

The thought offered a fleeting sense of relief, quickly followed by a wave of self-disgust.

Quit?

Let him win that easily?

Let him chase her away from the one thing she truly loved, the one thing she was truly good at?

No. Absolutely not.

The familiar spark of Weasley defiance, buried under layers of shame and frustration, flickered weakly back to life.

The flimsy resolve shattered. The spark of defiance ignited into a full-blown inferno, consuming the shame, the frustration, the gnawing helplessness.

Quit? Let him win?

Never.

A raw, guttural sound escaped Ginny’s throat. She surged to her feet, kicking the bench so hard it skittered across the stone floor with a jarring screech.

Her muddy boots stamped impatiently as she paced the confines of the empty changing room, caged energy radiating from her.

The injustice of it all clawed at her.

Sidelined.

Her life dictated by whispers in Ministry corridors, by the calculated manipulations of a man who disdained everything she loved, everything she was.

He wanted to play games? He wanted to control her?

Fine. But she wouldn’t do it passively from the sidelines.

If she couldn’t fight him on the pitch, she would fight him on his own turf.

Decision made, swift and absolute, fueled by weeks of simmering rage finally boiling over.

She didn’t stop to think, didn’t pause to consider the consequences, didn’t bother changing out of her mud-caked, sweat-soaked practice kit.

She snatched her wand from where it lay beside her discarded water bottle, shoved it into the inner pocket of her robes, and stormed out of the changing room, leaving her broom leaning forgotten against the locker.

She bypassed the usual Floo connections, the sensible routes.

Sensibility had deserted her.

She needed directness. Immediacy.

Reaching a deserted stretch of corridor leading to the stadium’s service exits, she focused her churning emotions, pictured her destination – the vast, echoing Atrium of the Ministry of Magic – and turned on the spot.

The familiar, violent compression of Apparition squeezed her, then spat her out with jarring force into the very heart of the Ministry.

The sudden transition from the quiet stadium corridor to the bustling grandeur of the Atrium was dizzying. Wizards and witches in crisp robes hurried across the polished marble floor, golden symbols gleamed on dark blue ceilings high above, and the Fountain of Magical Brethren plashed musically in the centre.

For a moment, Ginny stood swaying slightly, disoriented, her muddy boots leaving damp prints on the pristine floor.

Then heads began to turn.

The usual hum of Ministry business faltered in her immediate vicinity. Conversations paused mid-sentence. Wizards carrying stacks of parchment stopped short, staring. Witches adjusted their spectacles, peering closer.

It wasn't just recognition – though after "Slapgate," her face was unfortunately prominent. It was the sheer incongruity of her appearance.

A Quidditch player, still in filthy practice gear, mud smeared on her cheek, hair escaping its braid in damp strands, standing wild-eyed and radiating furious intent in the middle of the Ministry Atrium during working hours.

Whispers erupted, spreading outwards like ripples.

"Merlin's beard, is that Weasley?"

"The Harpy Chaser?"

"What is she wearing?"

"Looks like she wrestled a Blast-Ended Skrewt and lost!"

"Good heavens, she looks furious..."

"Isn't she the one who slapped Riddle?"

Ginny ignored them.

Let them stare. Let them whisper.

She had one target, one destination.

She scanned the Atrium, looking for the lifts, the route to the upper levels where the advisors and senior officials lurked.

She needed to find Riddle's office.

She wasn't entirely sure where it was – his title was vague, his specific department deliberately obscured in most reports – but she knew he operated at a level far above the general administrative churn.

Upper floors. Executive corridors.

Spotting the golden grilles of the lifts across the Atrium, she started walking, her stride long and purposeful, her muddy boots echoing slightly on the marble. People instinctively moved out of her way, sensing the volatile energy radiating from her.

She reached the lifts just as a harried-looking junior clerk scurried out. Ginny stepped forward, blocking his path.

"Where's Riddle's office?" she demanded, her voice rough.

The clerk jumped, startled, clutching his files protectively. He stared at her muddy attire, then up at her face, recognition dawning mixed with alarm. "M-Mr. Riddle? The Senior Advisor?"

"Yes," Ginny snapped impatiently. "Where?"

"I... I'm not entirely sure, miss," the clerk stammered, clearly intimidated. "He's... high level. Somewhere up in the... the Advisor's Corridor, I think? Level Two? Or maybe Three?" He pointed vaguely upwards with a trembling finger.

"Advisor's Corridor. Level Two or Three," Ginny repeated, filing the information away.

Good enough.

She pushed past the clerk without a word of thanks and stabbed the lift button repeatedly.

The golden grille slid open with a soft chime.

Ginny stepped inside, ignoring the startled looks from the other occupants – two witches discussing cauldron thickness regulations and a wizard engrossed in a memo. She jabbed the button for Level Two.

The lift ascended smoothly, muzak tinkling faintly. The other occupants edged away from her pointedly, pretending to be fascinated by the enchanted notices scrolling across the back wall.

When the lift doors opened onto Level Two, Ginny stormed out into a corridor noticeably quieter and more opulent than the bustling Atrium. Plush carpets muffled footsteps, portraits of previous Ministers regarded passersby with stern expressions, and heavy oak doors bore discreet brass plates indicating various high-level departments.

Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Department of International Magical Cooperation.

Wizengamot Administration Services.

Advisor's Corridor.

This had to be it.

She started down the corridor, scanning the nameplates, ignoring the surprised and disapproving glances from the few Ministry personnel she encountered here – clearly individuals unused to seeing mud-caked Quidditch players marching through their hallowed halls.

"Senior Policy Advisor: Umbridge."

Ginny wrinkled her nose in disgust. Definitely not that one.

"Head of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes: Meadowes."

"Senior Undersecretary to the Minister."

Where was Riddle? His name wasn't obvious. Perhaps his vague title meant he didn't have a standard nameplate? Or maybe he was on Level Three?

Frustration mounted. She was about to try the next door when a familiar, fussy voice cut through the quiet corridor.

"Ginny? Ginevra Molly Weasley, what in Merlin's name are you doing here? And dressed like that!"

Ginny spun around.

Percy Weasley stood halfway down the corridor, near the entrance to the Department of International Magical Cooperation offices, looking utterly horrified.

He was impeccably dressed, as always, in neatly pressed Ministry robes, a badge indicating his position – Junior Assistant Secretary, Department of International Magical Cooperation – pinned precisely on his chest. He clutched a sheaf of parchment tied with official red ribbon.

His eyes widened further as they took in the full extent of Ginny's muddy kit, her disheveled hair, the furious set of her jaw. Recognition of the headlines, the family embarrassment, and her current, alarming state warred on his face.

"Percy," Ginny bit out, turning back towards the corridor she assumed Riddle occupied. "Stay out of this."

"Stay out of this?" Percy scurried towards her, his voice rising in frantic whispers. "Have you lost your mind? Do you know where you are? Who works on this level? You can't just storm around the Ministry looking like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards! Especially not after..."

He gestured vaguely, clearly referring to the slap.

He reached her side, lowering his voice further, grabbing her arm firmly. "Ginny, stop this right now! Where are you going? You look like you're about to commit another assault!"

"Get off me, Percy!" Ginny tried to wrench her arm away, but Percy held tight, his face flushed with a mixture of anger and panic.

"I will not! You're my sister, and you're making a public spectacle! Again! Do you have any idea how this reflects on the family? On Dad? On me?" Percy hissed, his eyes darting nervously down the corridor, likely imagining senior officials witnessing this undignified scene.

"Oh, boo hoo, worried about your precious career, Perce?" Ginny sneered, yanking her arm again, momentarily forgetting her objective in the familiar frustration of dealing with her pompous older brother. "Maybe if you spent less time polishing Fudge's shoes and more time seeing what monsters he employs, you wouldn't be so worried about appearances!"

"Monsters?" Percy looked scandalized. "Are you talking about Mr. Riddle? He's a highly respected Senior Advisor! Influential! And you assaulted him! What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking he's a manipulative bastard who just got me kicked off my team!" Ginny finally roared, momentarily losing control, her voice echoing down the quiet corridor.

Portraits seemed to lean forward curiously.

A door opened slightly down the hall, then quickly shut again.

Percy visibly winced, his grip tightening instinctively. "Kicked off...? Ginny! This is exactly what I mean! You act first, think later! You can't solve problems by shouting and storming into people's offices! This is the Ministry! There are procedures! Rules! You need to calm down and think rationally!"

"Rationally?" Ginny laughed, a harsh, broken sound. "Rationality doesn't work with him! He twists everything! He uses the rules against you! The only language he seems to understand is force!"

"And slapping him worked out so well, did it?" Percy retorted sharply, his face pinched with disapproval. "Now look at you! Sidelined! And probably about to make things ten times worse!"

"I don't care!" Ginny shoved him hard, using her Quidditch-trained shoulder.

Caught off balance, Percy stumbled back, his neat stack of parchment scattering across the plush carpet.

"Ginny!" he yelped, flustered, scrambling to gather the papers.

But Ginny didn't wait. Seizing the opportunity, she spun around and sprinted down the corridor, ignoring Percy's frantic calls behind her.

She didn't know exactly which door was Riddle's, but her anger propelled her forward, locked onto a target.

She reached a section where the corridor branched slightly, marked simply "Senior Advisory Offices." This had to be it.

She scanned the doors – heavy oak, no names, just discreet numbers. Which one?

"Ginny, wait! Stop!" Percy puffed up behind her, having abandoned his scattered papers, his face red with exertion and outrage. He lunged for her arm again.

Ginny sidestepped him neatly, her Chaser reflexes kicking in even now. She fixed her eyes on the door at the very end of the short branch – Number 7.

It felt… right. Secluded. Powerful.

Ignoring Percy’s desperate grab, she marched towards it, her hand reaching for the handle, fueled by a reckless determination that had completely eclipsed reason.

Ginny didn't hesitate.

]] Ignoring Percy's desperate plea, she twisted the heavy brass handle of Door Number 7 and shoved it open, stumbling slightly as she burst into the room beyond.

The contrast was immediate, jarring.

From the relatively bright, plush corridor, she stepped into a space defined by cool shadows and expensive silence.

Tom Riddle's office.

It wasn't overtly large, but it commanded an imposing presence.

Dark, polished mahogany lined the walls, interspersed with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with meticulously ordered, leather-bound volumes – no frivolous novels here, only dense texts on law, history, advanced spellcraft, and perhaps darker subjects masked by innocuous titles.

A large, severe desk, crafted from the same dark wood and kept immaculately clear save for a single, closed file folder and an ornate silver inkstand, dominated the space. Behind it, the wall was dominated by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with forbidding, leather-bound volumes, their spines hinting at arcane knowledge rather than light reading.

It faintly of old parchment, expensive waxing polish, and something else… an underlying coolness, like a deep cellar, devoid of warmth or clutter.

It was a room designed for control, for quiet authority, for thoughts uninterrupted.

Until now.

Tom Riddle was seated behind the desk, not working, but in conversation. He wasn't alone.

Standing before the desk, looking distinctly uncomfortable despite his usual aristocratic poise, was Abraxas Malfoy. He held a thin document, seemingly discussing its contents with Riddle.

Riddle himself looked up the instant the door crashed open.

His head turned, dark eyes narrowing fractionally as he took in the sight of Ginny – wild-eyed, breathing heavily, covered in mud and righteous fury, framed in his doorway like some primitive apparition disrupting his sanctum.

For a split second, genuine surprise registered on his features, quickly followed by a flash of intense annoyance – the displeasure of a perfectly ordered environment being violated by something uncontrolled, unexpected. Then, faster than thought, the mask of composure slammed back into place, though his eyes remained sharp, fixed on her intrusion.

Malfoy spun around, startled, his eyes widening in disdainful recognition as he saw Ginny. "Weasley! What is the meaning of this?" he snapped, clutching the document protectively.

Before Ginny could answer, Percy scrambled into the office behind her, breathless and frantic.

"Mr. Riddle! Sir! My deepest apologies!" Percy gasped, practically bowing, his face flushed crimson with exertion and utter mortification. He waved his hands helplessly towards Ginny. "I am so profoundly sorry for this disruption!"

Riddle’s gaze flickered briefly towards Percy, his expression turning glacial.

The interruption was bad enough; the chaotic, bumbling entrance of a second, equally unwelcome Weasley clearly amplified his displeasure.

Having his private discussions interrupted by a mud-caked termagant was one thing; having her trailed by her panicking, incompetent brother compounded the insult.

"Ginny, come away this instant!" Percy reached out again, grabbing desperately for Ginny’s arm, trying to physically haul her back out of the office, back into the corridor, away from the disapproval radiating from Riddle. "You cannot be here! This is highly inappropriate!"

"Get OFF me!" Ginny wrenched her arm free with surprising strength, stumbling forward a step, further into the room, closer to the desk.

Her eyes never left Riddle’s face.

She ignored Malfoy’s sneer, ignored Percy’s frantic pleas.

Her entire being was focused on the calm, composed figure behind the desk, the architect of her current misery.

She took another step, her muddy boot leaving a distinct print on the otherwise spotless, dark Persian rug. "You!" she spat, pointing a trembling finger at Riddle. "You did this!"

Riddle leaned back slightly in his high-backed leather chair, observing the scene with a detached, almost clinical coldness, though the displeasure lingered in the tightening of his jaw. He steepled his long fingers, resting them lightly on the desk surface.

Malfoy shifted uncomfortably beside the desk, taking a half-step back, clearly sensing Riddle’s rising irritation and wishing himself elsewhere.

Percy looked ready to spontaneously combust from sheer embarrassment and fear.

"Mr. Weasley," Riddle said, his voice dangerously soft, cutting through Percy’s continued apologies.

He didn't look at Ginny yet, his cold gaze fixed squarely on her brother.

Percy froze mid-sentence, snapping to attention. "Y-yes, Mr. Riddle?"

"Your sister," Riddle continued, his tone conveying utter disdain for the situation, "appears to be experiencing some… emotional distress." He glanced pointedly at Ginny’s muddy state, her heaving chest, her blazing eyes.

"And you," – his gaze sharpened on Percy – "appear utterly incapable of managing her."

Percy flinched, colour draining from his face. The implicit criticism of his competence, delivered so calmly by someone whose favour he desperately courted, was devastating. "Sir, I assure you, I tried…"

"Trying is irrelevant," Riddle interrupted smoothly, his gaze flicking briefly towards Malfoy, who immediately straightened, recognizing the shift in tone.

"This disruption," Riddle continued, his voice encompassing both Weasleys and the interruption of his meeting, "is entirely counterproductive."

He turned his attention fully back to Percy, but his words carried weight for both unwelcome guests. "Return to your duties, Mr. Weasley. Your presence here is unnecessary. And frankly," – his eyes flickered towards Ginny with faint contempt – "ineffective."

Before Percy could stammer out an obedient reply, Riddle shifted his gaze slightly, fixing it on Malfoy. "Abraxas," he said, the tone quiet but final, "our discussion regarding the Selwyn artifacts assessment will have to continue at a later time. This… situation requires my attention."

Malfoy blinked, visibly surprised at the abrupt dismissal, clearly not having anticipated being ejected alongside the Weasley.

The document in his hand seemed suddenly unimportant. But years of navigating Riddle’s moods and commands had taught him instant obedience.

There was no flicker of argument, only swift compliance tinged with perhaps a sliver of resentment at being dismissed due to a Weasley's antics.

"Of course, Mr. Riddle," Malfoy murmured, inclining his head respectfully. He carefully placed the document he held onto the corner of Riddle’s desk and stepped back further, eager to remove himself from the suddenly charged atmosphere.

Riddle’s gaze returned to Percy, pinning him with a look that promised future repercussions should his orders be questioned. "Go, Mr. Weasley. Now."

Percy swallowed hard, torn for only a fraction of a second between loyalty to his sister and paralyzing fear of displeasing Riddle. Fear won decisively. "Y-yes, Mr. Riddle. Of course, sir. Right away."

He cast one last, desperate, pleading look at Ginny, urging her silently to behave, before practically fleeing the office.

Malfoy followed him immediately, casting a final, disdainful glance at Ginny before pulling the heavy oak door shut behind them with a soft click, sealing the room in profound silence.

The departure of both Percy and Malfoy shifted the dynamics instantly.

The brief buffer of other presences, however intimidated or ineffective, was gone.

Ginny was left standing alone in the middle of Tom Riddle's imposing office, muddy, furious, and utterly isolated with him.

The adrenaline that had propelled her here began to mix with a cold douse of reality.

She had stormed into his sanctuary, past his defenses, past her own brother's intervention, and forced the dismissal of one of his own associates.

And now?

She met Riddle’s awaiting gaze across the expanse of the desk.

He hadn't moved, hadn't raised his voice beyond those quiet commands.

He simply watched her, his expression unreadable, waiting for her next move, radiating an aura of absolute control. 

Chapter Text

The door clicked shut, the sound echoing unnervingly in the sudden silence.

Percy and Malfoy were gone.

It was just Ginny and Riddle, alone in the imposing office.

Ginny stood marooned on the Persian rug, her muddy boots a violation against its intricate patterns.

The initial wave of explosive anger that had carried her here began to recede slightly, leaving behind the vibrating hum of adrenaline and a dawning, terrifying awareness of her position.

She was in his inner sanctum.

Uninvited. Defiant.

And entirely at his mercy.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her mind raced, caught between conflicting impulses.

Part of her, the part that had driven her here, screamed to unleash the fury still simmering beneath the surface.

Hex him. Jinx him.

Make him feel even a fraction of the helplessness and rage she felt.

Wipe that infuriatingly calm expression off his face.

Her hand instinctively tightened around the wand hidden in her robe pocket. It felt warm, humming faintly with her own volatile magic.

Just one curse. One well-aimed hex…

Then the chilling reality crashed down.

This wasn't a Quidditch pitch scuffle.

This wasn't even the Gilded Snitch reception, buffered by crowds and witnesses.

This was Tom Riddle’s private office within the Ministry of Magic.

An attack here, against him…

Assaulting a Senior Ministry Official, especially one with Riddle's rumored connections and influence?

Azkaban wasn't just a possibility; it felt like a certainty. They wouldn't just throw away the key; they’d bury it under fifty feet of concrete.

Her career wouldn't just be over; it would be obliterated.

She'd be lucky to get a job cleaning cauldrons in Knockturn Alley after something like that, assuming she ever got out.

Perhaps worse than cleaning cauldrons would be ending up like poor Eliphas Thorne, a promising Auror trainee whose career ended abruptly after a "training accident" whispered to involve crossing the wrong influential pure-blood, leaving him capable only of polishing Ministry statues with vacant eyes.

And Azkaban or forced obscurity might not even be the worst outcome.

She thought of the hushed tones used when discussing the permanent residents of the Janus Thickey Ward in St. Mungo’s – witches and wizards whose minds were scrambled beyond repair by curses gone wrong or, perhaps, deliberately inflicted dark magic.

She remembered vague stories, cautionary tales gossiped at Hogwarts, of those who tangled with powerful figures and ended up staring blankly at walls, their memories wiped clean or twisted into unrecognizable shapes.

Riddle wielded power, dark power – she felt it instinctively, saw it in the chilling efficiency of his actions, heard it in fearful deference of people like Malfoy.

What could he do to someone who attacked him directly, here, on his own ground?

St. Mungo’s Spell Damage ward seemed terrifyingly plausible. A permanent resident, conveniently labeled another tragic case of magical instability or perhaps framed as a breakdown from the pressures of fame and her ‘volatile temper’.

He could arrange it. She didn’t doubt it for a second.

The impulse to attack faltered, choked by fear.

So, what then? Apologize?

The thought was almost physically repulsive.

Apologize for being furious that he’d manipulated events to destroy her season?

Apologize for reacting when he deliberately poked at the wound of Harry’s disappearance?

Apologize for existing in a way that clearly annoyed his sense of order?

Never.

Her pride, her ingrained sense of justice, however skewed by anger, recoiled from the idea.

She was trapped.

Too afraid to attack, too proud, and furious to retreat or apologize.

She stood frozen, trembling slightly, mud drying on her robes, her mind a mess, along with conflicting emotions.

Tom Riddle simply watched her, motionless behind the desk. His fingers rested lightly on the polished wood.

His expression was unreadable, patient. He seemed content to let the silence stretch, letting her stew in her  anger and fear, observing her internal conflict.

The faint annoyance she’d seen earlier had vanished, replaced by that familiar, unsettling stillness.

He was back in complete control.

Finally, after a silence that stretched until Ginny felt her nerves might fray completely, he spoke. His voice was quiet, cutting through the tension.

"One assumes," he began, his tone smooth, almost musing, "that such a dramatic, unannounced entrance signifies an urgent matter. Perhaps even," – his lips curved into the barest hint of a humourless smile – "an apology?"

He paused, letting the suggestion hang, knowing full well from the furious blaze in her eyes that no apology was forthcoming.

"Yet," he continued, his gaze sweeping over her muddy attire, her defiant posture, "the evidence before me suggests otherwise. The… rather unfortunate state of your attire… it speaks less of contrition and more of continued agitation."

He leaned forward fractionally, his dark eyes pinning her. "So, state your business, Weasley. Clearly and concisely. Why have you invaded my office and disrupted my work? Unlike you, I am occupied with matters of actual significance, beyond public displays of temper."

The dismissal, the condescending implication that her concerns, her entire life, were trivial compared to his 'significant' work, snapped the last thread of Ginny’s frayed control.

Concise?

He wanted concise?

Fine.

"You think you're so clever, don't you, Riddle? Sitting up here in your neat little office, pulling strings like some puppet master!"

She took another step forward, ignoring the vast expanse of desk separating them, needing to close the distance, to somehow breach his infuriating composure.

"You couldn't stand it, could you? That I wouldn't just roll over? That I talked back? That I wasn't intimidated by you and your pure-blood sycophants?"

Her voice gained volume, fuelled by weeks of frustration. "So you had to interfere! The disciplinary hearing vanishes! Then the 'routine review'! Little nudges, little warnings! And when I didn't scare easily enough, you used the slap – my mistake, I admit it! – but you used it! You whispered in Bagman's ear, threatened funding, whatever it took! All to get me sidelined! To punish me for not bowing down!"

She was practically shouting now, gesturing wildly, heedless of the impropriety, the danger. The words tumbled out, a torrent of accusation. "You call that 'significant work'? Ruining someone's career? Meddling in Quidditch because your fragile ego got bruised? You're pathetic!"

She leaned forward, planting her hands flat on the polished surface of his desk, disrupting its perfect order, bringing her face closer to his.

The smell of damp earth and sweat mingled incongruously with the expensive polish of his office.

"You hide behind Ministry procedures, behind bureaucratic threats! You wouldn't dare face a challenge head-on! You're a coward, Riddle! A manipulative, power-hungry snake hiding in the grass!"

She held his gaze, pouring all her anger, frustration, and pain into the confrontation.

Let him hear it.

Let him know she saw through his polished facade, even if she couldn't fight his influence.

Tom listened to the tirade without interruption. His expression remained calm, his eyes fixed on hers.

He didn’t flinch at the insults, didn’t react to the volume or the proximity.

He simply absorbed the onslaught.

The only indication he was even registering her words was the almost imperceptible tightening of his grip on his fingers.

When her furious outburst finally subsided, leaving her breathing heavily, chest heaving, the silence descended again, thick and heavy.

Ginny remained leaning over the desk, glaring at him, waiting for a reaction, any reaction – anger, denial, anything but this infuriating calm.

He held her gaze for another long moment, his dark eyes seeming to see right through her anger to the fear and helplessness beneath.

Then, he slowly lowered his hands, resting them flat on the desk beside hers. He leaned back in his chair, creating a small distance between them again.

He sighed.

It wasn’t a sigh of anger or frustration, but one of almost bored weariness. It was the sigh of someone forced to endure a tedious display of amateur theatrics.

"Predictable," he murmured, laced with undisguised contempt. "And exceptionally tedious."

He looked at her, truly looked at her then, not as an equal, not even as a significant annoyance, but as something utterly beneath his consideration.

"You barge into my office," he stated, ticking off her actions, "covered in filth, shouting unfounded accusations based on emotional conjecture rather than evidence. You disrupt Ministry business. You display a staggering lack of self-awareness and control. And you expect… what, precisely? An admission? An argument? An apology?"

He gave a short, dry, humourless laugh. "Your perception of the world, Weasley, is as crude and unsophisticated as your methods."

He gestured dismissively towards the door, his patience, however artificial, clearly exhausted. "You have stated your grievances, such as they are. Now remove yourself from my office. Immediately."

The dismissal was absolute, colder, and more cutting than any shouted retort could have been.

He had listened, assessed, and found her wanting – not even worthy of a proper argument, just a tiresome interruption to be swept away.

He turned his attention pointedly towards the closed file folder on his desk, picking it up as if preparing to resume his ‘significant’ work, signalling that, as far as he was concerned, their interaction was definitively over.

Dismissed.

The word echoed in the oppressive silence, colder than the damp chill clinging to Ginny’s mud-caked robes.

He turned away, reaching for the file folder, the gesture an act of erasure, wiping her existence from his immediate concern.

Something fundamental fractured within Ginny.

The fury, the fear, the helplessness – it all coalesced into a single point of intolerable dismissal.

He wasn’t just ignoring her; he was classifying her pain, her passion, her entire being as insignificant background noise.

The risks shimmered before her eyes. Azkaban – not just for assault, but for assaulting him, a man whose influence seemingly permeated every level of the Ministry.

Her career wouldn't just end; it would be meticulously dismantled, ensuring no other team, no Quidditch-related venture, would ever touch her.

Percy’s own fledgling career could be collateral damage.

The gossips about people who crossed powerful figures – careers ending in "unfortunate accidents," reputations systematically destroyed, individuals subtly discredited until they faded into obscurity – suddenly felt chillingly relevant.

She didn't know what Riddle was truly capable of beyond political maneuvering, but she felt the ruthlessness beneath the polish, the dangerous depth hinted at by the fear in Malfoy’s eyes.

The fear was visceral, pressing down on her. Her hand trembled where it rested near her pocket, the wand within feeling both like a potential weapon and a trigger for unimaginable consequences.

But the alternative… to simply turn and walk away, accepting his judgment, validating his dismissal… it was a violation too deep to bear.

Her Weasley pride, her Gryffindor core, refused to be extinguished so easily.

If she was going down, if he was going to crush her, she wouldn't make it easy for him.

She wouldn't be tedious.

She would force him to see her, to react to her, even if that reaction was devastating.

Her hand closed around her maple wand. She drew it smoothly, the familiar weight grounding her even as her heart hammered against her ribs.

The tremor wasn't gone, but it was now overlaid with desperate focus.

She levelled the wand across the expanse of the polished mahogany desk. Not aimed at him directly – a subconscious boundary still held – but aimed with deliberate intent.

Riddle looked up again, his attention drawn instantly. The slight annoyance returned, hardening his features. His dark eyes fixed on the wand tip, then lifted slowly to meet hers.

"A final, foolish gesture, Weasley?" His voice was laced with lethal coldness. "Put it away. Do not escalate this beyond repair. You cannot comprehend the consequences."

His warning barely penetrated the resolve that had gripped her.

She channeled her emotions – rage, fear, desperation, grief, fury – into a single point of destructive magic.

She wouldn't curse him, but she would violate his sanctuary, his pristine, ordered space.

She would make him act.

Her target: the ornate silver inkstand.

"Bombarda!" The incantation ripped from her throat.

A focused sphere of concussive force erupted from her wand tip.

Riddle didn't flinch. His movement was pure economical. His yew wand flicked upwards.

A shield bloomed instantly before the inkstand – not the shimmering bubble of standard shields, but something denser, darker, almost opaque, like solidified shadow. It absorbed the Bombarda curse utterly, swallowing the energy with a dull, sickening thump.

The inkstand remained untouched. The shield vanished.

Ginny stared, stunned by the effortless mastery.

He hadn’t just blocked the spell; he had consumed it.

While she processed this, his free hand gestured subtly towards the door.

CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.

Magical locks engaged.

Sealed in.

Panic slammed into Ginny.

Before the horror could register, his wand moved again, aimed directly at her.

"Expelliarmus!"

The spell struck her hand like a physical blow.

Her fingers spasmed. Her wand was ripped away. Riddle caught it unerringly in his left hand, pocketing it within his robes without a glance.

Disarmed. Locked in. Powerless.

Riddle began to move from behind the desk, circling with terrifyingly, deliberate grace. The shadows clung to him. His silent footsteps whispered on the rug.

Ginny scrambled backwards instinctively, hitting the hard edge of a towering bookshelf. Leather-bound spines dug into her.

Trapped.

He stopped directly in front of her, inches away. His height, his sheer presence, was overwhelming. He plunged her into his shadow.

She could feel the radiating stillness of his power. She could smell the faint, clean scent of expensive soap mingling with the dry aroma of old books.

He slowly raised his right hand, the yew wand held purposefully. Ginny flinched violently, squeezing her eyes shut, pressing herself against the bookshelf.

This was it. The retaliation. The unknown consequence she couldn't comprehend.

She braced herself, mind screaming silently.

The tip of his wand touched her skin, just beneath her chin. Cold. Smooth. Unyielding. It tilted her head upwards, forcing her chin up, compelling her eyes to open.

She met his gaze.

Dark, intense, pupils slightly dilated.

The fire she’d sensed earlier was burning brighter now, an anger far more profound than her own fleeting rage. It was glacial, consuming.

"Utterly foolish," he repeated, his voice a low murmur vibrating into her bones. "To challenge me here. To mistake my patience for weakness."

His eyes bored into hers. "You possess a remarkable capacity for self-destruction, Weasley. This reckless, emotional flailing."

The wand pressed firmer. "What did you truly expect to gain? Beyond proving, conclusively, your inability to control even the most basic impulses?"

His proximity was dizzying. The wand tip was a focal point of terrifying potential energy.

Her breath hitched. Words failed her.

She squeezed her eyes shut again, unable to bear the intensity, the imminent threat. She braced for… something. Pain, violation, erasure…

A heartbeat passed. Then another. The expected agony didn’t come.

Instead… a touch.

Startlingly different. Impossibly gentle.

Fingers, cool, and surprisingly long, brushed against her cheek. Not the wand hand – that remained steady – but his left hand.

The initial contact was feather-light, yet sent a powerful jolt of pure shock through her system. It was so unexpected, so contradictory, her mind struggled to process it.

Her eyes snapped open.

Riddle had lowered his wand hand slightly, the tip hovering near her collarbone. His gaze had shifted, narrowed in intense concentration, focused entirely on the side of her face where his fingers rested.

His thumb, impossibly gentle, began to move with slow, deliberate care across her cheekbone, brushing away a smudge of dried mud.

The coolness of his skin contrasted with the heat flooding her own face. The texture was smooth, yet she felt the faint ridges of his fingerprints.

He seemed completely absorbed in the task, his brow furrowed, as if this tiny speck of dirt was an anomaly demanding meticulous attention. The same intense focus he applied to Ministry documents, now directed at mud on her skin.

The gesture was profoundly intimate, shockingly mundane, performed under lethal threat. It bypassed her defenses, leaving her utterly disoriented.

Her breath caught. A shiver traced down her spine, born of bewildering confusion.

His thumb paused, lingering for a heart-stopping moment against the curve of her cheek. Then, slowly, his hand withdrew.

He examined his thumb briefly, noting the faint trace of mud, before wiping it absently against his dark robes, dismissing the eradicated imperfection.

His gaze lifted, meeting hers once more.

The intense focus returned. The fire was still there, deep within his eyes.

The threat hadn't vanished. But now it was overlaid with something complex, unreadable – a flicker of surprise at his own action?

Or maybe just a renewed, sharper curiosity, piqued by the jarring dissonance he himself had created.

The silence stretched, thick, electric, charged with fear, power, and an unwelcome intimacy.

He had disarmed her, trapped her, threatened her, and then… touched her.

Ginny stared back, completely wrong-footed, mind reeling, unable to decipher the gesture, unsure if she was more terrified now than moments before.

The gentle brush of his fingers against her cheek felt like a brand, unliek the cold pressure of his wand moments before.

Fear, anger, confusion – they swirled within her, a nauseating vortex.

He had trapped her, disarmed her, threatened her, and then… offered a gesture so incongruous, so unsettlingly intimate, it felt like another form of violation entirely.

He watched her now, his dark eyes holding hers captive. The intensity was back, but subtly altered.

He seemed less interested in punishing her outburst and more focused on observing its aftermath, studying her reaction to his deliberate dissonance.

He was testing her, she realized dimly.

Not just her control, but her very perception, deliberately scrambling the signals, throwing her off balance.

Using the charged atmosphere, the fear he had instilled, and twisting it into something… else.

He didn't step back. If anything, he leaned fractionally closer, the subtle invasion of her personal space amplifying the suffocating tension. The clean scent of his robes, the faint warmth radiating from his body – it was too close, too real, setting every nerve on edge.

His gaze dropped from her eyes, travelling slowly down to where the muddy practice robes clung damply to her skin, then back up, lingering for a moment on her flushed cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

It wasn't a leer; it was something like cataloging her physical responses to stress and proximity.

"Remarkable," he murmured, dangerously soft, sending shivers down her spine despite the lingering anger. "Even now, cornered and disarmed, the defiance still burns so brightly."

He raised his left hand again – the hand that had touched her cheek. Ginny flinched instinctively, pressing herself harder against the unyielding spines of the books behind her.

His hand stopped inches from her face.

He didn't touch her skin this time. Instead, with excruciating slowness, his long fingers reached towards a damp strand of red hair that had escaped her braid and clung to her temple.

Ginny held her breath, frozen, unable to pull away, mesmerized by the deliberate movement.

He caught the errant strand between his thumb and forefinger, his touch feather-light yet possessive. He tucked it carefully behind her ear, his knuckles brushing the sensitive skin there.

Another jolt, sharp and electric, shot through her. It wasn't pain; it was pure shock mixed with something shamefully like awareness.

Her breath hitched audibly in the room.

His eyes followed the movement of his own hand, then lifted once more to meet hers, dark and unreadable. "Such vibrant color," he observed, "Like fire. So easily ignited."

Was that… a compliment?

Delivered under threat, laced with possessiveness, it felt more like an assessment, a classification. Like admiring the plumage of a captured bird just before wringing its neck.

He wasn’t trying to seduce her.

He was trying to dissect her.

To understand the fire he provoked, perhaps to better control it, or extinguish it altogether.

The nature of his observation, combined with the unsettling intimacy of the gesture, sent a fresh wave of revulsion through Ginny, warring with the confusing physical sensations his proximity evoked.

"Don't," she choked out, her voice rough with residual anger and newfound confusion. "Don't touch me."

A faint smile touched Riddle’s lips, "I find I have your complete attention now, Miss Weasley. A significant improvement over the… explosive histrionics of moments ago."

He leaned closer still, his face mere inches from hers. She could see the faint, intricate patterns in the dark irises of his eyes, the absolute stillness of his pupils. His cool breath ghosted against her skin.

"Tell me," he whispered, intimate yet menacing, "does this proximity disturb you more than the threat of Azkaban? More than the ruin of your insignificant career?"

He was deliberately blurring the lines, forcing her to confront the confusing tangle of fear and unwelcome physical awareness his presence created.

He was using the tension – born of hatred and power imbalance – as another tool in his arsenal.

Ginny clenched her fists at her sides, digging her nails into her palms, trying to ground herself against the wave of disorientation.

"I hate you," she bit out, the words raw, ripped from her throat. It felt like the only solid thing left to cling to.

"Hatred," Riddle mused softly, his eyes still locked on hers, "is merely another form of intense focus. A powerful energy."

His gaze dropped briefly to her lips, then back to her eyes. "So often… misdirected."

The implication hung heavy in the air. That her hatred, her defiance, even the volatile energy that had led her here, was somehow aimed wrong, wasted on him when it could be… used?

He held her trapped there for another agonizingly long moment, pinned by his proximity, his gaze, the suffocating weight of his power, and the confusing intimacy he had manufactured.

Her skin prickled. Every instinct screamed danger, yet her body felt strangely heavy, hyper-aware of the slightest movement, the faintest shift in his expression.

He was using the tension, the raw energy thrumming between them, to further destabilize her, to assert dominance not just through magic or threats, but through psychological manipulation, exploiting the confusing physical responses that fear and adrenaline could provoke.

Then, as abruptly as he had initiated the proximity, he drew back.

He straightened up, creating a sudden gulf of space between them.

The shift was jarring, leaving Ginny feeling momentarily unbalanced, exposed.

He regarded her coolly, the brief flicker of whatever had prompted the unsettling intimacy gone, replaced by his usual controlled mask.

The intensity remained, but banked now, observational.

"You have provided," he stated, his voice returning to its neutral, precise tone, "a regrettable but instructive demonstration of poor judgment and emotional incontinence."

He gestured once more towards the locked door, a final, absolute dismissal. "Your presence has served its purpose. Leave."

The contrast between the preceding moments of invasive closeness and this abrupt command was brutal, to inflict maximum disorientation.

He had drawn her into a confusing, charged space, then expelled her with disdain.

He turned away from her then, walking back towards his desk with measured steps, presenting his back to her as if she were no longer a threat, no longer even worthy of his direct attention.

He picked up the file folder he had set aside earlier, his focus apparently shifting instantly back to his work.

Ginny stood trembling against the bookshelf, her mind reeling, her body humming with residual tension and confusion.

The hatred still burned, but now it was tangled with the unsettling memory of his touch, the intimacy of his whisper, the profound unease of having her own reactions so expertly manipulated.

She hadn't just been dismissed; she had been dissected, analyzed, and ultimately found predictable.

The lock on the door clicked open audibly, releasing her from physical confinement but leaving her feeling more trapped than ever within the invisible cage of his influence and her own reactions.

The command hung in the air: Leave.

This time, there was no fight left in her, only a bone-deep weariness and the bitter taste of psychological defeat.

Chapter Text

Tom Riddle stood perfectly still, his back deliberately turned towards the now-closed door of his office.

The click of the lock releasing, the faint scuffling sound of Weasley scrambling away, the hurried, uneven rhythm of her retreating footsteps fading down the corridor – each sound registered with unnatural clarity in the sudden, heavy silence.

He did not turn around. Not yet.

He remained facing the expanse of bookshelves, focusing on the precise alignment of the leather-bound spines, imposing order on his immediate field of vision while grappling with the violent disorder within himself.

His hand – the left one, the one that had touched her – felt strangely foreign, tingling slightly, as if contaminated by the brief contact with her skin, with the lingering trace of damp earth and untamed energy.

He resisted the urge to wipe it again, forcing stillness upon himself.

Beneath the immaculate facade of his tailored robes, his heart rate, which had remained steady even during the confrontation, even while disarming her, had accelerated fractionally in those final moments.

A distinct, unwelcome warmth had pooled low in his chest, a purely physical reaction that was as unexpected as it was infuriating.

The realization struck him with the force of an unforeseen curse.

He had wanted her.

In that moment, pinned against the bookshelf, eyes wide with a confusing mix of terror and defiance, mud-streaked, and radiating that infuriating, uncontrolled fire… he had felt a sudden, visceral jolt of possessive desire.

It wasn’t rational.

It wasn’t calculated.

It was primal.

It was unexpected.

It was utterly unwelcome.

It was a desire to not just control, but to consume that fire.

To dominate not just her actions, but the very essence of her defiance.

To see that volatile energy yield completely, absolutely, to his will.

It was a sensation so alien, so contrary to the ambition that drove his existence, that it felt like a betrayal orchestrated by his own body.

He who orchestrated complex manipulations within the Ministry’s highest levels, who dealt with threats like Rookwood with brutal efficiency, who pursued immortality through arcane knowledge and sheer force of will – momentarily distracted, physically stirred, by a mud-caked, hot-tempered Weasley?

Absurd.

Insulting.

Dangerous.

He recalled the distinct effort it had taken to step away from her. His muscles had momentarily resisted the command of his mind.

Pulling his hand back from her hair, taking that step backwards to re-establish distance, had required a conscious exertion of will that left him inwardly reeling.

He had almost lingered.

Almost leaned closer instead of retreating.

Almost allowed the charged silence to stretch further, exploring the confusing currents swirling between them.

Almost lost control.

The thought was chilling.

Control was everything.

It was the foundation upon which his power, his ambition, his very identity was built.

To feel it threatened, even for a fleeting moment, by an uninvited, hormonal surge provoked by her… it was intolerable.

He had masked it, of course. The abrupt withdrawal, the dismissal, the immediate turn towards his desk, the unlocking of the door – all actions designed to reassert dominance, project indifference, erase the preceding moment of unsettling intimacy and his own internal lapse.

He had watched her reflection in the polished surface of a bookshelf spine as she scrambled out. Disheveled, still trembling, casting one last bewildered, hate-filled glance towards his back before practically fleeing down the corridor.

Her lack of composure was predictable, satisfyingly reinforcing his superiority, even as his own composure felt like a freshly constructed, fragile shield.

He allowed himself a slow, deliberate breath, centering himself, forcing the unwelcome physical echo of the encounter to subside.

It was merely biology, he reasoned coldly.

Proximity, adrenaline, the volatile energy she projected – a confluence of factors creating a momentary, meaningless physiological anomaly.

A weakness to be identified, analyzed, and ruthlessly eradicated.

He had never anticipated she would have such an effect.

He had observed her, provoked her, analyzed her reactions as an intellectual exercise, a study in undisciplined potential.

He had intended to demonstrate the futility of her defiance, the reach of his influence.

He had not expected the confrontation to rebound upon himself in such a personal, visceral way.

She was meant to be a piece on the board, albeit a frustratingly unpredictable one. Not… this. Not a disruption that reached past his meticulously constructed defenses to touch something unbidden within.

He turned slowly from the bookshelves, his movements measured, reclaiming the physical space of his office. His gaze swept over the room – the faint muddy print on the rug, the slight disarray near the bookshelf where she had stood trapped.

Imperfections. Intrusions. Reminders of the violation of his control, both external and internal.

With a flick of his wand – his own yew wand, back securely in his hand – the muddy footprint vanished from the rug.

Scourgify. Neat. Tidy.

He walked back behind his desk, the solid barrier of polished mahogany a welcome reinforcement of his authority, his separation. He sat down, the familiar weight of the high-backed leather chair grounding him.

He picked up the closed file folder – the Selwyn artifacts assessment Malfoy had brought. He forced his attention onto the official Ministry seal, the neat label. Matters of actual significance.

Yet, the faint scent of damp earth lingered in the office.

A weakness, he repeated silently, reinforcing the conclusion. An anomaly.

A dangerous, unpredictable variable that had provoked an unacceptable response within himself.

It would not happen again.

He would recalibrate. Adjust his strategy regarding her.

Her potential for disruption, it seemed, was greater than initially assessed – extending even to his own equilibrium.

This required careful consideration. Distance, perhaps. Or a more decisive, less… interactive form of control.

He opened the file folder with deliberate precision, the parchment a welcome anchor to rationality. The complex details of artifact provenance, warding requirements, and acquisition protocols demanded his full attention.

He would immerse himself in the work, purge the unsettling residue of the encounter through sheer intellectual focus.

Control would be reasserted. Absolutely.

But as he began to read the intricate script detailing the Selwyn collection, a single, errant strand of vibrant red hair seemed to flicker at the edge of his vision, a ghost image refusing to be immediately exorcised.

Infuriating.

Ginny stumbled out of the Advisor's Corridor, the door clicking shut behind her like the closing of a vault. Her legs felt shaky, disconnected from the furious energy that still thrummed beneath her skin, now mingled with confusion.

The relative quiet of the Level Two hallway, with its plush carpet absorbing sound and stern portraits judging silently, felt both suffocating and vast after the intense proximity within Riddle's office.

She practically fled towards the lifts, driven by a primal need for escape.

Escape from the intensity of his gaze, from the memory of cool fingers brushing her cheek, from the echo of his dismissive voice.

Escape from the crushing weight of her own powerlessness.

Her hand automatically patted the inner pocket of her robes. Empty.

The reality hit her again, a fresh pang of violation.

He had her wand – it felt like a severed limb.

It was hers, an extension of her magic, and it was now in the possession of Tom Riddle. Likely tucked away in his immaculate robes. The thought sent an involuntary shiver down her spine, revulsion and a strange, unwelcome intimacy.

The irony was a bitter pill.

She, Ginny Weasley, who held her own on the Quidditch pitch against brutal opponents, had stormed the Ministry,, only to be disarmed, psychologically dissected, and dismissed, leaving her most essential tool behind.

Retrieve it? How?

The thought of walking back to that door, of facing him again after… after that… seemed impossible.

What had even happened?

It wasn't just a confrontation; it felt like he'd deliberately twisted the encounter, using fear and proximity to unbalance her, to assert a dominance that went beyond mere authority.

She felt exposed, as if he'd peeled back layers she hadn't even known existed and peered inside.

Could she ask Percy?

She scoffed inwardly. Percy was probably composing a grovelling apology to Riddle right now, possibly offering to polish his shoes or reorganize his files as penance for having such a disruptive sister. He wouldn’t dare approach Riddle about the wand.

Gwenog?

No. The Captain had washed her hands of Ginny's off-pitch conduct.

This was Ginny’s mess, created by her own lack of control.

Leaving her wand with him felt fundamentally wrong, dangerous even.

What might he do with it? Examine its core? Analyze her magical signature?

It felt like leaving a piece of her soul in his grasp. But the alternative – facing him again now, while still reeling – felt like walking willingly back into a predator's den.

Lost in this internal turmoil, Ginny nearly walked straight into a wizard balancing a stack of wobbling metal cauldrons. She sidestepped just in time, earning a muttered curse. She barely registered it, her focus entirely on reaching the lifts, reaching the Atrium, reaching out.

The lift arrived, mercifully unoccupied. She jabbed the button with unnecessary force, leaning her forehead against the metallic wall as the doors slid shut.

Her reflection shimmered back at her from the polished doors – a wild, muddy mess. Hair escaping its braid in damp tendrils, dirt smeared across her cheek (ironically, not the cheek Riddle had touched), eyes wide and slightly haunted beneath the lingering fury.

She looked less like a professional athlete and more like a cautionary tale. The shame burned hot under her skin.

The doors opened onto the space of the Ministry Atrium. The noise, the movement, the sheer scale of the place felt overwhelming after the quiet tension upstairs. Wizards and witches bustled past, golden light gleamed, the fountain plashed – the Ministry carried on, utterly indifferent to her personal crisis.

Head down, trying to make herself smaller, less conspicuous, Ginny headed for the Apparition points tucked away near the Floo network entrances. She just wanted to disappear, to be back in her flat, or better yet, at the Burrow, enveloped in the familiar chaos that suddenly seemed like the safest place in the world.

"Ginny!"

Percy’s voice, sharp with that specific blend of familial exasperation and bureaucratic panic he seemed to have perfected, cut through the Atrium's hum. He emerged from behind a pillar near the fountain, clearly having anticipated her escape route, his face pale and pinched.

"Ginny, for Merlin's sake, slow down!" He hurried towards her, grabbing her arm before she could evade him. "We need to get you out of here before someone else sees you like this! Before Riddle decides to press charges! Do you have any idea—"

"Let go, Percy!" Ginny hissed, trying to pull free, hating the way he was trying to manage her, handle her, fix the situation he perceived.

"I most certainly will not!" Percy hissed back, attempting to steer her towards a side corridor. "You need to leave. Now. Before you compound this disaster any further!"

It was then that another voice joined the fray, quieter but made both Ginny and Percy freeze.

"What is going on?"

Arthur Weasley stood not ten feet away, having emerged from the direction of the lifts servicing the lower levels. His worn tweed Ministry robes looked out of place amidst the sharper tailoring common in the Atrium, but his expression held a quiet authority that instantly commanded his children's attention.

He worked here, of course – Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. A modest position, perhaps, in Percy’s eyes, but one Arthur performed with diligence and integrity.

He must have received an urgent summons from Percy, or perhaps the sheer volume of Ginny's earlier shouts had prompted concerned whispers that reached even his secluded department.

His kind eyes widened slightly as they took in Ginny's appearance – the mud, the dishevelment – and then flickered to Percy’s white-knuckled grip on her arm. The usual worry lines on his forehead deepened considerably.

He knew about the slap, the Prophet articles, the family discussions filled with Molly’s anxiety and Percy’s pronouncements. But seeing Ginny like this, in the heart of the Ministry, clearly signaled an escalation.

"Dad," Ginny choked out.

The sight of him, his inherent decency brought a fresh wave of conflicting emotions.

Relief, yes, but also shame that he had to see her dragged into this mess, potentially jeopardizing his own quiet Ministry existence through her recklessness.

"Dad, thank goodness!" Percy exclaimed, sounding immensely relieved to offload responsibility. "It's Ginny! She barged right into Senior Advisor Riddle's private office! Shouting accusations! Looking like… well!"

He gestured again at Ginny, his face with horrified disapproval. "I tried to stop her, truly I did, but she's completely irrational!"

Arthur’s gaze snapped back to Ginny, alarm clear in his eyes.

Riddle’s private office? 

Even from his corner of the Ministry, Arthur knew that name carried weight, implied power and connections far exceeding his own modest influence.

This was serious. More serious than a public temper tantrum at a party.

"Ginny?" Arthur’s voice was low, with profound concern. "What happened?"

Ginny glared daggers at Percy over her father’s shoulder.

He hadn’t just tattled; he’d immediately framed her as hysterical, reinforcing the very narrative Riddle likely preferred.

You pompous, cowardly git! her eyes screamed silently.

Percy met her glare defiantly, his expression saying, You brought this on yourself!

"Alright, settle down, both of you," Arthur said firmly, stepping between them, gently loosening Percy’s grip on Ginny’s arm. "This is neither the time nor the place."

He glanced around nervously; they were definitely attracting stares now. Wizards paused, pretending to examine the fountain, their ears clearly straining.

"Ginny, come along. We're going home. We'll sort this out at the Burrow."

Home. The Burrow.

Mum’s worried fussing suddenly seemed like a sanctuary.

Safety. Escape.

The urge to simply nod, to let Dad handle it, to Apparate away from this judgmental place, was overwhelming.

But her wand. Riddle still had her wand.

Leaving now felt like abandoning a crucial part of herself to him.

It felt like letting him win completely, retreating with her tail between her legs while he held the symbol of her power, her identity.

She stood rooted to the spot, torn between the need for safety, and the stubborn refusal to concede utter defeat, the weight of her empty wand pocket a mocking reminder of the impossible situation she had created.

The Burrow kitchen felt simultaneously like a sanctuary and a cage.

The familiar scent of baking bread mingled with the faint aroma of woodsmoke from the hearth, sounds drifted in from the garden – the clucking of chickens – all utterly normal, yet feeling strangely alien to Ginny.

She sat slumped at the long, scrubbed kitchen table, clean now thanks to a forceful Scourgify charm Molly had applied the moment they’d stepped through the Floo, but the internal grime of the day felt impossible to wash away.

A mug of lukewarm tea sat untouched before her.

Across the table, Molly Weasley bustled nervously, wiping down an already spotless counter, her hands betraying her anxiety. Her face was etched with worry, but her lips were pressed into a thin line of disapproval that Ginny knew only too well.

She had heard the bare bones from Arthur – Ginny found distraught at the Ministry after some kind of alarming incident near Senior Advisor Riddle's offices, following the already shocking public slap.

Arthur sat beside Molly, nursing his own cup of tea, his gaze distant, occasionally flicking towards Ginny with a deep, troubled concern that felt heavier than Molly’s agitation.

He hadn't pressed Ginny for details on the Floo journey home, sensing her state, but the gravity of finding her muddy, wandless (a fact he'd quietly noted), and clearly having caused another scene involving such a high-ranking official weighed heavily on him.

Percy had stayed behind, naturally – Arthur suspected his third son was likely smoothing ruffled feathers and attempting damage control, his ambition warring with familial obligation.

Into this tense tableau burst Fred and George.

They’d arrived shortly after Arthur flooed Ginny home, their usual boisterous energy slightly muted by the obvious family crisis, but their inherent need to poke at any situation remained intact.

They pulled up chairs, flanking Ginny like slightly mischievous guard dogs.

“So,” Fred began, leaning conspiratorially towards Ginny, examining her face with mock seriousness. “Caused a bit of a stir up at the Ministry again, have we? Heard the teacups were rattling all the way down in Misuse of Muggle Artefacts.” He winked at Arthur, who managed a weak smile.

“It’s hardly a laughing matter, Fred,” Molly scolded automatically, though her worry softened the edge of her voice. “Your sister… well, she’s had a difficult day.”

“Difficult?” George mused, stretching languidly. He was leaner than Ginny remembered from their Hogwarts days, the transition from prankster student to businessman adding a subtle sharpness, though the twinkle in his eye remained. “Sounds like more than difficult. Sounds like our Ginny encountered something significantly more troublesome than a faulty Flobberworm.”

He peered at Ginny. “This Riddle fellow, then? The one from the Prophet? What’s his story? Bad breath? Secretly supports the Chudley Cannons?”

Thwack.

Molly’s hand connected lightly with the back of George’s head, a familiar reflex. “George! Honestly! Can’t you be serious for one moment?”

“Trying to lighten the mood, Mum,” George grinned, rubbing his head. “Atmosphere in here is thicker than cauldron fudge.”

He turned back to Ginny, his expression gentling slightly. “Seriously though, Gin. You look like you’ve gone ten rounds with a troll. What happened up there?”

Ginny flinched inwardly at the direct question.

How could she explain?

The confrontation, the manipulation, the disarming, the unsettling intimacy of Riddle’s touch… the words felt lodged in her throat - shame and confusion.

She remained silent, staring down into her cold tea, tracing the rim of the mug with her finger.

“She clearly doesn’t want to talk about it right now, boys,” Arthur said quietly, placing a comforting hand briefly on Ginny’s arm. His eyes met the twins’ over Ginny’s head, conveying a silent message to back off.

“Right,” Fred said, catching the signal. He leaned back, adopting a thoughtful pose. “Well, whatever this Riddle bloke did, sounds like he needs a good dose of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes finest. Maybe a Puking Pastille slipped into his morning pumpkin juice? Or perhaps something more… lingering? We’ve got a new line of Fainting Fancies that are proving quite effective…”

“Subtle, Fred,” George murmured approvingly.

“Fred Weasley!” Molly gasped, horrified. “Ginny will do no such thing!”

“Just brainstorming, Mum,” Fred said innocently, though his eyes sparkled. “Stress relief.”

Molly wrung her hands. “Stress relief is the last thing on my mind! Arthur, what are we going to do? First the slap, now this… confronting him in his office… What if he makes trouble? For Ginny? For the Harpies? For… for you?” Her voice trembled slightly on the last word, her fear for her husband’s quiet Ministry position evident.

Arthur sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “I don’t know, Molly. Mr. Riddle… he’s not someone to be trifled with, from what I hear. Percy is undoubtedly correct about the seriousness of Ginny confronting him.”

He looked at Ginny again, his expression troubled. “Ginny, whatever happened, barging in like that… it wasn’t wise. There are channels, procedures…”

Ginny finally looked up, meeting her father’s worried gaze.

Channels? Procedures?

They felt useless against someone like Riddle, someone who manipulated the system from within.

But how could she articulate that without sounding paranoid, without revealing the full extent of her terrifying encounter?

She just shook her head mutely, dropping her gaze back to the table.

The helplessness washed over her again.

Ginny felt trapped by their scrutiny, their worry, their attempts at humour, their unspoken questions.

She felt the phantom weight of her wand in her empty pocket.

She saw Riddle’s dark eyes, felt the ghost of his cool fingers against her cheek.

She heard his dismissive voice, “Predictable. And exceptionally tedious.”

Ginny kept her eyes fixed on the swirling patterns in her cold tea.

Fred, never one to tolerate prolonged quiet, especially awkward quiet, broke the silence again. He leaned forward, cupping his hand to his mouth as if sharing a great secret, though his voice carried easily across the table.

“You know, Gin,” he stage-whispered dramatically, “that slap heard ‘round the room? Did you use your Chaser arm? Bet he didn’t see that coming. Probably used to people just swooning or handing him their wallets.”

George snickered. “Ten points to Gryffindor, I’d say. Though maybe minus fifty for doing it where Skeeter could get a picture. Bad form, Ginny-kins. Should have waited till he was adjusting his presumably reptile-skin underpants in a dark alley.”

Thwack! Thwack! 

Molly delivered swift, consecutive raps to the backs of both twins’ heads. “Fred! George! Stop it this instant! This is serious! Your sister could be in real trouble!”

“Ow! Mum!” Fred protested, rubbing his head. “Just trying to understand the tactical nuances! Did he cry? Did his monocle pop out? Did little puffs of smoke come out of his ears? Enquiring minds want to know!”

“Did he at least look startled?” George added, genuinely curious beneath the joke. “The picture in the Prophet only shows him looking vaguely annoyed, like someone spilled tea on his important Ministry documents.”

“That’s because he probably was just vaguely annoyed!” Molly fretted, starting to pace between the table and the stove. “Men like that… powerful men… they don’t react normal. They just… make arrangements. Arthur, are you sure no one saw her leaving his office looking so… upset?”

“Molly, dear, we can’t know for sure,” Arthur sighed, looking increasingly weary. “The important thing now is that Ginny is home, she’s safe…”

“Safe for now, maybe,” Fred interjected, his expression sobering slightly as he studied Ginny’s slumped posture. “But this Riddle bloke getting slapped… and then Ginny apparently storming his office today… that’s not going to just blow over, is it?”

He looked directly at Ginny. “So, what’s the damage then, Gin? Aside from Percy probably needing Calming Draughts for a month? What did Gwenog say? Harpies management?”

The direct question, the one Ginny had been dreading. 

George leaned forward too, his joking demeanor replaced by genuine concern. 

Even Molly paused her pacing, her worried eyes fixed on Ginny, waiting for the answer. 

Arthur’s hand tightened briefly on his teacup.

They knew about the slap, had read the Prophet speculation. But the actual consequences, the professional fallout… that was the unspoken fear underlying Molly’s anxiety and Arthur’s deep concern.

Ginny flinched inwardly. 

The words echoed in her mind: Off the active roster. Indefinitely. Likely for the rest of the season.

The humiliation washed over her again, hot and sickening. 

How could she say it? 

Admit to her family, especially Fred and George who knew how much Quidditch meant to her, that she’d let her temper sabotage everything? 

That she’d let Riddle win so completely?

She couldn't meet their eyes. She shook her head again, a small, almost imperceptible movement, keeping her gaze fixed firmly on the tabletop. 

The silence from her felt louder, heavier than any shouted confession.

The twins exchanged a look, their usual banter momentarily silenced by the depth of Ginny's withdrawal. They knew their sister; her silence spoke volumes, confirming their fears far more effectively than words.

Fred’s hand reached out, resting lightly on her shoulder. A rare gesture of uncomplicated comfort from him. “Right,” he said quietly, understanding dawning in his voice. “That bad, eh?”

George let out a low whistle. “Gwenog Jones sidelined you? For the slap?”

Molly gasped softly, her hand flying to her mouth. 

Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, the confirmation hitting him with visible weight.

The joking facade dissolved completely. 

The seriousness of Ginny’s actions, the real-world consequences orchestrated perhaps by forces they didn’t truly understand, settled over the Burrow kitchen. 

Her passion, her career, seemingly extinguished by one impulsive act, and the machinations of a powerful, unseen hand.

Chapter Text

Molly finally sank onto a chair opposite Ginny, her bustling energy deflated, leaving only worried exhaustion. She reached across the table, tentatively covering Ginny’s hand with her own warm, slightly flour-dusted one. “Oh, Ginny, dear. Sidelined? For how long?”

Ginny couldn’t answer. She just shook her head again, unable to voice the word ‘indefinitely’. The finality of it felt too sharp, too brutal to speak aloud in the comforting chaos of her childhood home.

Arthur sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. “Gwenog Jones is a fair woman, but she’s fiercely protective of her team. If the Ministry… if pressure was applied…”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence.

The implications hung there – political interference, Riddle’s unseen hand squeezing the life out of Ginny’s career.

“Pressure?” Fred scoffed, though the humor was gone from his voice, replaced by a hard edge. “Sounds more like blackmail. Threaten the team’s funding unless they ditch Ginny? Sounds like something Malfoy’s father would pull, only… slicker.”

“It’s Riddle,” George stated flatly, his gaze fixed on Ginny’s downcast face. “Has to be. Payback for the slap, delivered with a Ministry quill instead of a curse. Cowardly git.”

“George!” Molly admonished weakly, though the fire had gone out of her disapproval.

The reality of the situation, the unfairness, was sinking in even for her.

Ginny pulled her hand back from her mother’s, needing space, needing air. She stood up abruptly, the movement jerky, agitated. “I… I need to…”

She didn’t know what she needed.

To scream? To break something?

To fly until her lungs burned, except she couldn’t, not really, not with the team.

She escaped the oppressive sympathy of the kitchen, heading towards the rickety stairs leading up to her old bedroom. The familiar creak of the steps under her weight felt both comforting and mocking. This was her refuge, but it also felt like a cage now, a place she’d been forced back into.

Upstairs, her small room under the eaves was exactly as she’d left it months ago – Quidditch posters peeling slightly at the corners (Harpies alongside old Gryffindor banners), a clutter of books, worn Chudley Cannons bedding she hadn’t bothered changing. It felt like the room of a girl she barely recognized anymore.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, the springs groaning in protest.

The window looked out over the rambling garden and the orchard beyond. Usually, the view calmed her. Today, it just emphasized her confinement.

Sidelined.

Grounded.

And wandless.

The empty pocket felt like a constant, physical ache, a phantom limb reminding her of her vulnerability, of Riddle’s final, dismissive victory. He hadn’t just taken her means of defense; he’d taken a part of her identity.

How could she fight back, how could she do anything, without her wand?

The thought of it resting in his possession, potentially examined, analyzed… it made her skin crawl. It felt intimate in the worst possible way, another layer of violation.

Hours passed in a blur of restless inactivity.

She changed out of the muddy practice kit, scrubbing her skin raw under the shower as if trying to wash away the memory of his touch, his proximity.

She paced the small room, picked up books only to drop them unread, stared out the window at the unchanging view.

Downstairs, she could hear the muted sounds of her family trying to maintain normalcy – Molly cooking determinedly, Arthur pottering in the shed, Fred and George likely huddled in their room, possibly concocting elaborate, impractical revenge schemes involving Dungbombs and Ministry ventilation systems. Their protective anger was a comfort, but ultimately useless against the kind of power Riddle wielded.

Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the dusty windowpane when the tapping began.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

An owl.

Not Errol, the Weasleys’ ancient, perpetually bewildered bird, but a sleek, official-looking Ministry owl, grey and imperious, rapping sharply at the glass.

Ginny’s stomach plummeted. She hesitated, half-expecting it to carry some dire summons, some further decree from Riddle’s domain. But owls didn’t wait.

She slid the window open.

The owl hopped inside haughtily, extended a leg bearing a roll of stiff parchment sealed with a minor departmental seal – not the imposing main Ministry crest, but something lesser, bureaucratic – and waited impatiently.

With trembling fingers, Ginny untied the parchment. Her eyes scanned the neatly typed lines.

It wasn’t from Riddle directly. It wasn’t even from Bagman this time. It was a standard notification from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement’s Player Registration Office.

Dear Miss G. M. Weasley,

Further to recent communications from the Department of Magical Games and Sports regarding your current status within the British and Irish Quidditch League, this notice serves as a formal record of your transition to ‘Inactive Roster – Pending Review’ for the Holyhead Harpies, effective immediately.

Please be advised that during this period, your League participation privileges are suspended. Access to certain League-affiliated facilities may require specific clearance.

Furthermore, in light of the events precipitating this review, you are strongly advised to avoid any actions that could be construed as controversial or detrimental to the public image of the League or the Ministry of Magic. Full cooperation with any future inquiries is expected.

Failure to adhere to these advisories may result in further disciplinary action, up to and including permanent revocation of League registration.

Sincerely,

Harold Trimble
Deputy Head, Player Registration Office
Department of Magical Law Enforcement

It was dry. Bureaucratic. Impersonal.

Yet the message was chillingly clear.

Formal confirmation of her sidelining. Vague warnings about facility access. And the explicit threat: avoid controversy, cooperate, or face permanent expulsion.

Stay quiet. Stay down. Don’t cause trouble.

It felt like chains tightening around her, wrapped in official parchment and polite threats.

Full cooperation with any future inquiries… Whose inquiries? Riddle’s?!

And her wand… how could she even cooperate, defend herself, or simply exist normally in the wizarding world without it?

The owl hooted impatiently, demanding payment or dismissal. Ginny automatically offered it a Knut from a small jar on her windowsill, her mind racing.

This wasn’t just about being sidelined anymore.

This was about control, about silencing her, about ensuring she remained grounded and powerless while Riddle continued his ascent, untouchable.

She watched the owl swoop out the window and disappear into the twilight sky.

The helplessness threatened to suffocate her again.

She crumpled the official notice in her fist.

What could she do?

Appeal?

To whom?

Bagman? Fudge? They were either complicit or terrified of Riddle themselves.

Go to Dumbledore? He was powerful, yes, but deliberately kept himself removed from Ministry politics, and involving him felt like escalating things to a level she couldn’t possibly manage, potentially painting an even larger target on her back.

No. Appealing through official channels was pointless. Trying to fight Riddle head-on had proven disastrous.

She sank back onto the bed, the crumpled parchment digging into her palm.

Her gaze fell on her reflection in the darkening windowpane.

Defeated.

Powerless.

Wandless.

Is this it? Is this how it ends?

But as she stared at her own reflection, another image surfaced – Riddle’s face, inches from hers. The faint smirk as he dismissed her. The way he’d used proximity, intimacy, confusion as weapons alongside overt power.

He expected her to crumble. To stay quiet. To accept her fate.

He thought she was predictable. Tedious.

Something cold and hard settled in Ginny’s stomach, displacing the helplessness. It wasn’t the explosive heat of her usual temper; it was different. A slow-burning, icy resolve.

Fine.

She couldn’t fight him directly. She couldn’t appeal to the system he manipulated. But she wouldn’t just sit here and wait for him to decide her future.

If she couldn’t reclaim her power through Quidditch, if she couldn’t reclaim her wand through confrontation, then she needed something else.

Information. Understanding.

She needed to know why.

Why her? What was his endgame? What vulnerabilities lay hidden beneath that impenetrable facade?

Knowledge was power, wasn’t it? Her dad always said that, usually when trying to get her interested in Muggle mechanics or Ministry regulations. Maybe he was right.

She couldn’t beat Riddle physically or politically.

The first, most glaring obstacle was the absence of her wand.

The empty pocket felt like a gaping wound, a constant reminder of her vulnerability and Riddle's final, dismissive control. Every instinct screamed for the familiar maple wood, the conduit for her magic, the very tool that defined her as a witch in this world.

Without it, she felt fundamentally incomplete, handicapped.

How could she possibly find leverage against Riddle, understand his past, or even simply navigate the world safely, wandless?

Asking him for it back was laughable, suicidal even.

Admitting its loss to anyone else felt like broadcasting her humiliation and defeat.

Explaining how it came to be in his possession was utterly unthinkable.

Yet, inaction felt like slow suffocation.

She needed a wand. Not her own – that felt impossibly distant – but a wand. Something functional, anonymous.

There was only one place in the Burrow likely to contain such an item, acquired through means best left unexamined: Fred and George's room-turned-laboratory.

Steeling herself, Ginny headed towards the chaotic epicenter of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes development. The familiar fizzing sounds and the scent of experimental sweets drifted under the door. She pushed it open.

Fred was attempting to charm a rubber chicken to tap-dance, while George peered intently at a blueprint covered in frantic annotations and scorch marks. They looked up as she entered, their identical expressions immediately clocking her subdued state, as opposed to the fury that had propelled her upstairs earlier.

“Well, look what the Kneazle dragged in,” Fred commented, setting the rubber chicken aside (it promptly fell over). “Thought you might be hibernating until next Quidditch season.”

“Or plotting elaborate revenge involving Nosebleed Nougat and the Ministry water cooler,” George added, glancing up from the blueprint. “We’re open to suggestions, by the way. Project ‘Riddle Me Regrets’ needs fresh input.”

Ginny managed a weak smile. “Tempting. But no. I… need something.”

“Anything for our grounded sibling,” Fred said gallantly, sweeping a pile of prototype Skiving Snackboxes off a stool. “Spit it out.”

Ginny hesitated, picking her words carefully. “I need… a spare wand.”

The twins exchanged a look. Not surprised, exactly, but observant.

They didn’t ask the obvious question – why? They saw her distress, her subdued anger, the way she unconsciously patted her empty robe pocket.

“Right,” George said smoothly, already moving towards the battered trunk under the workbench. “One’s own wand feeling a bit… temperamental, is it? Uncooperative? Decided to Apparate to Aruba without leaving a forwarding address?”

“Happens to the best of us,” Fred added sagely, nodding. “Wands can be fickle beasts. Especially when subjected to… stressful encounters.”

Ginny felt a wave of gratitude for their deliberate lack of direct questioning. They understood enough without needing the humiliating details.

George opened the dented metal box retrieved from the trunk. “Standard procedure in these delicate situations,” he announced, laying out the selection of miscellaneous wands. “The Arsenal of Anonymity. We have the usual suspects…” He pointed dismissively at a questionable backup wand. “Or, for the discerning witch seeking discretion…”

He picked up the plain, dark wand again. “The Leaky Cauldron Special. No history, no allegiance, no questions asked. Silent as a sphinx, useful as… well, a wand.”

Ginny took it, the unfamiliar wood cool against her palm. It lacked the life, the connection of her maple wand, but it felt solid, functional. A tool.

“This is perfect,” she murmured, slipping it into her pocket. The weight felt reassuring, even if the magic wasn't truly hers. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Fred said, leaning back. “So. Armed and anonymous. What’s the plan? Because you don’t look like someone planning quiet knitting practice.”

Ginny took a breath, formulating her next request carefully. She couldn’t tell them she was investigating Riddle directly; it felt too dangerous, potentially implicating them if things went wrong. She needed a plausible reason to access Percy’s old things.

She looked at them earnestly. “Percy… he was always obsessed with rules, procedures, Ministry workings, even back at Hogwarts. Especially when he was a Prefect, dealing with… difficult situations.”

She chose her words carefully. “I was wondering… did he ever keep records? Notes? About how Prefects or the Head Boy handled serious incidents? Stuff involving rule-breaking, maybe even Ministry involvement or pressure during crises? Things were chaotic then. How did the student leadership handle it? Did Percy document any of it?”

It was flimsy, perhaps, but plausible.

Framing it as research into precedent, into how authority figures managed difficult situations during stressful times at Hogwarts, avoided naming Riddle directly while steering towards the specific year she needed – Percy’s sixth year, Riddle’s Head Boy year.

Fred scratched his chin. “Our Percy? Document things? Does Gilderoy Lockhart like mirrors?” He grinned. “Of course he did. Probably has minutes from meetings about organizing the sock drawer rota. His Hogwarts stuff is definitely up in the attic, buried under Mum’s attempts to throw it out.”

“Sixth year logbook,” George mused, tapping his chin. “Prime Percy territory. Detailing every patrol, every point deducted, every perceived slight against Ministry-approved protocol. If anyone documented the bureaucratic side of a crisis, it’d be him.” He shrugged.

“Right then,” Fred declared, rubbing his hands together with glee. “Operation Attic Dust Bunny commences! George, grab the Extendable Ears, just in case Mum tries to stage an intervention about ‘disturbing perfectly good storage’.”

“Already got ‘em,” George confirmed, producing the flesh-colored strings from a pocket overflowing with Fanged Frisbees. “Lead the way, oh sister mine. Let’s unearth the thrilling chronicles of Percy Weasley, Prefect Extraordinaire.”

Ginny hesitated, holding up a hand. “Actually… thanks, guys, but maybe… maybe I should do this part alone?”

Fred and George paused, looking surprised.

“Alone?” Fred echoed. “But attic spelunking is a team sport! Think of the spiders! The potential for finding embarrassing baby photos of Ron! The sheer boredom of sifting through Percy’s paperwork without expert commentary!”

“Exactly,” Ginny said, forcing a small smile. “It’s Percy’s stuff. Probably deadly dull. And honestly…” She let the smile fade, her expression turning serious. “This is… something I need to figure out myself. It feels personal right now. I need to get my head around it without… distractions.”

She saw the understanding flicker in their eyes.

While they were fiercely protective and eager to help (or meddle), they also recognized the stubborn streak of independence in their younger sister, especially now, when she felt cornered and defensive.

Turning her investigation into another Weasley family caper might undermine the seriousness of her purpose.

Plus, she needed privacy. If she found something potentially sensitive, involving her brothers felt reckless.

George studied her for a moment, then shrugged, pocketing the Extendable Ears. “Alright, Gin. Your dusty quest, your rules. But if you encounter any Boggarts disguised as Ministry filing cabinets, give a yell. We’ve got some prototype Banishing Boomerangs that need field testing.”

“And try not to get buried under seven years’ worth of Percy’s meticulously cross-referenced patrol schedules,” Fred added. “We’d eventually notice you were missing, probably around dinnertime.” He grinned, clapping her lightly on the shoulder. “Go on then. Conquer the attic.”

Grateful for their understanding, Ginny headed towards the narrow, creaking staircase that led up to the Burrow’s attic.

The air grew warmer, dustier, as she ascended. The attic was a repository of forgotten Weasley history – broken toys, outgrown clothes, stacks of old Daily Prophets, Molly’s collection of Celestina Warbeck records, and, somewhere amidst the clutter, the carefully labelled boxes containing each child’s Hogwarts detritus.

Locating Percy’s section wasn’t difficult; his boxes were the neatest, labelled in precise, block lettering. Finding the specific box marked “Hogwarts – Sixth Year” took a bit more digging. She dragged it towards the dusty dormer window, sneezing as disturbed dust danced in the sunbeams.

Sitting cross-legged on the floorboards, Ginny lifted the lid.

Inside lay Percy’s sixth-year life: textbooks, essays, Prefects’ duty rotas… And there, nestled beneath Advanced Potion-Making, was the thick, leather-bound logbook: “Prefect Duties – P. Weasley – Sixth Year.”

Her heart jumped.

This was Percy’s contemporary record of the year Riddle was Head Boy, the year Myrtle Warren died.

She opened it carefully.

Percy’s neat handwriting filled the pages – patrol times, points deducted, infractions observed. Riddle’s name appeared occasionally, always formally: “Met with Head Boy Riddle re: patrol coordination.” “Head Boy Riddle addressed Prefects…”

Percy clearly admired Riddle’s authority.

Ginny started skimming, focusing on the timeframe around Myrtle's death.

There was an entry noting the tragic event: M. Warren discovered deceased, third-floor girls' lavatory. Prof. Dumbledore informed. Access restricted.

Followed by notes on increased patrols requested by Dumbledore to maintain order and prevent student panic.

Percy noted the atmosphere was "understandably tense," particularly near the site of the incident.

Was this it? Just procedural notes?

Then, tucked towards the back, within a section Percy used for less formal notes, she found loose sheets of parchment. The handwriting was still Percy’s, but slightly messier, less formal. Context clues placed them in the weeks following Myrtle's death.

One page contained a list under the heading “Incident Follow-Up / Concerns – M. Warren”:

• Third floor girls’ lavatory – Access remains restricted. Cause of death officially ruled tragic accident (Ministry liaison confirmed). Persistent rumors among students re: cause? (Unsubstantiated – monitor & discourage panic).
  (Percy accepting the official line, but noting the student whispers.)
  
• Interviewed students found near lavatory prior? Prefect Diggory (Hufflepuff) mentioned seeing O. Hornby distressed nearby earlier that day? Follow up.
  (Percy doing his due diligence, trying to piece together timelines.)
  
• Emotional distress among younger students, particularly Hufflepuffs & Ravenclaws. Ensure adequate support/supervision.
  (Standard Prefect concern.) 
  
  
• Head Boy Riddle assisting Prof. Dumbledore with coordinating student welfare checks & maintaining calm. Commendable leadership during difficult time.
  (Here it was – Percy’s admiration shining through, seeing Riddle only as a figure of authority providing stability.)  
  
  
• Restricted Section access logs – Minor query re: sign-out procedure for volume on [Ink smudge again, deliberate or accidental? Ginny squinted. It looked like it might start with 'Secrets...' or maybe 'Darkest...'] Verify with Madam Pince if related to advanced coursework.
  (Percy connecting it to studies, minimizing its potential significance.)
  
  

Ginny stared at the list, a different kind of frustration building.

Percy hadn't seen Riddle as suspicious at all. He saw him as a capable Head Boy helping manage a crisis. His notes focused on Myrtle, the student reactions, the official explanations. He wasn't looking for darkness in the Head Boy; he was looking for order amidst tragedy.

She turned to the next loose sheet – the draft notes for a potential report, possibly to Dumbledore.

Report Draft – M. Warren Incident Follow-Up (Internal Prefect Ref.)

Tragic accident confirmed by Ministry.

Student body anxious but generally calm under Head Boy Riddle’s effective coordination of Prefect patrols and welfare checks.

Minor procedural matters: Rumors persist despite official ruling (standard vigilance required). Emotional support needed for younger years.

Note: O. Hornby interview confirms distress near lavatory prior to discovery – claimed M.W. was upset/crying but details vague/inconsistent. Hornby seemed unusually fearful herself, possibly guilt or attention-seeking? Dismissed.

Note: Library log query re: advanced text [Same smudge, perhaps even darker now] pending verification with Madam Pince (likely standard assignment query).

Conclusion: Situation regrettable but contained. No evidence suggests foul play or ongoing threat related to incident itself. Standard protocols sufficient.

Ginny read it again.

Percy hadn't seen it. He hadn't connected the dots Ginny felt were screaming from between the lines.

He dismissed student rumors. Ginny wondered what those rumors truly were, if they whispered about more than just ghosts or accidents.

He noted Olive Hornby's distress but dismissed it as vague, inconsistent, maybe guilt or attention-seeking. But Percy also noted Olive seemed fearful.

Fearful of what? Or whom?

Could Olive have seen something related to Riddle near the bathroom or library that scared her into silence or inconsistency?

He minimized the Restricted Section query, linking it to advanced coursework. Ginny felt a growing certainty that the smudged title held significance, something Riddle wouldn't want easily associated with him, especially not around the time of an unexplained death.

What dark secrets, what forbidden arts could be found in a book titled Secrets of the Darkest Art or Magick Moste Evile?

Percy, in his admiration for authority and order, had meticulously documented facts but failed to see the potential pattern Ginny now perceived.

He saw commendable leadership; Ginny saw potential manipulation and cover-up.

He saw unreliable student distress; Ginny saw possible fear stemming from witnessing something connected to Riddle.

He saw a library query; Ginny saw Riddle pursuing dangerous, forbidden knowledge contemporaneous with a mysterious death.

This wasn't evidence of murder. It wasn't concrete proof of anything specific.

But it painted a deeply disturbing picture: Tom Riddle, the perfect Head Boy, secretly delving into the darkest arts from Restricted Section books around the time a fellow student died mysteriously nearby, with at least one potential witness (Olive Hornby) exhibiting fear that Percy dismissed.

This felt significant. It hinted at a hidden darkness, a potential ruthlessness masked by impeccable behaviour. It suggested Riddle's interest in forbidden magic began early and coincided with suspicious events.

Could she use this?

Not publicly, certainly.

But letting Riddle know she possessed Percy’s logbook, that she saw the fear in Olive Hornby's dismissal, that she was curious about the specific smudged book title and his access to it during that sensitive time… that felt like a more subtle, more dangerous form of leverage.

It suggested she wasn't just reacting emotionally based on their recent encounters, but actively digging into his carefully curated past, finding inconsistencies, questioning the official narrative he had likely helped shape.

It positioned her not just as the victim of his manipulations, but as someone actively investigating his history, potentially connecting dots he thought long buried.

The danger remained immense. But the potential shift in dynamic felt significant.

She wasn’t just the angry Chaser anymore. She was the keeper of potentially compromising questions about his past, rooted in his own Prefect's contemporary notes.

She carefully folded the loose pages, tucking them securely away with the photograph.

These were her weapons now, however fragile.

The implications of Percy's dismissed notes settled heavily on Ginny as she sat amidst the attic dust.

Riddle wasn't just a manipulative Ministry official; his darkness had roots stretching back to Hogwarts, potentially entangled with Myrtle Warren's death through his pursuit of forbidden magic.

The smudged book title, Olive Hornby's fear – these weren't proof, but they were threads, loose ends of his perfect past.

Pulling on those threads felt terrifyingly risky, yet infinitely more proactive than simply enduring her suspension.

Knowledge, even fragmented knowledge like this, felt like the only weapon she had left against his overwhelming influence.

Just as she was carefully placing the notes and the photograph inside her robe pocket, the sharp tap-tap-tap of an owl sounded downstairs.

Footsteps approached the attic stairs.

“Ginny? Owl for you!” Molly called up, her voice holding that familiar note of trepidation, likely fearing another official Ministry communication.

Ginny quickly closed Percy’s box, pushed it back into place, and hurried down the stairs, her mind racing, the newly discovered notes feeling heavy, almost radioactive, against her skin.

Molly stood at the bottom, holding out the familiar Harpies communication owl parchment.

“It’s from Gwenog, dear,” Molly said, handing it over, relief washing over her face that it wasn't another Ministry summons.

Ginny’s stomach clenched.

In the intensity of her discovery, she had completely forgotten about the outside world, about her suspended obligations.

She unrolled the parchment, already anticipating the contents.

Weasley,

Your absence from today’s practice session has been noted. While your current status restricts match participation, it does NOT excuse you from mandatory team conditioning, tactical briefings (observer status), or basic professional courtesy.

Your official Ministry notification regarding Inactive Roster status requires you to maintain fitness and cooperate. Disappearing without notice fulfills neither requirement and reflects poorly on your commitment, regardless of circumstance.

Report to the pitch tomorrow morning, 0700 sharp, ready for conditioning drills.

Do NOT make me send this owl again.

Jones.
Captain, Holyhead Harpies.

Gwenog’s fury radiated off the parchment. Ginny winced.

Another mess to face. She had let her personal turmoil completely overshadow her professional responsibilities, however limited they now were.

But the summons also solidified her timeline. The Wigtown Wanderers match was Saturday. Less than three days away. Gwenog expected her at the pitch tomorrow.

Would Riddle attend the match?

After the public slap and her subsequent office invasion, his presence would certainly draw attention. He might avoid it to maintain distance.

Or… he might attend precisely because of the recent events, wanting to observe her, gauge her reaction to the suspension, reinforce his control by appearing unfazed.

Ginny suspected the latter. He wouldn't want to appear driven away by her actions.

If he was there, Saturday was her opportunity. Not for a public confrontation – she wouldn't make that mistake again – but for something subtler.

A carefully placed word?

A seemingly innocent question referencing Percy's old Prefect duties, or perhaps a vague query about difficult library acquisitions during his seventh year?

Something designed to let him know, privately, that she had looked beyond the surface, that she held Percy’s notes, that she was connecting dots he likely wanted forgotten.

It was a gamble. Might make him reconsider the value of continuing to provoke her. Might, just might, make him back off slightly.

The walk back onto the Harpies’ training pitch the next morning felt like swallowing shards of glass. Every familiar sight – the slightly worn goalposts, the damp Welsh mist clinging to the grass, the distant silhouette of Holyhead mountain – seemed to mock her diminished status.

She wasn’t Ginny Weasley, aggressive Chaser, anymore. She was Ginny Weasley, sidelined liability, present only under duress.

She arrived precisely at 0700, clutching the anonymous wand in her pocket like a talisman. Her practice kit was clean, her hair neatly braided.

Outwardly, she projected compliance, unlike the furious, muddy figure who had stormed the Ministry less than twenty-four hours prior.

The team was already gathered, stretching quietly, the atmosphere subdued. Gwenog stood apart, conferring with Carys Pritchard, her back deliberately turned towards the changing room entrance.

Ginny took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and walked onto the pitch, heading towards the designated conditioning area away from the main drills.

Gwenog didn’t turn immediately, but Ginny felt her captain’s awareness like a physical pressure. A few teammates offered brief, awkward nods; others pointedly avoided her gaze. Nia Jenkins, the reserve Chaser now filling Ginny’s spot, gave her a look that was equal parts sympathy and nervous ambition.

Ginny ignored them all, focusing on the stretching routine pinned to the conditioning board. She moved through the stretches mechanically, forcing her tight muscles to loosen, acutely aware of the main group starting their warm-up laps nearby. The familiar rush of wind from their brooms, the easy camaraderie in their calls – it felt like a world away.

Gwenog eventually strode over, her expression unreadable, stern. She stopped a few feet away, arms crossed. “Right. Conditioning schedule is posted. Weights first, then endurance laps – ground level only. Stay out of the air during team drills. Report to the physio afterwards. Any questions?” Her tone was clipped, strictly professional.

“No, Captain,” Ginny replied, keeping her voice steady, meeting Gwenog’s gaze directly.

Gwenog held her gaze for a moment longer, perhaps searching for signs of lingering defiance or instability. Seeing only quiet compliance, she gave a curt nod. “Carry on, then.”

She turned and marched back to the main group, her focus immediately shifting to Nia Jenkins’ positioning.

Ginny watched her go, a flicker of the old resentment warring with the new resolve.

This was her reality now.

Grounded.

Watched.

But not entirely powerless.

She turned towards the weights area, a small, covered section near the stands. As she worked through the punishing reps, the physical strain a welcome distraction, she let her eyes drift towards the main practice.

She wasn’t just enduring her punishment anymore; she was observing.

She watched the drills, analyzing the team’s dynamics without her. Noted Nia’s hesitation on certain plays, the slight disruption in the Chaser line’s usually seamless flow. She tracked Gwenog’s movements, Carys’s Bludger patterns, Valmai’s high-altitude vigilance.

But her observation extended beyond the pitch. She listened.

During water breaks, when snippets of conversation drifted over from the main group, she tuned out the usual gossip about rival teams or weekend plans, straining instead for anything related to the Ministry, funding, sponsors, or unfamiliar pressures.

“…heard Cadwallader’s been flapping even more than usual,” Megan Lloyd muttered to Rhiannon Griffiths, toweling sweat from her face. “Something about the Nimbus contract renewal needing ‘careful handling’ this year.”

“Nimbus? They practically own the League,” Rhiannon frowned. “Since when is their renewal tricky?”

“Dunno. Just overheard him talking to Gwenog. Sounded stressed.”

Ginny filed the snippet away.

Nimbus. Contract renewal. Careful handling. Stress.

Was it related to her incident?

To Riddle’s subtle pressures hinted at in Bagman’s letter?

Or just standard sponsor negotiations?

Impossible to know, but it was a data point.

Later, during endurance laps – Ginny pounding the perimeter track on foot while her teammates practiced complex aerial maneuvers overhead – she overheard Carys Pritchard speaking tersely to Valmai Morgan as they landed nearby for instructions.

“…another memo from the Department this morning,” Carys grumbled, adjusting the strap on her glove. “Something about revised safety protocols for Beater equipment inspections. More bloody paperwork. Like we don’t have enough to do already.”

“Again?” Valmai asked, scanning the sky distractedly. “Didn’t Perkins just sign off on everything during that review?”

“Apparently not thoroughly enough for someone higher up,” Carys muttered darkly, glancing instinctively towards the empty stands before catching herself. “Just feels like they’re looking for excuses lately…”

Revised safety protocols.

More paperwork.

Looking for excuses.

Another subtle tightening of the bureaucratic screws?

Potentially aimed at making life difficult for the team, creating friction, adding administrative burdens?

It felt petty, almost invisible, yet undeniably wearing.

Another potential ripple effect originating from Riddle’s displeasure?

Ginny kept running, her breathing steady despite the climb, her mind meticulously cataloging these fragments. She finished her laps, muscles burning, sweat dripping, just as the main team concluded their drills.

As they headed towards the changing rooms, laughing and talking, already dissecting the upcoming Wanderers match, Ginny peeled off towards the small physio hut, the required next step in her isolated routine.

Bronwyn Davies, the Harpies’ brisk, no-nonsense physio – a sturdy witch with capable hands and eyes that missed nothing – greeted her with her usual professional efficiency, though perhaps a shade less warmth than usual. “Right then, Weasley. On the bench. Let’s see the damage today.”

Ginny settled onto the treatment bench, bracing herself. Bronwyn’s methods were effective but rarely gentle. “Ribs still complaining?” Bronwyn asked, her fingers already probing the bruised area with practiced firmness.

“A bit,” Ginny admitted through gritted teeth. The ache was constant, a dull reminder of the Tutshill match, exacerbated by the weights and running.

Bronwyn hmm’d, applying a strong-smelling liniment that simultaneously numbed and burned. She worked in silence for several minutes, her focus entirely on Ginny’s musculature, identifying knots and strains with unerring accuracy.

Bronwyn wasn’t one for idle chat, especially not about off-pitch drama; her domain was physical recovery, keeping the players match-fit despite the brutal demands of the sport. But today, perhaps sensing the unusual tension radiating even from the sidelined Chaser, she spoke gruffly as she worked a particularly stubborn knot near Ginny’s shoulder blade.

“Heard you missed yesterday’s conditioning.”

It wasn’t quite a question, more a flat statement of fact.

“Yes,” Ginny said shortly, not offering excuses.

Bronwyn applied more pressure. “Not wise. Letting things slide physically just makes it harder to get back in, if… when… the chance comes.”

The implication was clear: don’t compound your problems with physical laziness.

Ginny nodded mutely, accepting the unspoken rebuke.

Bronwyn continued her work, her expression unchanging. But after another moment of silence, she added, almost reluctantly, “Things feel… tight. Around the club.”

Ginny looked up, surprised.

Bronwyn rarely commented on anything beyond injuries and recovery times.

The physio kept her eyes on Ginny’s shoulder, applying a precise rotation. “Management’s jumpy. Budgets being squeezed, apparently. Heard whispers about next season’s travel allowances being reviewed early. Never a good sign for a team based out here.”

Travel allowances reviewed early?

Affecting next season already?

That resonated with the threat implied in Bagman’s letter, with the snippet Ginny had overheard about the Nimbus contract. It wasn't just bureaucratic harassment; it was potentially hitting the team where it truly hurt – their financial stability, their future planning.

This felt bigger than just punishing her. It felt like Riddle demonstrating his power to squeeze the entire organization, making them feel the consequences of harboring a player who had crossed him. Making her continued presence, even on the inactive roster, a tangible burden for the team she loved.

“Probably just rumours,” Ginny said aloud, trying to keep her voice neutral, betraying none of the cold dread icing through her veins.

Bronwyn gave a noncommittal grunt, applying a final, bracing slap to Ginny’s shoulder. “Maybe. Maybe not. All I know is uncertainty makes muscles tense up. Bad for performance.” She straightened up, wiping her hands on a towel. “Right. Usual stretches, then ice. And don’t skip tomorrow.”

“I won’t. Thanks, Bronwyn,” Ginny mumbled, sliding off the bench.

She walked back towards the empty changing room, the physio’s words echoing in her mind.

Budgets squeezed. Travel allowances reviewed early. Uncertainty.

Riddle wasn’t just sidelining her; he was potentially strangling her team’s resources, using the vast, impersonal machinery of the Ministry to apply slow, crushing pressure.

All because she slapped him.

All because she defied him.

The sheer scale of his vindictiveness, the way he wielded bureaucratic power as a weapon, was terrifying.

He wanted to make her presence toxic?

He wanted to make the Harpies suffer for her actions?

Then finding leverage against him wasn't just about reclaiming her own career anymore. It was about protecting her team.

The notes in her pocket felt heavier than ever. The smudged book title, Olive Hornby’s dismissed fear… it felt like the only possible counterweight to the crushing pressure Riddle was applying.

She needed more than just Percy’s perspective, though. She needed context. She needed someone who might have seen things differently back then, someone less inclined to admire authority figures unquestioningly.

Her mind sifted through the names from Percy’s logbook.

Diggory… Amos Diggory’s son, Cedric. Gone, vanished in the maze just like Harry. No help there.

Hornby… Olive Hornby. Percy had dismissed her as fearful, possibly attention-seeking.

But where was Olive now?

Ginny vaguely recalled her being a few years above them, maybe Ravenclaw?

Probably working at the Ministry herself, or perhaps married, faded into quiet domesticity?

Finding her, getting her to talk about something that clearly frightened her decades ago… seemed unlikely, potentially dangerous for Olive herself if Riddle suspected.

Who else?

Who else was prominent during Riddle’s later Hogwarts years, outside his Slytherin circle, who might have noticed something amiss?

Someone observant, intelligent, perhaps slightly outside the mainstream student hierarchies?

She sank onto the bench in the quiet changing room, closing her eyes, forcing her mind back, past the fog of years and the immediate urgency of her current predicament.

Hogwarts. Riddle’s 7th year.

Who stood out?

Not his Slytherin cronies – Malfoy, Nott, Lestrange – they were complicit, blinded by ideology or fear.

Not the average student, likely oblivious or intimidated.

Not Percy, clearly.

Not the Gryffindors of that time, probably too focused on their own rivalries or, like Dumbledore, perhaps aware but choosing a different path of opposition.

Her mind drifted, searching for names, faces… Then, a flash of memory, unexpected but vivid: Prefects’ meetings. Percy had occasionally mentioned them, usually complaining about scheduling or inefficient procedures. But sometimes he’d mentioned names. 

There was a Ravenclaw Prefect Percy sometimes grudgingly admitted was "incisive," though he usually followed it up with a sniff about her "unconventional priorities." Someone known for asking awkward questions, for noticing details others overlooked, for a quiet intelligence that wasn’t flashy but ran deep.

Penelope Clearwater.

Ginny sat upright.

Penelope Clearwater. Percy’s girlfriend for a time during his later years at Hogwarts. A Ravenclaw Prefect during Riddle’s Head Boy year. Clever, observant, rule-abiding but not blindly so.

Ginny remembered her vaguely – quiet presence, sharp eyes, often seen with a book. Percy had admired her intelligence, even if he found her occasional skepticism irritating.

Would Penelope have noticed anything about Riddle? Anything about the atmosphere after Myrtle's death? Anything about the library, the Restricted Section, student fears, that Percy, in his admiration, might have dismissed or failed to record accurately?

It felt like a possibility.

Penelope wasn’t likely to be intimidated by Riddle’s charisma or authority in the same way Percy was. Her Ravenclaw nature would lean towards observation, analysis, questioning inconsistencies. And crucially, Ginny knew where she was.

Penelope Clearwater worked at the Ministry now, in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes – Ginny had seen her nameplate just yesterday outside Riddle’s corridor.

Approaching Penelope felt less dangerous than trying to track down Olive Hornby. Penelope was established within the Ministry, perhaps less susceptible to direct intimidation. And Ginny had a plausible excuse – connecting through Percy, perhaps asking about his old notes under the guise of understanding historical Prefect procedures during crises.

It was thin, but potentially workable.

Could Penelope provide context? Corroboration? Another perspective on the events Percy had documented so meticulously but interpreted so narrowly?

It was a long shot.

Penelope might remember nothing significant. She might be reluctant to discuss old Hogwarts matters, especially anything potentially controversial involving a powerful figure like Riddle. She might even, like Percy, have seen nothing amiss.

But it was something.

A concrete step beyond helpless fury or solitary training. A way to use her mind, her observation skills – honed on the Quidditch pitch analyzing opponents' weaknesses – against Riddle himself.

She felt a flicker of something almost like her old self – the thrill of identifying a potential strategy, a possible way through the defense.

This wasn't about dodging Bludgers; it was about navigating treacherous political currents, seeking weaknesses in an opponent's carefully constructed history.

The anonymous wand felt slightly less alien in her pocket now. It wasn't just a placeholder; it was a tool for this new, unwelcome game.

She needed to get back to the Burrow, clean herself up properly, discard the muddy practice kit that screamed 'victim'.

She needed to look presentable, calm, professional – like someone Percy might plausibly have discussed old Hogwarts procedures with, not someone who had just stormed Riddle's office.

She needed to think. Plan her approach to Penelope carefully.

What questions to ask?

How to frame them without revealing too much, without sounding accusatory or paranoid?

How to gauge Penelope’s reaction, her willingness to share, her own memories of Tom Riddle?

This required a different kind of strategy than Quidditch.

Subtlety, patience, careful observation – skills Ginny possessed but often allowed her temper to override.

Now, with her primary outlet blocked, perhaps she could finally channel that intensity, that focus, into this new, far more dangerous arena.

Leaving the changing room, Ginny deliberately avoided looking towards the main pitch where her teammates were likely finishing up. Her focus wasn't there anymore. It was shifting, narrowing, adapting to the new reality.

Riddle thought he had grounded her, neutralized her.

He thought she was predictable.

Maybe, just maybe, she could still surprise him.

Chapter Text

The next three days were a strange, disorienting blur for Ginny. Outwardly, she adhered to the rigid new routine imposed by her suspension.

Mornings were spent at the Harpies’ training ground, enduring solitary conditioning drills under Gwenog’s cool, watchful eye, followed by Bronwyn’s physio sessions.

She observed team practices from the sidelines, a silent, grounded ghost, meticulously noting formations, weaknesses, and the strained attempts to integrate Nia Jenkins into her former role.

The evenings were spent back at the Burrow, enduring her family’s worried sympathy, Fred and George’s increasingly elaborate (and impractical) revenge fantasies against Riddle, and Molly’s anxious attempts to fatten her up with treacle tart as if it could somehow mend a fractured career.

But beneath the surface of this enforced inactivity, a different kind of training was taking place. Ginny’s mind, usually consumed by Quidditch strategy and the visceral thrill of flight, was now laser-focused on a new game.

The initial idea of approaching Penelope Clearwater directly about Hogwarts felt increasingly flimsy, childish even, the more she considered it.

Why would Penelope, a Ministry professional, entertain vague questions from a disgraced Quidditch player about school days decades past, especially concerning someone as powerful and potentially dangerous as Tom Riddle?

It would scream suspicion, desperation.

Ginny wasn't a journalist, nor an Auror. She had no legitimate standing to conduct such inquiries.

The approach needed to be less direct, more… insidious.

She spent hours in her small attic room, the anonymous wand tucked securely in her pocket, rereading Percy’s sixth-year logbook.

The smudged book title from the library log became an obsession. Secrets of the Darkest Art. Magick Moste Evile.

Olive Hornby’s fear, dismissed by Percy.

These were potent, but raw, unusable in their current form.

Ginny knew she couldn’t unearth undeniable proof of past misdeeds or magically reveal hidden evidence from Riddle’s past in the short time before the Wigtown Wanderers match on Saturday.

She wasn't an investigator. But she could construct something. Not a lie, exactly, but a carefully assembled mosaic of insinuation, designed to unsettle Riddle, to make him believe she knew more – or was capable of finding out more – than she actually did.

Her objective wasn’t to expose him publicly; that felt impossible. It was to subtly shift the power dynamic, to make him see her not as a hysterical girl easily dismissed, but as a potential threat to the carefully curated image of his past.

She needed to create the illusion of possessing specific, damaging knowledge, or at least the means to acquire it.

Her research shifted from Percy’s direct notes to the periphery of his sixth year. She scoured old copies of the Daily Prophet from that era, piles of which were stacked in the attic, looking for any articles related to unusual occurrences at Hogwarts, Ministry involvement, or even seemingly unrelated magical disturbances that might, with hindsight, connect to Riddle’s activities.

She found little.

The Prophet of that time was as prone to sensationalism and glossing over inconvenient truths as its current iteration. Myrtle Warren’s death was reported as a tragic accident, quickly overshadowed by society gossip.

But Ginny wasn’t looking for headlines. She was looking for inconsistencies, for names that might have intersected with Riddle’s orbit. She cross-referenced names from Percy’s logbook with Ministry staff lists published in the Prophet’s minor announcements section – new appointments, departmental transfers.

One evening, hunched over a particularly brittle copy of the Prophet detailing minor Ministry staffing changes, a small, almost overlooked notice caught her eye.

It wasn't about commendations, but a routine departmental update: "The Department of Magical Archives announces the successful completion of the Hogwarts Records Integration Project, ensuring comprehensive cross-referencing of historical student data with Ministry educational oversight databases. Lead Archivist Septimus Mole noted the project's value in streamlining historical inquiries."

The date was several months after Myrtle's death.

Septimus Mole. Lead Archivist. Hogwarts Records Integration Project.

A new thread, stronger this time.

It wasn't just about organizing; it was about integrating Hogwarts records into Ministry systems, making them more accessible, more searchable for official inquiries. This would undoubtedly include library borrowing logs, disciplinary records, Prefect and Head Boy and Girl reports – the very fabric of a student's documented life at the school.

Such a project, undertaken after Riddle had left Hogwarts but dealing with his school year, could have unearthed or at least made more accessible the very details Ginny was now piecing together.

Could Percy’s smudged library log entry regarding Riddle’s access to a dark arts text be cross-referenced with official Hogwarts library borrowing records from that year, now potentially digitized or at least better indexed within the Ministry archives thanks to Mole’s project?

This was where the elaborate construction began.

Ginny wouldn’t claim to have spoken to Mole. She wouldn't claim to have seen these integrated records. But she could imply it.

She could weave a narrative, a carefully constructed set of questions for Riddle, that suggested she had access to information pathways he might not have considered – official, Ministry-sanctioned pathways.

What if, instead of asking Penelope Clearwater about her memories, Ginny used Penelope's current position in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes as a subtle lever?

What if she hinted that an old, unresolved student death – Myrtle’s – might be revisited, not as a new criminal investigation, but as a cold case review within Magical Accidents, looking for patterns of unexplained magical phenomena at Hogwarts around that time?

A review that might, coincidentally, require access to old student records, library logs, even Prefect reports like Percy’s, all now conveniently integrated into Ministry databases.

She could mention Percy’s logbook. Mention Olive Hornby’s fear, framing it not as an accusation against Riddle, but as an unresolved detail in a tragic accident that perhaps deserved a second look by Penelope’s department, drawing on the newly accessible historical data.

She could then, very casually, inquire if Riddle, as Head Boy at the time, remembered any other unusual magical incidents, any other students exhibiting unexplained fear, or perhaps any unusual library requests for… particularly obscure texts around the time of Myrtle’s death, texts that might now be flagged in the integrated Hogwarts records.

The key was not to accuse, but to inquire.

To appear concerned, perhaps even a little naive in her pursuit of “historical clarity,” while subtly planting seeds of doubt in Riddle’s mind about what she knew and how she knew it.

She wouldn’t mention Septimus Mole by name, nor the Hogwarts Records Integration Project directly.

She wouldn’t claim to have spoken to Penelope yet.

But the implication would be there: Ginny was no longer just reacting to his provocations; she was actively researching, connecting disparate pieces of information, potentially involving current Ministry personnel (Penelope) and official, integrated archival records.

It was a delicate dance of insinuation.

She practiced the phrasing, the tone. Not furious, not accusatory. But calm, persistent, armed with seemingly innocuous details that, when assembled, might paint a picture Riddle would find deeply unsettling.

The snippets overheard at the Harpies’ pitch – the Nimbus contract, the revised safety protocols, the travel allowance review – these weren’t direct weapons against Riddle’s past, but they informed her understanding of his methods.

He operated through subtle pressure, through bureaucratic channels. Perhaps her counter could be equally subtle, hinting at investigations and record reviews that could cause him significant inconvenience, even if they never yielded conclusive proof of wrongdoing.

By Friday evening, the eve before the Wigtown Wanderers match, Ginny felt a different kind of preparedness. She didn’t have incontrovertible proof, but she had a carefully constructed narrative, a series of loaded questions, and a strategy designed to make Riddle believe she was more resourceful, more persistent, and potentially more dangerous to his carefully guarded past than he had previously assumed.

She had enough to attempt to subtly unsettle the unsettler, to tip his balance by making him question the security of his own history.

It was a colossal gamble.

He might see through it instantly.

He might crush her even more decisively for her audacity.

Her plan, hatched amidst Percy’s meticulous but blinkered notes, wasn't about grand revelations or public exposure. That felt impossible, a fool's errand against someone like Riddle.

No, this was about something far more personal, far more satisfying: to thoroughly, comprehensively, and irritatingly disrupt Tom Riddle’s composure.

She wasn’t aiming to topple his carefully constructed empire; she just wanted to leave a few significant, infuriating dents in its facade.

To make him understand that dismissing Ginny Weasley wasn’t going to be quite as neat and tidy as he’d anticipated.

The Wigtown Wanderers match on Saturday was less a sporting event in her mind and more a strategic opportunity. She knew Riddle’s disdain for Quidditch, for “cheering thugs chasing balls.” His presence at the Harpies’ season opener had likely been a calculated display of normalcy after “Slapgate,” a demonstration that her outburst hadn’t ruffled him.

But a dreary mid-season match against the unremarkable Wanderers? That felt like an obligation he’d endure, not enjoy. He’d make his appearance, fulfill whatever political or social necessity required it, and then depart at the earliest plausible moment.

That was her window.

She spent the days leading up to it not just in solitary conditioning, but in mental rehearsal. She wasn’t practicing hexes; she was practicing inflections, pauses, the precise shade of innocent curiosity that could mask a deliberately pointed barb.

She committed Percy’s notes, the photograph, and the details of Septimus Mole’s archive project to memory, her arsenal of inconvenient truths.

On Saturday morning, Ginny arrived at the stadium, not with the usual pre-match nerves, but with anticipation. She went through the motions of the team briefing, observing from the periphery, her mind already on the real game she intended to play.

As the stadium filled, Ginny found a discreet spot in the less crowded upper stands, one that offered a clear view of the VIP exit tunnel. She wasn’t interested in the match itself; Nia Jenkins could fumble her way through the Chaser drills for all Ginny cared today. Her focus was singular.

The match began. The Harpies were, as expected, struggling.

The Wanderers, sensing weakness, played with boorish enthusiasm.

Ginny barely registered the score. Her eyes kept flicking to the VIP box.

Riddle was there, of course. Impeccable. Bored. Enduring.

Just before half-time, as the Harpies fumbled yet another scoring opportunity, Ginny saw it: the slight shift in Riddle’s posture, the almost imperceptible glance towards his watch, the subtle signal to an attendant. He was preparing to make his exit.

Now.

She moved quickly, navigating the stadium’s internal corridors with the familiarity of a seasoned player, heading towards the private exit route she knew the VIPs used to avoid the main crowds. It was less guarded than the main box entrance, relying more on discretion than heavy security.

She reached a relatively deserted service corridor near the tunnel just as Riddle, unaccompanied, emerged. He was clearly taking a less public route out, avoiding the half-time crush.

Perfect.

She stepped out from behind a stack of folded team banners, blocking his path.

Riddle stopped. There was no surprise on his face this time, only a flicker of profound, weary annoyance. He had clearly hoped to escape the “mundane spectacle” without further disruptions.

“Miss Weasley,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of any pretense of politeness. “Your persistence is… noteworthy. If remarkably ill-advised. I trust you are not here to offer another critique of my Ministry work, or to further deface Ministry property.”

“Actually, Mr. Riddle,” Ginny replied, her voice deliberately calm, almost sweet, a contrast to the simmering satisfaction she felt at having cornered him. “I was hoping for a brief word. About history. Hogwarts history, to be precise.”

His eyes narrowed. The boredom vanished, replaced by a sharp, assessing glint.

This was unexpected. He had anticipated perhaps another emotional outburst, more accusations about her suspension. Not… history.

“I find your sudden interest in academia… unconvincing,” he stated, his tone laced with suspicion.

“Oh, but it’s fascinating what one can unearth with a bit of dedicated research,” Ginny said, taking a small, deliberate step closer, forcing him to either hold his ground or retreat – a subtle shift in the physical dynamic. “My brother Percy, for instance. You remember Percy? Prefect, during your Head Boy year? He was ever so meticulous with his record-keeping.”

She saw the faintest tightening around Riddle’s mouth.

He remembered Percy. He also likely remembered Percy’s admiration, his diligence, his potential for documenting things Riddle might prefer forgotten.

“His sixth-year logbook is particularly detailed,” Ginny continued, her voice maintaining that light, conversational tone, though her eyes held a challenging glint. “Especially around the time of poor Myrtle Warren’s… accident. So tragic. He noted everything – the student anxieties, the official Ministry ruling, even those persistent student rumors that never quite went away.”

Riddle’s stillness was absolute now. He was listening, analyzing her words, searching for her angle.

“He also mentioned your own involvement, of course,” Ginny added, as if it were an afterthought. “Commendable leadership in calming the student body. And a rather… poignant interview with Olive Hornby. Percy dismissed her distress as vague, perhaps attention-seeking. But he did note she seemed unusually fearful. One wonders, doesn’t one, what a young girl might have seen to make her so afraid?”

She paused, letting the question hang in the quiet corridor, enjoying the subtle shift in the atmosphere, the way the air around Riddle seemed to grow colderr.

“And then there’s the matter of the library, Mr. Riddle,” Ginny pressed on, her voice dropping slightly, becoming more confiding, more… suggestive. “Percy, bless his orderly heart, even noted a query about a specific text from the Restricted Section. Checked out around that very sensitive time. The title is a bit smudged in his notes, unfortunately – something about… ‘Darkest Arts,’ I believe? Or was it ‘Magick Moste Evile’? He naturally assumed it was for some advanced, approved coursework, given your exemplary record.”

She smiled then, almost innocent smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It just made me curious, you see. As Head Boy, you would have been privy to so much. Did you recall any other students accessing such… unusual texts? Or perhaps any other unexplained magical incidents around that period? Things that might, you know, shed further light on that old tragedy?”

She took another tiny step, closing the distance further. “Because it’s remarkable what becomes accessible these days, isn’t it? With projects like Lead Archivist Mole’s Hogwarts Records Integration. All those old student files, library logs, even Prefect reports like Percy’s… all neatly cross-referenced in Ministry databases. Penelope Clearwater – she’s in Magical Accidents and Catastrophes now, you know – was just mentioning how invaluable it is for revisiting cold cases. Unexplained student deaths, for instance. Ensuring all historical data is properly considered.”

She looked up at him, her expression one of polite, academic inquiry, but her eyes were sharp, knowing. She wasn’t accusing him of anything. She was merely… sharing her fascinating historical discoveries.

For a long, charged moment, Tom Riddle said nothing.

The silence in the service corridor was broken only by the distant, muffled roar of the Quidditch crowd, a world away from this tense, isolated confrontation.

She saw it then, clear as day in the harsh strip-lighting of the corridor. Not surprise this time. Not shock. But a deep, visceral annoyance that tightened his jaw and brought a glacial coldness to his dark eyes.

It was the look of a meticulously ordered mind encountering an unpredictable and infuriating variable.

He had expected her to be broken, cowed by her suspension. He had expected her to be consumed by her emotional outbursts.

He had not expected her to be… researching. Connecting dots.

Using his own preferred weapons – information, insinuation, the subtle threat of bureaucratic entanglement – against him.

When he finally spoke, his voice was dangerously soft, each word clipped, precise, and dripping with controlled fury. “You have been… remarkably industrious, Miss Weasley,” he said slowly, the emphasis on ‘industrious’ making it sound like an accusation. “Delving into matters that are, as you correctly surmise, historical. And, I might add, entirely… irrelevant to your current, rather precarious, situation.”

He leaned forward, invading her personal space, his height and stillness suddenly overwhelmingly menacing. “Tell me,” he whispered, his breath cool against her ear, “what precisely do you imagine you will achieve with these… pointed little inquiries? Beyond, of course, further cementing your reputation for reckless provocation and attracting attention you will most certainly come to regret?”

He wasn’t dismissing her this time.

He was irritated. He was annoyed. He was, perhaps, even a little… inconvenienced.

And that, Ginny thought, feeling an almost giddy surge of vindictive satisfaction, was a significant improvement.

“Regret?” she echoed, her voice surprisingly steady, a hint of a smirk playing on her lips. “Is that what you’re hoping for, Mr. Riddle? That I’ll scurry away with my tail between my legs because you don’t like my… historical inquiries?”

She leaned in fractionally herself, mimicking his earlier invasion of her space, enjoying the subtle flaring of his nostrils, the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. “Funny, I thought you’d appreciate a bit of dedicated research. Isn’t that what you Ministry types do? Pore over dusty old files? Or is that only acceptable when it serves your own agenda?”

Riddle’s eyes narrowed further, “You want to know what I think, Miss Weasley?” he hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that seemed to vibrate in the narrow corridor. “I think this is a bluff. A pathetic, transparent attempt to intimidate me with half-baked theories and conveniently ‘smudged’ notes from your brother’s juvenile scribblings.”

He took a step closer, forcing Ginny to tilt her head back slightly to maintain eye contact. The power imbalance was palpable, physical. “Let me be unequivocally clear. Nothing and no one intimidates me. Especially not someone… like you.” 

He infused the last two words with a dismissive contempt that was meant to sting, and did. “A disgraced Quidditch player with a history of violent outbursts and a remarkably inflated sense of her own importance.”

His gaze swept over her, lingering for a moment on the anonymous wand still clutched in her hand – a clear reminder of her disarmed state, of his control. “Haven’t you learned anything from our previous encounters? From your current, rather unpleasant, predicament?”

He paused, letting the threat hang heavy in the air. “If you do not cease this… campaign of petty harassment and baseless insinuation, I will be forced to take official action. And believe me, Miss Weasley, the full weight of Ministry legalities is not something you wish to experience. Your suspension from the Harpies will seem like a pleasant holiday in comparison.”

His voice hardened further. “You could be permanently barred from the League. No team would touch you. Your name would become synonymous with unprofessionalism and instability. Is that the legacy you wish to cultivate?”

Ginny’s smirk faltered slightly. 

The mention of official action, of legalities, of permanent blacklisting… The kind that could crush her utterly, regardless of what she thought she knew about his past.

But she wouldn’t back down now. She had come too far.

“Is that a threat, Mr. Riddle?” she shot back, her voice sharp, though a tremor of fear ran beneath it. “Another one? Just like the subtle threats you use to manipulate Ministry employees? Like the pressure you undoubtedly applied to Bagman and the Harpies’ management to get me sidelined? You seem to be quite adept at leveraging your position to get what you want, aren’t you?”

Riddle let out a short, sharp sigh, a sound of profound exasperation. “Not that I need to explain myself to you, Weasley, nor do I owe you any justification for my actions, but it seems your capacity for self-delusion is truly limitless.”

He took a fractional step back, creating a sliver of breathing room, but his gaze remained locked on hers, intense and unwavering. “Let me disabuse you of this notion that you are some kind of victim in a grand conspiracy orchestrated by me. You are in your current position – suspended, sidelined, facing the potential ruin of your career – entirely because of your own actions. Your uncontrolled temper. Your public assault. Your repeated, flagrant disregard for professional conduct.”

His voice was calm now, but laced with a cutting disdain. “Do not make this about me. You are acting like a petulant child, lashing out, and blaming others for the consequences of your own poor choices. Everything you have done, every aggressive word, every physical outburst, has been a reaction, you claim, to my ‘mere opinion’ about Quidditch, or to some perceived slight.”

He tilted his head, a flicker of something almost pitying – or perhaps contemptuous – in his eyes. “I believe you are forgetting the terms of your Quidditch contract, Miss Weasley. The one that outlines specific clauses regarding player conduct, public image, and actions detrimental to the League. Clauses you have repeatedly, and spectacularly, violated.”

He paused, letting the weight of her contractual obligations sink in. “And you are also forgetting my position. I am part of the Ministry. A Ministry that, among its many responsibilities, reviews and oversees all officially sanctioned magical activities, including mundane entertainments like Quidditch and the conduct of its players. My ‘opinion’ on such matters, therefore, carries a certain… professional weight, wouldn’t you agree?”

His gaze hardened again, the brief moment of almost-pity gone, replaced by cold, hard authority. “So, behave yourself, Miss Weasley. Cease this ill-advised crusade. Return to your… solitary conditioning. Reflect on your mistakes. Because you would not want to witness any more infractions, either against me personally, or against the Ministry itself. Especially not against a superior.”

His pronouncement – “superior” – echoed in the narrow service corridor, each syllable a carefully placed stone in the wall of his authority, designed to crush any lingering defiance. He delivered it with the absolute certainty of a man who knew his power, who had never known defeat.

He then turned, intending to walk away, to dismiss her as decisively as he had in his office.

But Ginny Weasley wasn’t built for quiet submission.

His words, his blatant assertion of dominance, the sheer, infuriating injustice of it all – it didn't cow her. 

She had come too far, risked too much, to let him simply walk away, to have the last, dismissive word.

Before he could take more than two steps, Ginny lunged.

Her hand shot out, fingers closing around the expensive fabric of his tailored robe, just above the elbow. She yanked, hard, using her Quidditch-trained strength, trying to spin him back around, to force him to face her.

“Don’t you turn your back on me!” she snarled, “I’m not finished with you!”

Tom Riddle, despite his focus on departing, possessed reflexes honed by years of navigating treacherous political landscapes and, Ginny suspected, darker, more dangerous encounters. He reacted instantly to the unexpected physical assault.

Instead of being pulled off balance, he used her momentum against her, pivoting smoothly on the balls of his feet, his body moving with a startling, almost serpentine grace. He didn’t just resist her pull; he amplified it, his arm muscles tensing, creating a sudden counter-force.

Ginny, expecting resistance but not this fluid, immediate redirection of her own aggression, found herself stumbling forward, propelled by her own yank and his sudden, unexpected give.

She recovered quickly, her athlete’s balance kicking in. She dug her heels in, trying to regain control, to reassert her grip, to force him to face her properly.

But Riddle was already moving again.

He didn’t try to break her grip. Instead, he stepped into her space, closing the distance she had just inadvertently created, his body moving with a speed and precision. One hand shot out, not to strike, but to find purchase on her shoulder, his fingers digging in with surprising strength.

It wasn’t a violent shove, but an irresistible pressure, guiding her backwards.

Ginny twisted, trying to break his grip, to use her leverage, but he moved with her, anticipating her every shift, his taller, stronger frame easily overpowering her attempts to disengage.

It was like wrestling with a perfectly balanced, unyielding force.

Two steps. Three.

She felt the corridor wall against her back.

Trapped. Again.

Faster than she could blink, his yew wand was in his hand, the tip pressing hard against the soft skin beneath her chin, forcing her head up, her eyes to meet his.

The movement was brutally efficient, practiced, leaving no room for struggle.

His face was inches from hers, his dark eyes blazing with fury that was far more terrifying than her own explosive temper. The earlier annoyance, the weary disdain – all gone, replaced by intensity of a predator whose patience had finally, definitively, snapped.

“You,” he hissed, his voice a low, dangerous tremor that vibrated through the wand tip and into her bones, “are truly incorrigible.”

The pressure of the wand increased fractionally, a silent, painful emphasis. “Have you learned nothing? Do you possess no instinct for self-preservation whatsoever?”

His breath was warm against her face, carrying the faint, clean scent she now associated with terrifying proximity. The power radiating from him was suffocating.

But Ginny, pinned against the wall, wand at her throat, staring into hs face, felt something snap within her. The fear was still there, a cold knot in her stomach, but it was overwhelmed by a reckless, almost giddy wave of defiance.

She had pushed him. Pushed him past his carefully constructed composure.

She had forced a reaction, a real one.

She started to laugh.

It wasn’t a sound of amusement, but a brittle cackle, bordering on hysterical, fueled by defiant courage.

“Oh, really, Riddle?” she choked out, the laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. “Going to do something to me now? Like you did to Myrtle? Poor, terrified Myrtle, crying in the bathroom before you… what? Silenced her?”

His eyes narrowed, the fury within them intensifying, but his hand remained steady, the wand tip unwavering.

“I have yet to find out exactly what happened to her,” Ginny continued, her voice gaining a taunting edge, emboldened by her own recklessness. “But I know you had something to do with that poor student’s death. Percy’s notes, Olive Hornby’s fear, that convenient ‘tragic accident’ ruling… it all points back to you, doesn’t it? Your secrets. Your… ‘darkest arts’.”

She met his furious gaze unflinchingly, the laughter dying in her throat, replaced by a certainty. “And if something happens to me? If I suddenly have a ‘tragic accident’ or end up ‘babbling incoherently’ like some other poor sods who crossed the wrong people? I will make sure everything – everything I’ve found, everything I suspect – falls right onto your perfectly polished name.”

She didn’t know how. She didn’t have a concrete plan for such a posthumous revelation. But the threat, delivered with such conviction, felt real in that moment, a desperate gambit against his overwhelming power.

For a long, tense moment, Tom Riddle didn’t speak. He simply stared down at her, the pressure of his wand unwavering, his dark eyes searching hers, perhaps for any sign of bluff, any flicker of fear that might betray her bravado.

He wasn’t intimidated by her words, by the threat of exposure. She could see that.

He was too confident, too insulated by layers of power and secrecy to be truly threatened by the ramblings of a disgraced Quidditch player. His meticulously constructed past was likely far more secure than she could imagine.

But the proximity…

She saw it again, the subtle shift in his gaze, the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw, the way his pupils seemed to dilate slightly as they fixed on her face, on her mouth, on the defiant pulse beating visibly in her throat just inches from his wand tip.

He had sworn to himself, after the incident in his office, that he would never put himself in this position again – this close, this physically entangled with her. He had recognized the unwelcome stirring within himself, the dangerous anomaly she provoked.

And yet, here he was.

The scent of her filled his senses, overriding the sterile neutrality of the Ministry corridor.

He could feel the heat radiating from her skin, the rapid thrum of her pulse against his wand. He was intensely aware of the curve of her throat, the defiant set of her jaw, the way her eyes, even now, blazed with an unquenchable fire.

He had her trapped.

He had the power to silence her, to hurt her, to make her regret every defiant word.

His thumb, the one not gripping his wand with bruising force against her throat, twitched almost imperceptibly. The urge to trace the defiant line of her jaw, to feel the frantic pulse beneath his fingertips, was a sudden, shocking betrayal of his own control.

He was losing the carefully constructed distance again.

Just as that thought, sharp and unwelcome, pierced through the haze of proximity, a blinding flash erupted from the end of the service corridor.

Pop-fizz!

The unmistakable glare of a magical camera bulb, accompanied by the tell-tale whine of a Quick-Quotes Quill activating.

Both Tom and Ginny flinched violently at the sudden intrusion, their intense, private confrontation shattered.

Framed in the sudden after-images dancing before their eyes, silhouetted against the harsh light, stood two figures.

Rita Skeeter, her acid-green robes clashing spectacularly with the drab corridor walls, a triumphant grin plastered across her face, her Quick-Quotes Quill already scribbling furiously in mid-air beside her.

Bozo, her long-suffering, stoop-shouldered photographer, already lowering his bulky magical camera, clearly having captured the incriminating shot.

“Well, well, well!” Skeeter’s voice cut through the stunned silence. “What have we here? Senior Advisor Riddle and Harpy Chaser Weasley, tangled in yet another… heated exchange! My, my, Mr. Riddle, you do seem to have a penchant for dramatic encounters with this particular redhead. Is this how Ministry officials normally conduct their… oversight of League players? Or is there a more… personal element to this rather compromising position?”

Her quill danced, recording every salacious syllable, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of a career-defining scoop.

Ginny’s mind reeled. Oh, curse him! Curse Riddle! Curse her own stupid temper!

This was a nightmare.

What could be worse than being publicly humiliated, professionally ruined, and psychologically tormented by Tom Riddle?

Apparently, being romantically linked with him in the scandalous headlines of the Daily Prophet. The thought was preposterous, repulsive, and devastatingly plausible given Skeeter’s talent for malicious insinuation.

Her career wasn’t just over; it was about to become a running joke.

The image of Molly’s face upon reading that headline flashed before Ginny’s eyes, bringing a fresh wave of horrified despair.

Before Ginny could even begin to process the full horror of this new development, before she could utter a single word of denial, Riddle moved.

His reaction was instantaneous, devoid of hesitation, a blur of deadly efficiency. The yew wand, still pressed against Ginny’s throat moments before, flicked outwards with viper-like speed.

“Stupefy!” His voice was a low snarl, no longer directed at Ginny, but imbued with full force of his immediate need for damage control.

A jet of red light shot from his wand tip, striking Rita Skeeter squarely in the chest before she could even register the attack. Her triumphant grin froze, her eyes glazed over, and she crumpled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, her Quick-Quotes Quill clattering uselessly beside her.

Before Bozo, the photographer, could react, gaping in bewildered terror, Riddle’s wand flicked again.

“Stupefy!”

Bozo joined Skeeter on the corridor floor with a dull thud, his camera skittering away across the polished stone.

Silence descended once more, broken only by Ginny’s ragged breathing.

She stared, speechless, at the two unconscious figures sprawled at the end of the corridor.

Riddle hadn’t just stunned them; he had done it with a speed and ruthlessness that was terrifying to behold. No warning, no hesitation. Just immediate, decisive action.

He hadn’t even lowered his wand fully before turning his attention to the aftermath, his mind clearly already strategizing.

Ginny finally found her voice, outrage momentarily eclipsing her own predicament. “What did you do?!” she shrieked, her voice echoing in the suddenly too-quiet corridor. “You just attacked them! That’s Rita Skeeter! You can’t just… Do you even know the trouble—”

Riddle ignored her completely.

He stepped away from Ginny, the lingering tension of their confrontation seemingly forgotten, his entire focus now on the two unconscious figures. He moved towards them with brisk, purposeful strides.

She saw him raise his wand again, aiming it directly at Skeeter’s temple.

The intent was unmistakable.

Obliviation.

He was going to wipe their memories. Erase the entire incident. Erase the photograph, erase the confrontation, erase any trace of what they had witnessed.

“What the heck are you doing?!” Ginny lunged forward, instinctively moving to place herself between Riddle’s wand and the unconscious form of Rita Skeeter.

She didn’t particularly like Skeeter – few did – but the idea of Riddle tampering with someone’s mind so casually, felt profoundly wrong.

“Stop it, Riddle! You can’t just Obliviate them!”

Riddle paused, his wand tip hovering inches from Skeeter’s forehead. He turned his head slowly, fixing Ginny with a look of such profound, icy annoyance that she almost recoiled. The brief alliance, if it could even be called that, in the face of Skeeter’s intrusion was clearly over.

He considered not answering her, his patience with this disruptive, impulsive Chaser worn to a thread. He had more pressing matters to attend to than her moral outrage.

“Move, Miss Weasley,” he said finally, his voice dangerously soft, each word laced with menace. “Or your memory will be as… selectively edited as theirs is about to be.”

The threat was unambiguous.

Stand aside, or face the consequences.

He would not hesitate to include her in the memory wipe if she continued to interfere.

Ginny stared at him, torn. Her instincts screamed to protect the helpless, to defy his abuse of power.

But the absolute conviction that he would follow through on his threat, was terrifyingly real.

She remembered the empty feeling of her own wand pocket, the ease with which he had disarmed her. He could overpower her again in an instant.

And the thought of her own memories being tampered with, of having parts of her mind erased or rewritten by him… it was a violation she couldn’t bear.

With a surge of conflicting emotions – anger at her own cowardice and a sickening sense of helplessness – Ginny slowly, reluctantly, stepped aside.

She couldn’t watch. She turned her head away, focusing on a drab patch of wall, her heart pounding with a mixture of shame and relief.

She heard the soft murmur of Riddle’s incantation, though she couldn’t make out the words.

A faint shimmer of magic, a subtle shift in the air.

Then silence.

When she finally dared to look back, Riddle was straightening up, his expression composed, impassive. Skeeter and Bozo remained unconscious, their positions subtly altered, their faces blank.

He had done it. Efficiently. Ruthlessly.

As if erasing inconvenient memories was as routine for him as signing Ministry decrees.

The silence in the corridor was broken only by the distant, muffled roar of the Quidditch crowd – a sound that felt like it belonged to another lifetime.

Skeeter and Bozo lay sprawled on the stone floor, their faces slack, peaceful in their induced ignorance. The air around them still hummed faintly with the residue of memory magic.

Riddle stood over them, his wand still held loosely at his side, his expression composed, thoughtful. His gaze, however, wasn't on the unconscious journalists. It was fixed on Ginny.

And in his dark eyes, she saw it. The assessment. The contemplation.

He was considering her.

Considering whether her memory, too, needed to be… selectively edited.

The realization sent a fresh wave of dread through her.

He had her trapped.

He had witnessed her defiance, her threats about his past.

She knew, or at least suspected, things he would undoubtedly prefer forgotten. And now, she had witnessed him commit a serious crime – assaulting and obliviating Ministry-accredited press.

She was a loose end. A dangerous variable.

And Tom Riddle did not tolerate loose ends.

Her hand fumbled in her robe pocket, fingers closing around the smooth, unfamiliar wood of the anonymous wand Fred and George had given her. It felt alien, unresponsive compared to her own, but it was something. 

She drew it, lacking the fluid grace she possessed with her own wand, but her intent was clear. She levelled it at him, not with any real hope of overpowering him, but as an act of self-preservation.

“Don’t even think about it,” she warned, her voice hoarse, betraying the fear that clawed at her throat. “You try to Obliviate me, and I swear… I’ll…”

What? What could she possibly do against him, wandless in essence, disarmed of her true magic?

The threat died on her lips, a pathetic, empty gesture.

Riddle’s gaze flickered down to the unfamiliar wand in her hand, then back up to her face. A faint smirk touched his lips, a fleeting expression of pure, condescending amusement.

“That?” he drawled, his voice laced with mockery. “You intend to defend yourself with… that?”

He gestured vaguely towards the wand she held. “A poorly crafted piece of second-hand wood, I presume? Clearly not bonded to you. Do you imagine your magic will flow freely through such an unwilling conduit, Miss Weasley? That it won’t resist your intentions, sputter, perhaps even backfire spectacularly?”

He took a slow, deliberate step towards her, the smirk widening slightly. “You truly are… just an athlete, aren’t you? All brute force and impulsive action, with precious little understanding of the finer nuances of magic. Believing that mere possession of a wand equates to actual power, especially against someone like me.”

The insult – “just an athlete” – stung, designed to undermine her confidence, to emphasize her perceived inferiority in his world of intricate spellcraft and subtle power plays. He clearly viewed athletes as lesser beings, relying on physical prowess rather than refined magical skill.

He stopped a few feet away, well out of her clumsy reach, his posture relaxed, almost casual, yet radiating an aura of unshakeable control.

He didn’t even bother to raise his own wand again.

The implication was clear: he didn’t need to. She was no threat.

“Your own wand,” he continued, his voice dropping to a conversational tone, though the mockery remained, “is currently in my possession. A rather nice piece of yew, if I recall. Reasonably responsive, though clearly attuned to a… somewhat volatile magical signature.” 

Ginny’s grip tightened on the borrowed wand, her knuckles white. His casual assessment of her own wand, his easy possession of it, felt like another layer of humiliation.

“And as for Obliviation,” he went on, tilting his head slightly, regarding her with that analytical gaze, “while the thought certainly has its merits, given your recent… indiscretions… it also presents certain… logistical untidiness.”

He paused, letting her absorb the implication that he had, indeed, seriously considered it. “Memory charms, particularly those applied under duress or to a resistant mind, can be… imperfect. They can leave traces, inconsistencies, attract unwanted scrutiny from those with the skills to detect such things. And you, Miss Weasley, despite your… athletic proclivities… possess a rather forceful magical core. Subduing it sufficiently for a clean memory wipe would require… significant effort.”

He wasn’t saying he couldn’t do it. He was saying it would be inconvenient. Messy. Beneath his standards of efficiency.

“Besides,” he added, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, “your… complicity… in this little incident might prove… useful.”

Complicity?

Ginny stared at him, bewildered.

What was he talking about?

“You witnessed an unfortunate, necessary intervention to prevent the dissemination of… misleading and potentially damaging information,” Riddle explained patiently, as if instructing a particularly slow student. “You chose, albeit reluctantly, not to interfere further. You stood aside.”

He gestured towards the unconscious forms of Skeeter and Bozo. “Were they to awaken now, with their memories intact, they would undoubtedly report not only my actions, but your presence. Your earlier, rather public, altercation with me. The… compromising position in which they discovered us.”

His gaze held hers, sharp and knowing. “Imagine the headlines, Miss Weasley. Skeeter is nothing if not imaginative with her narratives.”

The full horror of her situation, the trap she had unwittingly stepped into, crashed down on her.

He was right.

She had stood aside.

She had allowed him to obliviate them.

Not out of agreement, but out of self-preservation.

To protect her own mind from his violation.

To avoid another scandal, another layer of public humiliation that would undoubtedly link her name with his in ways that made her physically ill.

And in doing so, she had become… an accessory.

A silent partner in his crime.

If Skeeter’s original story had been damaging, a story involving her witnessing Riddle obliviating journalists after being found in a compromising situation with him… that would be catastrophic. 

Riddle saw the understanding, the dawning in her eyes. 

“Precisely,” he murmured. “Your desire to avoid further scandal, to protect your own already tarnished reputation, aligns rather neatly with my own need for discretion in this matter. You have a vested interest now, Miss Weasley, in ensuring this incident remains… undocumented.”

He had her.

Not just physically disarmed, but morally compromised.

Trapped not by magic, but by the pragmatic, desperate calculus of her own self-preservation.

He hadn’t needed to obliviate her. He had found a far more effective, far more insidious way to ensure her silence. He had made her complicit.

The borrowed wand in her hand suddenly felt useless, a symbol of her own \failed defiance. She wanted to drop it, to scream, to deny his accusation, but the truth of it, the realization of her own unwilling entanglement, choked the words in her throat.

Riddle watched her internal struggle with detached satisfaction. He had assessed the variables, the probabilities, and engineered the desired outcome.

Her messy, emotional outburst had, once again, provided him with an unexpected opportunity, a new lever of control.

“So,” he said, his voice returning to that businesslike tone, as if concluding a particularly satisfactory negotiation, “I believe we have an understanding, Miss Weasley. This… unfortunate encounter… never happened. Skeeter and her photographer experienced a moment of professional overzealousness, perhaps a touch too much Gillywater at the match, leading to a fainting spell. They will recall nothing of significance. And you… you will recall only the wisdom of discretion.”

He didn’t wait for her agreement. He didn’t need it. He had already seen it in her eyes.

He turned his attention back to the unconscious journalists, his mind clearly already moving on to the next steps – how to revive them without raising suspicion, how to ensure their planted memories were consistent, how to manage any residual bureaucratic fallout.

Ginny remained frozen, staring at his back, the unfamiliar wand still clutched in her hand. The weight of her unwilling complicity, the bitter taste of her own compromised integrity, felt far heavier than any physical threat he could have imposed.

He hadn’t just defeated her; he had made her a part of his deception.

Chapter Text

Dawn was a smear of bruised purple and reluctant grey across the London skyline, visible through the grimy window of Ginny’s small flat.

She hadn’t slept. Not a wink.

The rhythmic thud of her own pacing – back and forth, back and forth across the worn wooden floorboards – was the only sound in the otherwise silent room, a counterpoint to the chaotic thrumming in her head.

Yesterday.

The Wigtown Wanderers match.

The confrontation with Riddle in the service corridor.

Rita Skeeter.

The Stupefies.

The casual use of obliviations.

And her own silence. Her own unwilling complicity.

How had it come to this?

All she had ever wanted was to play Quidditch.

To fly fast, hit hard, score goals.

To be good at it. Great, even.

To feel the roar of the crowd, the camaraderie of her team, the pure, uncomplicated joy of a well-earned victory.

That was it. That was the dream.

Simple. Clean.

And yet…

She was now tangled in a web of Ministry politics, personal vendettas, and a level of manipulation that made her head spin. She was suspended from her team, her career in tatters, her wand in the possession of a man who seemed to view her as some kind of irritating but potentially useful for his psychological experiments.

She’d witnessed him assault and magically tamper with accredited journalists, and her own desperate desire to avoid further scandal, further entanglement with him, had made her anaccessory.

Her stomach churned.

She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to ward off a chill that had nothing to do with the pre-dawn air.

She replayed the scene in the corridor, Riddle’s ruthlessness.

He hadn’t hesitated. He hadn’t shown a flicker of remorse.

He had simply… eliminated the problem.

Efficiently. Permanently.

And then he had turned to her, not with a curse, but with words, with logic, twisting her own self-preservation into a chain that bound her to his secret.

“You have a vested interest now, Miss Weasley, in ensuring this incident remains… undocumented.”

He was right. Curse him, he was right.

The thought of Skeeter publishing a story about that –being found practically pinned against a wall by Riddle, followed by him stunning and obliviating the press – it was unthinkable.

The scandal would be beyond anything she could imagine. Her family… her own shredded reputation… it would be a feeding frenzy.

So she had stayed silent. Stood aside. Watched him rewrite reality.

The memory of the faint shimmer of magic around Skeeter’s oblivious face, the blankness in her eyes after Riddle had finished… it made Ginny feel physically ill.

And through it all, the distant, muffled roar of the Quidditch match had continued, unfolding in the bowels of the stadium.

She’d heard it later, as she’d numbly made her way out of the stadium after Riddle had finally, dismissively, allowed her to leave (after ensuring Skeeter and Bozo were suitably “revived” with conveniently implanted memories of feeling faint and needing to depart early, no doubt).

The groans of the crowd, the disappointed commentary filtering through the stadium walls.

The Harpies had lost.

Lost badly to the Wigtown Wanderers, a team they should have beaten, even without her.

Nia Jenkins was competent, but she wasn't Ginny. The Chaser line lacked its usual aggressive punch, its telepathic coordination.

The loss felt like another nail in the coffin of her season, another consequence of her actions, another weight on Gwenog’s already burdened shoulders.

There wouldn't have been a victory party last night, just a grim, subdued journey back to Holyhead, filled with recriminations and the bitter taste of defeat. Gwenog would be… incandescent.

Ginny dreaded the next practice session.

How had she gotten here?

From star Chaser to disgraced, wandless pariah, tangled in the machinations of a man who seemed to embody everything she despised?

It wasn't as if her research, her desperate attempt to find some leverage, had been entirely worthless. They still felt significant. They still painted a picture of a younger Riddle, a Head Boy already dabbling in dark arts, potentially connected to Myrtle Warren’s death in ways the official record conveniently overlooked.

The encounter in the corridor, her confronting him with those details, had undeniably rattled him. She had seen it in his eyes, in the tightening of his jaw.

He hadn’t liked her poking into his past, especially not with specific, documented details, however circumstantial.

But in trying to unsettle him, she had only drawn herself deeper into his orbit, into his world of secrets and ruthless damage control.

She had proven she was a threat, not just an annoyance. And he had responded by escalating the stakes, by making her complicit in his crimes.

A part of her, a small, terrified part, kept expecting Aurors to apparate into her flat at any moment to arrest her for witnessing what she had witnessed. For knowing what she suspected.

Surely Riddle wouldn't just let her walk away with that knowledge, even if he thought he had secured her silence?

But then another, more chilling thought intruded.

Tom Riddle was meticulous. He was brilliant.

He wouldn’t have made a mistake with the obliviations. Skeeter and Bozo would remember nothing.

There would be no official report, no investigation.

He was that good. That confident in his own abilities.

And what was she thinking? Subtly "collaborating" with him by hoping his magic held?

She should be marching back to the Ministry right now, to the Auror office, to Alastor Moody himself if she could find him, and reporting everything.

The assault. The obliviations. Her suspicions about his past.

And yet…

The image of Riddle’s wand at Skeeter’s temple. The certainty with which he had rewritten memory. 

What proof did she have, really? Her word against his?

A disgraced Quidditch player with a known temper, accusing a respected Senior Advisor…  of what?

Dark magic?

Cover-ups from decades ago?

Assaulting journalists he would claim simply fainted?

They would laugh her out of the office. Or worse, they’d commit her to St. Mungo’s for psychological evaluation, citing her “instability.” Riddle would probably arrange it himself, with a sympathetic sigh about the pressures of professional Quidditch.

And if, by some miracle, they did investigate… if they did find some trace of his actions… what then?

He wouldn't go down easily. He would fight back, with all the resources and influence at his command. He would destroy anyone who threatened him.

Including her. Including her family.

Riddle played for keeps.

She paced faster, the floorboards creaking under her restless feet.

She was trapped. Trapped by his power, trapped by her own actions, trapped by her unwilling complicity.

All she wanted was to play Quidditch.

The grey light of dawn slowly strengthened, seeping into the corners of her small flat, offering no comfort, only the unwelcome arrival of another day in this new, wretched reality.

The rhythmic thud of her pacing eventually subsided, replaced by a bone-deep weariness that went beyond lack of sleep. She sank onto the edge of her lumpy sofa, staring blankly at the opposite wall where a faded Holyhead Harpies pennant hung slightly askew.

It felt like a relic from another life.

The Wigtown Wanderers.

They had lost. She knew it with a sick certainty, even before the inevitable arrival of the Sunday Daily Prophet confirmed it.

The thought of facing Gwenog, of seeing the disappointment etched on her captain’s face, of enduring the strained silence of her teammates, was almost unbearable.

But she had to.

She had to report for conditioning, observer status, as per Gwenog’s terse directive. She had to maintain the facade of a disciplined, if sidelined, player.

She had to show up.

Dragging herself through the motions of preparing for the day felt like wading through treacle. Showering, dressing in nondescript practice gear, forcing down a piece of dry toast – each action was an effort of will.

The borrowed wand remained in her pocket, an alien weight. She still hadn't figured out what to do about her own. Asking Riddle for it back was out of the question. 

The Apparition to the Harpies’ training ground was as jarring as ever, depositing her into the familiar damp chill of the Welsh morning. The pitch was already alive, not with the usual focused energy of pre-drill warm-ups, but with a heavy gloom.

The team was assembled near the centre circle, not hovering, but standing in a loose, dispirited huddle on the turf. Their shoulders were slumped, their expressions grim. Even the air seemed to hang heavy, devoid of the usual pre-practice banter.

Gwenog Jones stood before them, arms crossed, her face a thundercloud. She wasn’t shouting, not yet, but the coiled tension radiating from her was more intimidating than any roar. She saw Ginny approach from the corner of her eye but didn’t acknowledge her arrival, her focus entirely on the dejected players before her.

Ginny moved quietly to the designated conditioning area, well away from the main group, feeling like an intruder at her own team’s wake. She started her stretches, her movements stiff, her mind bracing for the inevitable.

Gwenog let the silence stretch for another long moment, letting the weight of yesterday’s defeat settle onto her players. Then, she spoke, her voice low, flat, and utterly devoid of warmth.

“Wigtown Wanderers,” she began, each word dripping with contempt. “Wigtown. Bloody. Wanderers.”

She spat the name out as if it tasted foul. “A team whose primary offensive strategy consists of hoping the opposing Chasers accidentally fly into each other. A team whose Keeper has the reflexes of a sedated Flobberworm. A team we should have demolished. Blindfolded.”

Her gaze swept over the bowed heads. “And yet, yesterday, they didn’t just beat us. They humiliated us. On our own pitch. In front of our own fans.”

No one moved. No one spoke. The shame was a tangible thing, hanging in the misty air.

“I saw passes that wouldn’t have connected with a barn door from five feet away,” Gwenog continued, her voice rising slightly, gaining a dangerous edge. “I saw defensive formations that looked like a badly organized school nativity play. I saw a Seeker” – she didn’t look at Valmai, but the implication was clear – “who seemed more interested in admiring the cloud formations than finding a Snitch that was practically gift-wrapped for her in the final ten minutes.”

Valmai flinched, her face pale.

“And the Chasers,” Gwenog’s voice dropped again, becoming dangerously soft as her gaze finally, inevitably, flicked towards Nia Jenkins, who visibly shrank. “Ninety minutes. One goal. One. Against the Wanderers. Are you actually serious?”

Nia mumbled something inaudible, staring at her boots.

“I didn’t hear that, Jenkins,” Gwenog snapped.

“Their Beaters… they were targeting…” Nia began, her voice barely a whisper.

“Their Beaters?” Gwenog cut her off, incredulous. “Of course their Beaters were targeting you! That’s their job! It’s Quidditch, not a bloody tea party! You think the Ballycastle Bats are going to send you engraved invitations to score? You think the Montrose Magpies are going to roll out a welcome mat in front of their goalposts?”

She took a step closer to the huddle, her eyes blazing now. “What I saw out there yesterday wasn’t just bad Quidditch. It was a lack of fight. A lack of hunger. A lack of pride.”

She paced before them, a caged lion. “You think because Weasley’s out” – she gestured dismissively in Ginny’s direction without looking at her, the casual mention a fresh sting – “you can just… what? Give up? Roll over? Let every second-rate team in the League use us as target practice?”

Her voice rose to a roar. “Is that what the Holyhead Harpies are now? A charity case? A guaranteed three points for anyone who bothers to show up?”

The silence that followed was thick.

Ginny, going through her stretches, felt every word like a physical blow, even though they weren’t directly aimed at her. Gwenog’s fury was a force of nature, and right now, it was directed at the collective failure of the team, a failure Ginny felt keenly responsible for, despite her absence from the match. Her actions had created the void Nia was struggling to fill.

Gwenog stopped pacing, her chest heaving slightly. She ran a hand through her short, damp hair, a gesture of profound frustration. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, laced with a weary disappointment that was almost worse than the anger.

“I don’t know what that was yesterday,” she said tiredly. “But it wasn’t my team. It wasn’t the Harpies I know.”

She looked at them, one by one. “This isn’t just about one match. This is about the rest of the season. Do you want to be laughingstocks? Do you want to be the team everyone pencils in for an easy win? Or do you want to fight?”

She paused, letting the question hang. “Because if you don’t want to fight, if you don’t have the heart for it, then tell me now. Save us all the embarrassment. There are plenty of reserve players in this League who would kill for a spot on this roster, who would bleed green and gold for this club.”

Her gaze lingered on Nia Jenkins again, a silent, pointed challenge.

Nia swallowed hard, straightened her shoulders slightly, and finally met Gwenog’s eyes. “I want to fight, Captain,” she said, her voice surprisingly firm.

One by one, other players echoed her.

“We’ll do better, Gwenog.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“We’re with you, Captain.”

Gwenog listened, her expression unyielding. “Words are cheap,” she said finally. “I want to see it. On the pitch. In every drill, every pass, every tackle. I want to see fire. I want to see hunger. I want to see you remember what it means to wear that Harpy on your chest.”

She took a deep breath. “Alright. Warm-up laps. Ten. Full speed. Then we’re running defensive drills until you puke. And then we’re running them again. If the Wanderers could break us down, Merlin help us against the Kenmare Kestrels next week. Move!”

The team scattered, kicking off with a renewed, if somewhat desperate, urgency, the fear of Gwenog’s wrath a more potent motivator than any pre-match pep talk.

Ginny watched them go, a hollow ache in her chest. She understood Gwenog’s fury, her disappointment. She felt it too. But being on the outside, unable to contribute, unable to help fix it, was a unique form of torture.

She turned back to her solitary conditioning routine, the weights feeling heavier than usual, her movements sluggish.

The atmosphere at the training ground remained tense for the rest of the morning. Gwenog pushed the team relentlessly, her voice a constant barrage of criticism and correction.

There were no easy drills, no moments of levity. It was pure, grinding work, designed to rebuild discipline and expunge the memory of yesterday’s humiliation.

Ginny kept to her designated area, running her laps, working through her physio exercises, an isolated figure on the periphery of her team’s pain.

She overheard snippets during brief water breaks – frustrated sighs, muttered curses, the occasional sharp exchange between players as exhaustion frayed tempers.

“Jenkins, you need to be anticipating that cross-pitch from Griffiths, not waiting for it to hit you in the face!” Gwenog roared at one point, her voice echoing across the empty stands.

“Sorry, Captain! I just…”

“No excuses! See it! Read it! Move!”

Ginny winced. She knew that play, knew the timing, knew exactly where Nia should have been. And Nia knew she knew. It added another layer of awkwardness to their already strained interactions.

When the brutal session finally ended, hours later, the team dragged themselves towards the changing rooms, looking utterly drained, physically and emotionally. Gwenog followed them, her expression still grim, though perhaps a fraction less explosive.

Ginny finished her cool-down routine, collected her gear, and headed towards the exit, eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere. She hadn’t spoken a word to any of her teammates, and none had spoken to her beyond the briefest of nods. The gulf between them felt wider than ever.

As she reached the tunnel leading out of the stadium complex, a voice stopped her.

“Weasley.”

It was Gwenog.

She stood near the entrance, arms crossed, watching Ginny approach. Her face was etched with exhaustion, but the fire in her eyes was still banked, not extinguished.

Ginny braced herself. Another reprimand? A further tightening of restrictions?

“Walk with me,” Gwenog said, not waiting for a reply, turning and heading towards the rarely used path that led around the back of the stadium, towards the cliffside overlooking the choppy grey waters of the Irish Sea.

Surprised, Ginny fell into step beside her. They walked in silence for several minutes, the only sounds the crunch of their boots on the gravel path and the mournful cry of distant gulls. The wind was stronger here, whipping at their hair, carrying the salty tang of the sea.

Finally, Gwenog stopped at a weathered wooden railing overlooking the crashing waves below. She stared out at the turbulent water for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

“That was… ugly this morning,” she said finally, her voice quiet, almost conversational, a stark contrast to her earlier fury.

Ginny didn’t know what to say. “The team… they’re hurting,” she offered lamely.

Gwenog snorted. “They deserved to hurt. They played like they’d never seen a Quaffle before.” She turned to look at Ginny, her gaze direct, searching. “You heard most of it, I imagine.”

Ginny nodded.

“Good,” Gwenog said. “Because it wasn’t just for them. It was for you too.”

Ginny frowned, confused. “Me? I wasn’t playing.”

“Exactly,” Gwenog said, her voice hardening slightly. “You weren’t playing. And look what happened. One Chaser down, and the whole damn team falls apart like wet parchment. That’s not on Jenkins, not entirely. She’s competent, she’s trying. But she’s not you. The dynamic is shot.”

She sighed, running a hand through her hair again. “This suspension… this ‘inactive roster’ nonsense… it’s killing us, Ginny. Not just our morale, but our performance. Our chances this season.”

Ginny stared at her, hope warring with dread. Was Gwenog… reconsidering? Was there a chance?

“I know it’s not your fault directly, what the Ministry… what he did,” Gwenog continued, her jaw tightening at the unspoken reference to Riddle. “But your actions gave them the ammunition. And now we’re all paying the price.”

She looked back out at the grey, unforgiving sea. “I got another owl from Cadwallader this morning. Nimbus is ‘re-evaluating their sponsorship commitment for next season’ based on ‘recent performance indicators and concerns about team stability’. That’s sponsor-speak for ‘we’re about to pull your funding unless you start winning, and stop being front-page news for all the wrong reasons’.”

Nimbus. The whispers were true.

“And the League office sent a revised travel stipend projection for the second half of the season,” Gwenog added, her voice bitter. “Guess what? It’s been… ‘adjusted downwards due to unforeseen budgetary constraints’.”

Riddle wasn’t just punishing Ginny; he was systematically squeezing the life out of the Holyhead Harpies. Making her presence, even on the sidelines, a toxic liability.

“He wants to destroy us,” Ginny whispered, horrified. “Because of me.”

Gwenog turned back, her eyes hard. “Maybe. Or maybe he just wants to demonstrate that crossing him has consequences. Far-reaching consequences.” She paused. “The point is, Weasley, this situation isn’t sustainable. The team is crumbling. The club is under financial pressure. And you… you’re wasting away running laps and lifting weights while your talent gathers dust.”

She looked at Ginny intently. “I’m not asking you to apologize to Riddle. I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire. But this… this standoff… it can’t continue. Either the Ministry relents, which seems about as likely as Fudge declining a free banquet, or… something else has to give.”

Her gaze was challenging. “You’ve confronted him. Twice now, from what I gather. And clearly, that hasn’t convinced him you’re not worth the trouble, or made him back off. If anything, it seems to have made things worse for us.”

She wasn't accusing, merely stating a brutal fact.

Confronting him, trying to use the information she’d found… it had backfired spectacularly, escalating his attacks on the team, and trapping her in his web of complicity. She couldn’t tell Gwenog about Skeeter, about the obliviations. It was too dangerous, and would only confirm how deeply enmeshed she now was.

“I… I don’t know what else to do, Gwenog,” Ginny admitted, the words feeling like a surrender. “ He twists everything.”

Gwenog stared out at the sea again, her expression grim. “Right.”

There was no easy way out of this. Riddle held all the cards.

“So,” Gwenog said finally, turning back, her voice devoid of its earlier anger, replaced by a hard, pragmatic resolve. “If you can’t make him back off… then we need to find another way to survive this. A way that doesn’t involve the Holyhead Harpies ceasing to exist because one of my Chasers picked a fight with the wrong viper.”

Gwenog’s words hung in the salt-laced air.

Survive. Find another way.

The implication was clear, even if unspoken. The current path – Ginny sidelined, the team under siege – was leading towards ruin.

Ginny looked at her captain, at the lines of stress etched around her eyes, the fierce, unwavering loyalty to her team that burned even through the exhaustion and frustration.

This wasn't just about Ginny’s career anymore. This was about the Holyhead Harpies. About Gwenog, Valmai, Rhiannon, Megan, Carys… all of them. Their livelihoods, their passion, were being threatened because of her.

The icy resolve she’d felt in the attic, the desire to find leverage, to unsettle Riddle, suddenly felt selfish, misguided.

It hadn’t worked. It had only escalated things.

Pride. Her stubborn, Weasley pride. It had driven her to confront him, to challenge him, to refuse to be cowed. And it had led them all to this precipice.

She took a deep, shuddering breath, the cold sea air filling her lungs.

“Gwenog,” she began, her voice strained, but firm. “You’re right. This… this is my fault. My temper, my… inability to just walk away. I dragged the team into this.”

Gwenog watched her, her expression unreadable, waiting.

“I… I’ll fix it,” Ginny said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. “I’ll go to him. To Riddle. I’ll… I’ll do whatever it takes. Apologize. Beg, if I have to. Anything. To get him to call off this… this siege.”

The thought of humbling herself before Tom Riddle, of retracting her accusations, of pleading for his mercy, was an agony beyond words.

It felt like a betrayal of everything she believed in, a surrender of her very soul.

But the image of her teammates’ dejected faces, of Gwenog’s weary despair, of the Harpies – her Harpies – being slowly strangled by bureaucratic malice… that was a greater agony.

Gwenog’s expression softened, just a fraction. She saw the sacrifice in Ginny’s eyes, the depth of her reluctant commitment.

“Weasley…” she began, then hesitated. She ran a hand over her face, sighing. “Look, I’m not saying you grovel. That man… he’d probably enjoy it too much. And honestly,” – a flicker of her old defiant fire returned – “I’m not relying solely on that. I have confidence in these players, in this team. We can win matches even with budget cuts breathing down our necks, even with biased referees and inconvenient scheduling. We’re Harpies. We fight. We endure.”

She met Ginny’s gaze, her own fierce and unwavering. “I don’t care if they cut our travel stipends down to Floo powder and a packed lunch. I don’t care if Nimbus pulls every last sickle and we have to fly on Cleansweep Fives held together with duct tape and hope. We will still show up, and we will still play Harpies Quidditch.”

Her voice dropped, losing its defiant edge, becoming raw with emotion. “What I care about, Ginny, is the spirit of this team. What I care about is seeing that fire in their eyes again, not this… this defeated gloom. What I care about is not letting that bastard grind us down, not just financially, but in here.” She thumped her chest, over her heart. “He wants to break us. He wants to make an example of us, because you stood up to him. And I will not let him win that. Not that.”

She paused, her gaze intense. “If you think you can find a way to… neutralize the threat, to get him to redirect his venom elsewhere, then do it. For the team. But do it smart, Ginny. Not with more fire, not with more confrontation. That hasn’t worked. He’s too good at twisting that. This needs… a different approach. Something he won’t expect from you.”

Ginny nodded slowly, understanding dawning. Gwenog wasn’t asking her to sacrifice her pride for the sake of galleons or broomsticks. She was asking her to find a way to protect the soul of the team, to stop Riddle from crushing their spirit. And that meant Ginny had to be strategic, not just reactive. It meant approaching him not as a furious victim, but as someone… capable of a more measured, more thoughtful interaction, however repulsive that idea felt.

It meant playing his game, by his rules, on his turf, for the sake of something larger than herself.

“I understand, Captain,” Ginny said quietly. “I’ll… I’ll try. A different approach.”

Gwenog gave a single, curt nod. “Good. Now, get back to your conditioning. And Weasley?”

Ginny paused.

“Don’t lose that fire entirely,” Gwenog said, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. “Just… learn to aim it better.”

With that, she turned and strode back towards the stadium, leaving Ginny alone with the roaring sea and the weight of her impossible promise.

The anonymous wand felt heavy, unfamiliar, as Ginny sat at the rickety desk in her flat later that day, a fresh sheet of parchment before her.

“A different approach,” Gwenog had said. “Something he won’t expect from you.”

Storming his office again was clearly out. Public confrontations were disastrous. Subtly threatening him with half-baked historical theories had only tightened the noose.

That left… official channels. 

If she wanted to ‘talk’ to Tom Riddle, properly, on his terms, it meant an appointment. A formal request for his time, a meeting within the structured confines of his Ministry domain.

The thought was deeply unappealing. It felt like surrendering before the conversation even began. But it was also, undeniably, what he wouldn’t expect from her. He wouldn’t expect polite, bureaucratic procedure.

She dipped a borrowed quill into a pot of ink, her hand surprisingly steady.

To the Office of Senior Advisor Tom Riddle, she began, the formal address feeling alien on her tongue, let alone her parchment.

Dear Sir, (another internal wince)

I am writing to respectfully request a brief meeting at your earliest convenience to discuss matters of mutual concern pertaining to my current status within the Quidditch League and its potential impact on the Holyhead Harpies team.

She paused, rereading the stilted, formal sentence. It sounded like Percy. It felt utterly inauthentic. But perhaps inauthenticity, a deliberate departure from her usual bluntness, was precisely what was needed.

I believe a direct and professional conversation may prove beneficial in resolving any outstanding misunderstandings.

Misunderstandings.

As if her fury and his manipulations were mere crossed wires.

The understatement was galling, but necessary.

I am available to meet at any time you deem appropriate.*

Sincerely,

Ginny Weasley
Chaser (Inactive Roster), Holyhead Harpies

She sealed the letter with a plain wax seal, no Harpy emblem, no personal flourish. She addressed it simply to "Senior Advisor Tom Riddle, Ministry of Magic," and sent it off with a hired owl from the local Eeylops Owl Emporium, unwilling to use Errol or any bird that could be traced back to the Burrow too easily.

Then she waited.

And the rejections began.

The first reply arrived two days later, not from Riddle himself, but on crisp, official Ministry parchment, bearing the insignia of the Senior Advisor’s administrative support staff.

It was typed, impersonal, and maddeningly polite.

Dear Miss Weasley,

Mr. Riddle acknowledges receipt of your correspondence.

Unfortunately, due to pressing and pre-existing Ministry commitments, Mr. Riddle’s schedule is fully allocated for the foreseeable future. He is therefore unable to accommodate your request for a meeting at this time.

We suggest you direct any concerns regarding your League status through the appropriate channels within the Department of Magical Games and Sports.

Sincerely,

A. Pringle
Administrative Assistant to the Senior Advisor

A. Pringle. Likely some harried, efficient witch or wizard tasked with deflecting inconvenient requests.

Ginny crumpled the letter in frustration. “Fully allocated for the foreseeable future.”

It was a blatant, infuriating brush-off. He was doing it on purpose, enjoying her attempt at formal procedure, swatting it away like an annoying fly.

She wouldn’t be deterred that easily. Gwenog’s words, the image of her team’s dejected faces, fueled a stubborn persistence.

She wrote again.

Dear Mr. Pringle,

Thank you for your prompt reply. I understand Mr. Riddle’s schedule is demanding. However, the matters I wish to discuss are of some urgency and have implications that extend beyond standard League channels, potentially impacting broader Ministry-League relations.

She was bluffing, hinting at a wider significance, hoping to pique some interest, or at least create enough ambiguity to bypass the initial gatekeeper.

I would be grateful if you could ascertain if even a very brief window – perhaps fifteen minutes – might become available in the coming weeks. I am prepared to be flexible.

Sincerely,
Ginny Weasley

The reply, when it came a day later, was identical.

Same crisp parchment.

Same polite, infuriating dismissal.

Signed by the same A. Pringle.

Dear Miss Weasley,

Mr. Riddle’s schedule remains fully allocated. We reiterate our suggestion to utilize the established departmental channels…

He wasn’t just ignoring her; he was stonewalling her. Making her jump through bureaucratic hoops he knew led nowhere, all while his administrative assistant delivered the polite “no.”

Ginny seethed. She could almost picture Riddle leaning back in his chair, a smug smile on his face as Pringle drafted these dismissive replies under his direction. He was enjoying this, enjoying her frustration, her attempts to play by his rules only to find those rules were designed to exclude her.

She understood why, of course. Why would he meet with her? He held all the power. He had achieved his objective – she was sidelined, silenced, her team suffering. There was nothing in it for him to grant her an audience.

But she had promised Gwenog. She had promised herself she would try a different approach.

She wrote a third time, and a fourth, each letter increasingly concise, bordering on terse, stripping away the polite formalities, her frustration seeping through despite her best efforts.

Pringle,

Re: Meeting with Advisor Riddle. Is there any availability whatsoever? This matter requires direct discussion.

G. Weasley

The replies remained stubbornly, maddeningly consistent.

Mr. Riddle’s schedule remains fully allocated…

Mr. Riddle’s schedule remains fully allocated…

The reason never changed.

Pressing Ministry commitments. Fully allocated.

He was perpetually, conveniently, unavailable to her.

Each rejection slip, delivered by an increasingly weary-looking hired owl, felt like another reminder of her powerlessness in his world.

She was reduced to pleading for scraps of his time through an anonymous administrative assistant, while her career withered and her team struggled under the weight of his displeasure.

Her “different approach” was failing spectacularly.

The familiar urge to storm the Ministry again, to bypass Pringle and demand to see Riddle face-to-face, began to simmer. It would be foolish, disastrous, achieve nothing but further condemnation.

But the thought of simply giving up, of accepting this bureaucratic stonewalling, was almost as unbearable.

She stared at the latest rejection slip, crumpled in her fist. “Fully allocated.”

It was a lie, a polite fiction masking his deliberate evasion.

A. Pringle, a meticulously efficient wizard whose ambition was only matched by his terror of displeasing his superior, placed the fourth neatly typed rejection letter onto Tom Riddle’s expansive mahogany desk. He did so with the air of someone handling a potentially volatile magical artifact.

“The latest correspondence from Miss G. M. Weasley, sir,” Pringle announced, his voice carefully neutral, betraying none of the exasperation he felt at the Chaser’s persistence. “And the draft of your standardized declination, as per your standing instructions.”

Tom Riddle didn’t look up immediately.

He was engrossed in a complex inter-departmental report detailing proposed revisions to the International Statute of Secrecy enforcement protocols – specifically concerning the containment of dragon-related incidents near Muggle population centers. His quill moved with swift precision across the margins, making sharp, incisive annotations.

The Weasley girl’s increasingly terse missives were a minor, background irritation, like a gnat buzzing at the edge of his concentration.

He had, of course, noted her initial attempt at a “different approach.”

The first letter, with its stilted formality and almost comical attempt at bureaucratic politeness, had elicited a fleeting, dry amusement. Such a departure from her usual explosive confrontations.

He had instructed Pringle to employ the standard “fully allocated schedule” response, partly to gauge her persistence, partly because it was, for once, entirely accurate.

It wasn’t a lie. His schedule was, indeed, anm overlapping commitments, each demanding his focused attention.

His official title – Senior Advisor on Inter-Departmental Coordination – was deliberately vague, granting him broad purview and justifying his involvement in a wide array of Ministry functions where different departments intersected or, more often, clashed. His role was to streamline processes, mediate disputes, and ensure cohesive policy implementation across the Ministry's labyrinthine structure.

In the days since the… regrettable but necessary incident with Skeeter and her photographer, his agenda had been particularly dense, all falling squarely within the legitimate, if expansive, scope of his advisory position.

There was the ongoing review of the Dragon Containment Protocols. This was a classic inter-departmental quagmire.

The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures (headed by the notoriously inflexible Griselda Marchbanks, who viewed any external input as interference) was at odds with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (under Amelia Bones, who was focused on Statute breaches and public safety) and the Department of International Magical Cooperation (led by Bartemius Crouch Sr., obsessed with maintaining magical secrecy on a global scale).

Riddle was to facilitate a consensus, to find common ground, and to draft revised protocols that satisfied all parties while enhancing overall efficiency.

Naturally, he was subtly steering these revisions towards granting greater discretionary powers to a newly formed oversight sub-committee for "rapid response and strategic resource allocation in high-risk creature incidents" – a sub-committee he intended to ensure was populated by individuals… amenable to his reasoned guidance on inter-departmental efficiency.

Then there were the consultations regarding upcoming Wizengamot legislative proposals.

Several pieces of legislation were in draft stage, aimed at strengthening magical security and streamlining Ministry operations. These included proposals for enhanced Auror powers in investigating "threats to magical order," revisions to the registry of restricted magical artifacts to "ensure more robust control," and new guidelines for "inter-departmental information sharing in matters of national magical security."

Riddle was reviewing these drafts for potential cross-departmental conflicts or implementation challenges, and to provide feedback to the sponsoring Wizengamot members.

This provided him with legitimate access to influential lawmakers and the opportunity to subtly shape the language of the laws themselves, ensuring they contained clauses that could, for instance, allow for more extensive (though always "judiciously applied") Ministry surveillance or "preventative detention" in vaguely defined "emergency situations."

He wasn't drafting these laws himself, but his advisory input was proving… influential.

He was also chairing a working group tasked with reviewing the security and efficacy of the Ministry’s long-range magical communication networks.

This involved liaising with the Department of Magical Transportation (responsible for the Floo Network and Portkey regulation), the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes (who dealt with communication breakdowns during crises), and even the Unspeakables from the Department of Mysteries (who maintained certain classified communication channels).

The official aim was to identify vulnerabilities and propose upgrades.

Unofficially, it gave him legitimate insight into the flow of information across the Ministry, the choke-points, and the potential for… discreet monitoring or prioritized access during critical junctures. 

Another was his advisory role on the Magical Artefact Provenance Committee.

This committee was tasked with verifying the origins and legal ownership of historically significant magical items that came into Ministry possession or were subject to dispute. It involved delving into ancient family records, obscure historical texts, and complex magical law precedents.

While seemingly academic, it provided Riddle with access to knowledge about powerful artifacts, their histories, and their potential weaknesses or hidden properties – information that could be invaluable. It also allowed him to cultivate relationships with older, influential families who jealously guarded their ancestral legacies and the artifacts tied to them, providing another avenue for intelligence gathering and influence.

Furthermore, he was occasionally called upon by the Minister’s office directly to provide confidential briefings on particularly sensitive inter-departmental disputes or emerging magical threats that Fudge, in his blustering incompetence, struggled to comprehend.

These "special advisory sessions" were often unscheduled, demanding immediate attention. This often involved simplifying complex issues for Fudge while highlighting the aspects that Riddle wished to emphasize, effectively steering the Minister's decision-making.

Beyond these official duties, which consumed the majority of his time, there were the other, more… private endeavors, conducted discreetly outside Ministry hours and premises.

Regular consultations with Abraxas Malfoy regarding certain acquisitions of rare and powerful artifacts, items that would never appear on any official Ministry manifest, but whose historical or magical significance might have implications for Ministry policy on restricted items, for instance.

The ongoing cultivation of his inner circle – Malfoy, Nott, Rosier, and others – individuals who held, or were being groomed for, positions of influence within various departments or important families.

Maintaining these relationships, understanding their ambitions and loyalties, was crucial for gathering unfiltered intelligence and ensuring support for his more forward-thinking policy initiatives.

And, of course, the underlying pursuit.

His true work.

The research into the deepest secrets of magic.

This was entirely separate from his Ministry role, conducted in secrecy, but the knowledge gained, the power amassed, undoubtedly informed his understanding of the world, of magical potential, and of the true nature of control – concepts that subtly underpinned his approach to even the most mundane Ministry tasks.

Compared to these monumental tasks - these intricate webs of legitimate Ministry work and personal ambition - Ginny Weasley’s petulant demands for a meeting were an insignificant distraction.

He didn’t have time to revel in her clumsy attempts at a new strategy.

He didn’t have time for her at all.

He finally looked up from the Dragon Protocol report, his dark eyes coolly meeting Pringle’s. “The standard response will suffice, Pringle. As before.”

Pringle nodded quickly. “Very good, sir. And… if I may, sir… she seems… remarkably persistent. Is there any possibility her concerns might warrant…?” He trailed off, intimidated by the sudden sharpening of Riddle’s gaze.

“Miss Weasley’s ‘concerns’,” Riddle stated, his voice like chipped ice, “are the product of her own reckless actions and a profound misunderstanding of her place in the current order of things. They warrant nothing beyond the dismissal they have already received through the appropriate channels.” His current interactions with her were personal, not official Ministry business, despite her attempts to frame them as such.

He paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Her persistence, however… while tiresome… is noted. A refusal to accept the inevitable. Misguided, of course, but… noted.”

He tapped the Dragon Protocol report. “This requires my immediate attention. See that Miss Weasley’s correspondence is filed appropriately. Under ‘Nuisances, Minor – External Inquiries, Unsolicited’.”

Pringle visibly winced at the classification but nodded again, his face carefully blank. “Yes, Mr. Riddle. Of course.”

He collected the Weasley letter and the draft rejection, backing out of the office with his usual anxious efficiency, relieved to have escaped without further rebuke.

Riddle watched him go, then returned his gaze to the Dragon Protocol.

The Weasley girl.

A gnat, yes. But a gnat that kept buzzing, refusing to be swatted away completely.

Her shift in tactics from furious confrontation to clumsy bureaucratic petitioning was… interesting. It suggested a dawning, albeit rudimentary, understanding that direct assault against him was futile.

It suggested she was, perhaps, capable of adapting, however poorly.

He had, of course, ensured the Department of Magical Games and Sports was fully apprised of the seriousness of her public misconduct, and had offered his advisory opinion on the importance of maintaining League discipline and sponsor confidence.

The subsequent actions taken by the League and the Harpies’ management were entirely within their purview, predictable consequences of Weasley’s own actions.

His influence had merely ensured the system operated efficiently.

That had been the intended trajectory. Weasley, disgraced and sidelined, would eventually fade into obscurity, her brief defiance extinguished by the grinding realities of her own making.

Her continued attempts to engage him, however, even through these formal, easily dismissed letters, suggested a refusal to simply fade.

It suggested that perhaps his initial assessment of her as “just an athlete” might have overlooked a certain stubborn resilience, an obstinacy that was proving more irritatingly persistent than anticipated.

He made another sharp annotation on the Dragon Protocol, his mind already re-engaging with the complexities of international magical law and inter-departmental power dynamics.

He truly didn’t have time for her childish demands.

His schedule was fully allocated with matters of genuine import, all legitimately falling under the broad umbrella of his Senior Advisor role.

And yet… the image of her flushed, furious face in his office, the memory of her in the corridor, the surprising jolt of his own unwelcome physical reaction… these things flickered at the very edge of his concentration.

She was a loose end, still.

A minor one, perhaps, but one that kept reasserting its presence.

Perhaps, he mused, once this current press of urgent Ministry matters subsided – once the Dragon Protocols were finalized, the initial consultations on the legislative drafts concluded, and the review of the Ministry’s communication networks reached a satisfactory interim stage under his guidance – perhaps then, a very brief, carefully managed… conversation… might be in order.

Not to appease her, certainly.

But to observe.

To assess.

And to ensure, once and for all, that this particular gnat understood the futility, and the profound danger, of continuing to buzz too close to the flame.

But not now.

Now, there were dragons to contain, laws to influence, communication networks to subtly reshape, and secrets to pursue.

Chapter Text

A watery, lukewarm butterbeer sat mostly untouched on the rickety wooden bench beside Ginny.

The chill November wind whipped around the exposed upper tiers of the Kenmare Kestrels’ home stadium, a sprawling, windswept structure overlooking the turbulent grey expanse of Kenmare Bay in Ireland.

The Harpies weren’t playing on their familiar Welsh turf today.

This was an away game, the first since the disastrous loss to the Wigtown Wanderers, and the atmosphere was distinctly hostile.

Sea-green Kestrels banners snapped aggressively in the wind, outnumbering the few, bravely displayed Harpy green-and-gold flags by at least ten to one.

The roar of the home crowd was a constant, partisan assault on the ears, punctuated by the shrill screech of enchanted bird-callers whenever a Kestrel player made a move.

Ginny sat huddled in her thickest travelling cloak, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible amidst the sea of green. She was in the designated "visiting team supporters" section, though "supporters" felt like an overstatement for the handful of glum-faced Harpy fans who had made the arduous journey, likely fueled more by grim loyalty than any real expectation of victory.

She wasn’t supposed to be here, technically. But after the string of infuriatingly polite rejections from Riddle’s office, after the crushing weight of her own powerlessness had threatened to suffocate her, she’d felt an overwhelming need to… connect. Even tangentially.

To witness the struggle, to feel the energy of a real match, even if she couldn’t participate.

So, she had bought a ticket like any ordinary fan, bundled up against the Irish chill, and taken the public Floo, telling no one at the Burrow where she was going.

She wasn’t watching the match as Ginny Weasley, Harpy Chaser. She was watching as Ginny Weasley, suspended player, anonymous spectator, nursing a bitter brew of frustration, guilt, and a gnawing emptiness.

Below her, on the windswept pitch, the game was not going well.

The Kenmare Kestrels, known for their relentless aerial bombardment and a Seeker who flew like a possessed pixie, were living up to their reputation.

The scoreboard, magically projected against the grey sky, read: Kestrels 110, Harpies 30.

Nearly an hour into the match, and the Harpies were being systematically dismantled.

Nia Jenkins, Ginny’s replacement, looked utterly overwhelmed. The Kestrels’ Beaters, two brawny, red-faced wizards with a penchant for borderline illegal Bludger plays, were targeting her relentlessly.

Nia fumbled passes, missed shots, and flew with a hesitant caution that was painful to watch. Ginny knew that hesitancy; it came from the fear of making a mistake, the weight of trying to fill shoes that weren’t hers, in a team already demoralized.

Rhiannon Griffiths and Megan Lloyd were trying their best to compensate, their faces grim with effort, but their usual fluid coordination was disrupted, their plays predictable without Ginny’s aggressive, unpredictable drives to create openings.

They managed to claw back a few goals through sheer grit, but for every Harpy score, the Kestrels seemed to answer with two, their Chasers swooping and diving with arrogant confidence.

Gwenog and Carys Pritchard were fighting a desperate battle against the Kestrels’ Beaters, the thud of Bludger against bat echoing like cannon fire. But they were outnumbered and outmaneuvered, constantly forced onto the defensive, unable to provide adequate cover for Valmai Morgan, who was being harried mercilessly by the Kestrels’ hyperactive Seeker, a young wizard named Finnigan O’Malley.

O’Malley flew like a caffeinated hummingbird, zipping and darting, his bright green robes a blur against the grey sky. Valmai, usually so calm and focused, looked increasingly frantic, her dives becoming wilder, less controlled, as O’Malley constantly nipped at her heels, clearly trying to provoke her into a mistake.

Ginny’s hands clenched into fists inside her cloak pockets. She felt every missed pass, every intercepted Quaffle, every fumbled save like a physical blow.

She missed it. Merlin, how she missed it.

The wind screaming past her ears.

The satisfying thud of a Bludger expertly deflected.

The adrenaline surge of a perfectly executed feint.

The burn in her muscles after a ninety-minute battle.

The roar of the crowd – even a hostile one – fueling her fire.

The feeling of her Comet Two Ninety responding to her slightest touch, an extension of her own will.

The easy, unspoken understanding with Rhiannon and Megan, the way they moved as one unit.

Even the bruises, the aches, the occasional broken bone – they were badges of honour, proof of effort, of commitment.

Now, all she had was the dull ache of helplessness, the bitter taste of lukewarm butterbeer, and the distant, impersonal view from the stands.

She watched Nia Jenkins get flattened by a particularly vicious Bludger, dropping the Quaffle yet again, and a wave of guilt washed over Ginny, so strong it almost made her choke on her drink.

This was her fault.

Nia was out there, taking those hits, enduring that humiliation, because of her.

The team was struggling, their season potentially collapsing, because of her.

Gwenog was fighting a losing battle, her face a mask of grim frustration, because of her.

She replayed the events of the past few weeks, the confrontations with Riddle, her own escalating fury.

The slap. The office invasion. The ill-advised attempt at using Percy’s notes.

Each action, fueled by righteous anger and a desperate desire to fight back, had only made things worse.

She had played directly into his hands, reacting exactly as he, in his analytical way, had likely predicted.

She had been emotional, impulsive, reckless.

“Predictable,” he had called her. “And exceptionally tedious.”

The words still stung, but now, watching the slow demolition of her team from the anonymity of the stands, they also carried a horrifying ring of truth.

She had tried to fight Riddle on her terms, with her weapons – anger, defiance, confrontation. And she had lost. Spectacularly.

Gwenog had urged a different approach. “Something he won’t expect from you.”

Her attempts at formal, bureaucratic engagement had been met with polite, infuriating stonewalling. He clearly had no intention of meeting her, of discussing anything. Why should he? He held all the power.

Maybe… maybe the different approach wasn’t about trying to be Percy, trying to play the Ministry game.

Maybe the different approach was… simpler.

And far, far more difficult.

She took a slow, shaky sip of the butterbeer.

What if… what if she tried to see this, just for a moment, from his perspective?

Not to excuse him, not to forgive the manipulations, the cruelty, the way he seemed to casually destroy lives and careers with a flick of his bureaucratic wrist.

But to understand.

He was a Senior Advisor.

Powerful. Influential. Accustomed to deference, to control.

And she, a relatively unknown Quidditch player, had publicly assaulted him. Then stormed his private office, shouting accusations. Then attempted to subtly blackmail him with hints about his past.

Viewed objectively, from the perspective of someone like Tom Riddle, her actions were… indefensible. Provocative. Stupidly reckless.

He had a reputation to maintain, an image of authority. Her outbursts, her defiance, were direct challenges to that image.

He had retaliated, yes. Disproportionately, cruelly, using the full weight of his influence to crush her.

But had she given him any reason to do otherwise? Had she offered any avenue for de-escalation? Any sign that she understood the gravity of her actions, the power imbalance she was challenging?

No. She had only met his provocations with more more fury, more defiance.

The infractions he had committed – the subtle manipulations, the way he seemed to relish her distress, the dismissal of Harry’s memory, the obliviations… those were still there, unforgivable.

But her own behavior…

She squirmed on the hard bench, the realization settling uncomfortably.

She had been provoked, yes. Deliberately. Masterfully.

But she had risen to the bait every single time.

She had allowed him to dictate the terms of their engagement, to push her buttons until she exploded, providing him with ample justification (in his world, at least) for his retaliatory actions.

He had called her a “petulant child, lashing out.”

And while it infuriated her, wasn’t there a grain of truth in it? Hadn’t she behaved exactly like that?

This wasn’t about admitting he was right, or that she was wrong in her fundamental assessment of his character. He was still a manipulative, power-hungry snake.

But perhaps… perhaps her approach, her relentless antagonism, had been catastrophically counterproductive.

She had wanted to make him see her, to acknowledge her. She had succeeded, in a way. But not in the way she intended.

She had made herself a target, an irritant to be swatted, a problem to be neutralized. And in the process, she had dragged her team, her friends, into the line of fire.

The roar of the Kestrels’ crowd intensified as O’Malley, their Seeker, made another daring dive, Valmai scrambling to follow.

The score remained stubbornly, painfully lopsided.

Ginny sighed, a deep, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of weeks of frustration and dawning, unwelcome self-awareness.

She took another sip of the butterbeer. It tasted flat, like her mood.

Maybe… just maybe… the truly unexpected approach, the one thing Tom Riddle would never anticipate from Ginny Weasley, wasn’t more defiance, or more clumsy attempts at bureaucratic maneuvering.

Maybe it was… surrender.

Not a complete capitulation of her beliefs, not an acceptance of his worldview.

But an admission of her own mistakes in handling the situation.

A genuine apology, not for her anger, but for the public nature of her actions, for the disruption, for the assault.

An appeal, not to his non-existent sense of fairness, but perhaps to his sense of order, his desire for efficiency.

Could she frame it that way?

Acknowledge her transgressions.

Express regret for the public spectacle.

Emphasize that her continued suspension, the ongoing pressure on the Harpies, was creating… inefficiency. Disorder. Unwanted public attention that reflected poorly on everyone, including the Ministry.

Suggest that allowing her to return to playing, quietly, without further incident, would be the most… expedient way to resolve the situation, to restore normalcy, to allow him to return to his “significant work” without the continued distraction of her increasingly desperate attempts to engage him.

It was a long shot. He might see it as another manipulation, another sign of weakness to be exploited.

But it was different.

It wasn’t about fighting him. It was about… disengaging.

Offering him a way to achieve his objective – her silence, her compliance – without further collateral damage to the Harpies, without the ongoing irritation of her continued existence as a problem.

It felt like swallowing Galleons whole, the thought of apologizing to Tom Riddle. But the alternative – watching her team crumble, her own career evaporate completely, living with the knowledge that her pride had caused so much damage – felt even worse.

She stared out at the pitch, at the distant, struggling figures in green and gold, and a new, unfamiliar feeling began to take root amidst the anger and frustration.

Resignation.

And with it, a sliver of pragmatic hope.

Tom Riddle was not present at the Kenmare match. Ginny hadn’t truly expected him to be.

His appearance at the Harpies’ season opener had served its purpose – a display of normalcy after the Gilded Snitch incident. This dreary away game held no strategic value for him, no opportunity for power plays or subtle observation that couldn't be achieved through reports and hearsay.

His absence, in a way, made Ginny’s internal shift feel more focused. This wasn't about performing for him, or reacting to his immediate presence. This was about a decision made in the harsh light of consequence.

The game below dragged on, a slow, painful defeat unfolding. Ginny barely registered the final whistle, the triumphant roar of the Kestrels’ fans, the dejected slump of the Harpy players.

Her mind was already elsewhere, composing the most difficult letter she had ever written.

The journey back from Kenmare was a grim affair.

Ginny, travelling alone via the public Floo network, felt utterly disconnected from the usual post-match buzz, whether triumphant or defeated. The anonymous crowds in the transit lounges, the flickering departure boards, the stale air of the waiting areas – it all blurred into a grey backdrop for her own internal turmoil.

She arrived back at her small London flat well after dark, the silence of the empty rooms pressing in on her. The lingering scent of old newsprint and chip-shop vinegar, usually a faint, almost comforting reminder of her independence, now felt like the smell of confinement, of failure.

She didn’t bother with lights, sinking onto the lumpy sofa in the darkness, the chill of the November evening seeping into her bones.

The letter.

She had to write the letter.

The thought had taken root during the miserable Kenmare match.

It felt like a betrayal of every defiant instinct, a surrender she would have found unthinkable just weeks ago. But watching the Harpies crumble, feeling the weight of Gwenog’s weary responsibility, knowing her own actions were the catalyst for so much of it… it had shifted something fundamental within her.

This wasn’t about winning against Riddle. That felt impossible.

This was about… damage control. About trying to salvage something, anything, for her team, for herself, from the wreckage her temper had wrought.

She fumbled in her pocket for the anonymous wand. With a sigh, she lit a single candle, the flickering flame casting long, dancing shadows across the small room.

She pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment – the last of her decent stock – and a quill that had seen better days.

The words wouldn’t come.

How did one apologize to Tom Riddle?

How did one convey remorse for actions fueled by righteous anger, without sounding insincere or, worse, weak, and easily manipulated?/

hHow did one appeal to a man who seemed devoid of empathy?

She stared at the blank parchment, the candlelight reflecting in her tired eyes.

She replayed Gwenog’s words: “A different approach. Something he won’t expect from you.”

Not fury.

Not defiance.

Not clumsy attempts at bureaucratic maneuvering.

Perhaps… honesty?

Not the blunt, confrontational honesty she usually wear, but a more… measured, self-aware honesty.

An acknowledgement of her own culpability, framed not as a plea for forgiveness, but as a practical assessment of a situation that was, as she had pointed out to him, creating “inefficiency” and “disorder.”

She dipped the quill into the inkpot, her hand still hesitant.

Dear Mr. Riddle,

No. Too formal, too much like the previous, failed attempts. It lacked the directness, the… unexpectedness Gwenog had hinted at.

She crumpled the parchment, tossed it aside, and started again.

Riddle,

Better. Direct. Unflinching. Acknowledging the lack of pleasantries between them.

I am writing regarding the ongoing… situation… precipitated by my actions, specifically the incident at the Gilded Snitch and the subsequent events.

No mention of his provocations, his manipulations. This had to be about her actions, her responsibility.

I acknowledge that my conduct on those occasions was unprofessional and, in the case of the physical altercation, indefensible.

The words felt like swallowing ground glass, but she forced them onto the parchment. It was true, wasn't it? Regardless of his provocations, she had lost control. She had assaulted him.

My temper, as you have astutely observed, can be… problematic.

A bitter pill, admitting his assessment of her character held some truth. But it was necessary. It showed self-awareness, a quality he likely didn’t expect from her.

The consequences of these actions – my suspension from the Holyhead Harpies, the subsequent pressure on the team, and the ongoing disruption to what I can only assume is your own significantly more important work – are clearly… counterproductive for all involved.

She paused, choosing her next words carefully. She needed to frame this not as a plea for her own career, but as an appeal to his sense of order.

While I understand that disciplinary measures were deemed necessary, the current state of affairs – the Harpies’ declining performance, the instability surrounding their sponsorship and funding, the continued public speculation – creates an ongoing and rather untidy spectacle. It is, to use a term you yourself employed, inefficient.

She underlined the word ‘inefficient’ slightly, a subtle echo of his own condescension, a hint that she was, perhaps, learning to speak his language, however crudely.

It occurs to me that a prolonged period of such… disorder… serves no one’s strategic interests, least of all the Ministry’s desire to project an image of stability and control within the Quidditch League.

She was treading a fine line here, hinting that the current situation might be becoming an embarrassment for him, for the Ministry, rather than just a punishment for her.

Therefore, I propose a resolution.

This was the crux. The gamble.

My sole desire is to return to playing Quidditch for the Holyhead Harpies, quietly and without further incident. I am prepared to offer a formal, public apology for my conduct at the Gilded Snitch, should such a gesture be deemed… helpful… in restoring a sense of normalcy.

A public apology. The thought made her stomach clench. But if it was what it took…

In return, I would appreciate your consideration in allowing the relevant Ministry departments to conclude their oversight of the Harpies, and for my own inactive roster status to be reviewed with a view towards reinstatement, contingent, of course, upon my continued professional conduct.

She didn’t ask him to intervene directly. She framed it as allowing other departments to act, a subtle way of acknowledging his influence without demanding he exercise it overtly in her favor.

I believe such a resolution would be the most efficient means of concluding this unfortunate affair, allowing all parties to return to their respective duties without further distraction.

She ended it there. No groveling. No emotional pleas. Just an almost businesslike proposal, appealing to his perceived desire for order and efficiency, while subtly reminding him that the current situation was messy and reflecting poorly on everyone.

She signed it simply:

G. Weasley.

She read it over, a knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach.

Would he see it as a genuine attempt at a resolution?

Or would he see it as weakness to be dismissed with contempt?

There was no way to know.

But it was different. It was the only approach she hadn’t tried.

She sealed the letter, not with wax this time, but with a simple fold. It felt less official, more direct.

She wouldn’t use a hired owl. The previous rejections from Pringle made that feel like shouting into the void.

This needed to be delivered in a way he couldn’t easily ignore, a way that bypassed the administrative gatekeepers.

Her mind raced. How?

Leaving it at his office door felt too much like her previous disastrous visit. Sending it via Percy was out of the question; her brother would likely self-combust from the sheer impropriety.

Then, an idea sparked, audacious and risky, but perhaps the only way to ensure it reached him directly, to force him to acknowledge it.

It involved exploiting a different kind of access, a different kind of connection.

Abraxas Malfoy.

Riddle’s associate. The one who had been present in Riddle’s office when Ginny had last stormed in.

Malfoy clearly had direct access, moved in Riddle’s inner circle.

And Malfoy, for all his pure-blood arrogance, was also… predictable in his routines. He frequented certain upscale establishments, maintained a certain public profile.

If Ginny could contrive a “chance” encounter, if she could somehow pass the letter to Malfoy with a polite, firm request that he deliver it to Riddle personally…

Malfoy would likely be disdainful, contemptuous. He might even refuse.

But the thought of being tasked with delivering a message from Ginny Weasley to Tom Riddle… the sheer awkwardness, the potential for Riddle’s displeasure if he mishandled it… it might just be enough to ensure he complied, if only to absolve himself of any further involvement.

It was a gamble, relying on Malfoy’s arrogance, his fear of Riddle, and his desire to maintain his own standing. But it felt like the only remaining option that wasn’t outright surrender or another explosive confrontation.

She needed to find Malfoy. And she needed to do it quickly, before the lingering impact of the Kenmare defeat and the ongoing pressure on the Harpies became irreversible.

It was the most Gryffindor thing she could imagine, disguised in the trappings of Slytherin pragmatism.

Abraxas Malfoy swirled the expensive elven wine in his crystal goblet, the deep ruby liquid catching the candlelight of the exclusive private club.

The Serpent’s Coil.

His usual haunt.

Dimly lit, discreet, frequented by those who valued privacy and understood the currency of influence that flowed as freely as the overpriced liquor.

He leaned back against the plush velvet of the secluded booth, outwardly the picture of aristocratic idleness, yet inwardly, his mind was far from at ease.

The past few weeks had been… taxing.

Navigating the complex currents around Tom Riddle was always a delicate art, a constant balancing act between demonstrating unwavering loyalty and maintaining a semblance of his own Malfoy dignity.

Riddle was… Riddle.

Brilliant, undoubtedly.

Amibitious beyond measure.

Possessed of a ruthlessness that Abraxas, for all his own pure-blood hauteur, found both chilling and compelling.

He had hitched his wagon to Riddle’s rising star years ago, recognizing the younger wizard’s extraordinary potential even during their Hogwarts days.

Riddle, then Head Boy, already moved with an aura of command that eclipsed even the professors.

He’d been surrounded by a carefully cultivated circle – Nott, Rosier, Avery, himself – all drawn to Riddle’s intellect, his vision, his promise of a new order where pure-blood influence would be restored, where the Ministry would operate unencumbered by sentimental fools or Muggle-sympathizing weaklings.

Abraxas had seen glimpses of Riddle’s methods even then – the subtle manipulations, the way he could dismantle an opponent with a few carefully chosen words, the unsettling focus when pursuing a goal. He hadn’t known the full extent of it, not then.

Myrtle Warren’s death… that had been hushed up with remarkable expertise.

Riddle had been involved in coordinating the school’s response, projecting calm and control. Abraxas had admired his composure, his ability to manage the ensuing chaos.

He hadn’t questioned it too deeply. It was simply another demonstration of Riddle’s superior capabilities.

Now, years later, Riddle was a Senior Advisor, his influence extending like invisible tendrils throughout the Ministry. He still moved with that same unsettling calm, that same focused intensity. But the stakes were higher, the games more complex.

The incident with Rookwood… Abraxas shuddered inwardly, taking a hasty sip of wine.

He had been present, as Riddle clearly intended him to be. Witnessing the Legilimency, the brutal efficiency of the Cruciatus… it had been a reminder of the consequences of disloyalty.

Riddle hadn’t revelled in the torture; he had applied it with precision, dispassionately, necessary for the desired outcome.

It was a demonstration, not just for Rookwood, but for those like Abraxas who served him. A reminder of the absolute commitment Riddle demanded, the unwavering loyalty he expected.

And then, the almost surreal transition – from the blood-soaked cellar to the glittering facade of the Nimbus reception, Riddle’s composure utterly unruffled, discussing Quidditch sponsorships as if he hadn’t just overseen a man’s agonizing descent into madness.

It was that ability to compartmentalize, to shift between ruthless pragmatism and polished civility, that made Riddle so formidable. And so terrifying.

Abraxas considered himself a man of the world, a Malfoy accustomed to power and privilege. But Riddle operated on a different plane entirely. His ambition wasn’t just for wealth or status; it was for something… more fundamental.

A reshaping of the very structures of their world.

And Abraxas, for better or worse, was now an integral part of that reshaping.

He derived considerable benefit from the association, of course. Access to information, influence in Ministry circles, lucrative opportunities facilitated by Riddle’s strategic maneuvers.

The Selwyn artifacts assessment, which Riddle had entrusted to him, was a prime example – a chance to gain insight into valuable historical pieces, potentially acquiring some for the Malfoy collection, all under the guise of official Ministry business.

But the price of that association was constant vigilance, unwavering obedience, and the occasional witnessing of events that tested even Abraxas’s carefully cultivated detachment.

Then there was the Weasley girl.

Ginny Weasley.

A minor irritant, initially.

An ill-tempered Quidditch player from a family Abraxas despised. Her public slap of Riddle at the Gilded Snitch had been shocking, yes, but also… faintly amusing, in a perverse way. To see someone, anyone, dare to challenge Riddle so directly.

Riddle, of course, had handled it with his usual composure, turning the incident to his advantage, ensuring Weasley faced the professional consequences. The subsequent pressure on the Harpies, the girl’s suspension – Abraxas had heard the  necessary correction.

But then she had stormed Riddle’s office.

Abraxas had been there, discussing the Selwyn manifest. He remembered the shock of the door crashing open, the sight of the mud-caked, furious Chaser barging in, followed by her blithering idiot brother.

He had seen the flash of genuine annoyance on Riddle’s face before the mask of control slammed back down. Riddle did not appreciate disruptions to his ordered world, especially not from such… sources.

Abraxas had been dismissed alongside Percy Weasley, a minor indignity he had swallowed with practiced ease. He had assumed Riddle would deal with the girl decisively, permanently neutralizing her as a nuisance.

He hadn’t anticipated her continued persistence.

Or her… unexpected tactics.

The very thought of Ginny Weasley daring to approach him, Abraxas Malfoy, in a place like The Serpent’s Coil, was preposterous. He maintained a certain standard, a certain exclusivity. Blood traitors, especially impoverished ones with a penchant for public brawling, were not part of that standard.

He took another sip of wine, savoring the complex notes, trying to push aside the lingering unease that had settled over him since the Rookwood incident, since the Weasley girl’s increasingly unpredictable actions.

He preferred his engagements to be… controlled.

Which was why the sight of a familiar, determined figure weaving through the tables towards his secluded booth sent a jolt of annoyance through him.

Ginny Weasley. Here.

Again.

She was dressed differently this time, he noted with faint surprise. Not in Quidditch gear, not in muddy practice robes. She wore simple, dark trousers and a respectable, if inexpensive, tunic, her hair pulled back neatly.

She looked… almost presentable. Almost.

But the determined set of her jaw, the unwavering focus in her brown eyes as she approached his table, was anything but subdued.

“Malfoy,” she said, her voice quiet but firm, stopping beside his booth.

She didn’t ask permission to join him; she simply stood there, radiating an intensity that was highly incongruous with the club’s muted ambiance.

Abraxas raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, regarding her with carefully calibrated disdain. “Miss Weasley. To what do I owe this… unexpected intrusion? Have you mistaken The Serpent’s Coil for a Quidditch supply shop? Or perhaps you’re seeking career advice? Though I fear my recommendations in that regard might prove… unpalatable.”

He had expected her to flare up at the insult, to resort to her usual shouting. Instead, she met his gaze steadily.

“I need you to deliver a message to Riddle,” she stated flatly, holding out a neatly folded piece of parchment.

Abraxas stared at the parchment as if it were a Howler about to explode.

Deliver a message?

From her? To Tom Riddle?

The sheer audacity was breathtaking.

He let out a short, dismissive laugh. “You must be joking, Weasley. I am not your personal owl service. And I can assure you, Mr. Riddle has no interest in receiving… fan mail… from you.”

He made a move to wave her away, to summon the club’s discreet security to remove this unwelcome presence.

“It’s not fan mail,” Ginny said, her voice still quiet, but with an underlying intensity that made him pause. “It’s… a proposal. A resolution to the current… unpleasantness.”

Her eyes flickered briefly around the dimly lit club, then back to his. “And I believe it’s in your best interest, Malfoy, as well as Riddle’s, for him to see it. Promptly. And privately.”

Abraxas narrowed his eyes.

What game was she playing now?

This wasn’t the furious, emotional creature he had witnessed before. This was… different. 

“My best interest?” he sneered. “And how does delivering your scribblings to Mr. Riddle benefit me in any way?”

Ginny took a small step closer, lowering her voice. “Because, Malfoy, the current situation – my suspension, the pressure on the Harpies, the ongoing… public speculation… it’s messy. Untidy. And Tom Riddle, as you well know, dislikes untidiness. He dislikes distractions from his... more significant work.”

She paused, letting the words sink in. She spoke of his "more significant work" with a familiarity that was unsettling.

“This letter,” she continued, holding out the parchment again, “offers a way to conclude this particular untidiness. Quietly. Allowing everyone to return to their… proper spheres.”

Her gaze was sharp, knowing. “Or, of course, you could refuse. And I could find… other means… to ensure my perspective on certain historical matters reaches interested parties. Perhaps individuals within the Ministry who are currently reviewing archival records from, say, Hogwarts, Riddle’s Head Boy year? Matters pertaining to unexplained student deaths, or unusual library acquisitions from the Restricted Section? Things that might prove… embarrassing… if they were to surface now, linked to someone in Mr. Riddle’s esteemed position.”

Abraxas felt a cold knot form in his stomach.

She wasn’t just bluffing about historical inquiries; she was connecting them, however vaguely, to Riddle’s Hogwarts years, to Myrtle Warren, to things best left buried. And she was implying she had ways of making this information public, or at least known within Ministry circles.

She was threatening him. Not directly, not with curses, but with the subtle poison of insinuation, of potential scandal that could tarnish not just Riddle, but by association, those closest to him. Like Abraxas Malfoy.

He stared at her, seeing not just a hot-headed Quidditch player, but something more dangerous.

Someone desperate, yes, but also resourceful.

Someone who had, somehow, stumbled upon information that could be… problematic.

And she was using him, Abraxas Malfoy, as her unwilling messenger.

The humiliation of it, the sheer audacity, the potential damage.

If he refused, and she did manage to stir up trouble, Riddle’s displeasure would undoubtedly fall on him for not having managed the situation, for not having alerted him to the potential threat.

Riddle did not tolerate loose ends, or subordinates who failed to anticipate and neutralize problems.

But if he accepted, if he delivered this… proposal… from the Weasley girl? He would be sullied by the association, seen as her errand boy.

Ginny saw the conflict in his eyes. She pressed her advantage, her voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper.

“Consider it, Malfoy. A small service. Deliver the letter. Let Riddle decide. If he chooses to ignore it, if he chooses to let this situation escalate further, then any… unfortunate repercussions… will be on his head, not yours for failing to convey a potential resolution.”

She was clever, he had to give her that.

Framing it as a way for him to absolve himself of responsibility, to shift the onus onto Riddle.

She held out the letter again, her gaze unwavering.

Abraxas hesitated for another long moment, his mind racing. The potential fallout from her veiled threats, however unlikely they were to truly damage Riddle, could still create significant inconvenience, unwanted scrutiny. And Riddle despised inconvenience.

He thought of Rookwood. He thought of Riddle’s capacity for decisive, ruthless action when his interests were threatened.

This Weasley girl, for all her common blood and Gryffindor recklessness, was proving to be a remarkably, surprisingly astute problem.

And sometimes, the most efficient way to deal with a problem was to allow it to play itself out, to see if it self-destructed, or if, as in this case, it offered an unexpected, if unpalatable, path to resolution.

With a sigh of profound irritation, feigning reluctance, Abraxas Malfoy reached out and took the folded parchment from Ginny Weasley’s hand. The cheap material felt coarse beneath his fingertips.

“Fine,” he bit out, his voice tight with distaste. “I will see that Mr. Riddle receives your… communication. But make no mistake, Weasley. This does not indebt me to you in any way. And if this is some kind of trick, if this causes any further… complications… for Mr. Riddle, or for myself, you will regret it. Profoundly.”

He didn't wait for her reply.

He tucked the letter into an inner pocket of his robes, then deliberately turned his attention back to his wine, dismissing her as completely as Riddle himself might have done.

A signal that their distasteful interaction was concluded.

He felt, rather than saw, her linger for another moment, then turn and walk away, disappearing back into the shadows of The Serpent’s Coil.

Abraxas took a large gulp of his expensive elven wine, the taste suddenly sour.

He had been manipulated, coerced by a Weasley. The indignity was almost unbearable.

But as he considered the folded parchment resting in his pocket, a different thought began to take root.

This letter… this “proposal”…

Perhaps, just perhaps, it offered Riddle a way out of this increasingly tiresome Weasley entanglement.

A way that didn’t involve more public confrontations, more messy Ministry interventions, or Abraxas himself having to witness any further… corrective measures.

And if it resolved the situation, if it neutralized the Weasley girl as a source of ongoing irritation for Riddle, then Abraxas’s small, distasteful role in delivering the message might even be seen as… proactive.

A small service, indeed.

He would deliver the letter. Promptly. And privately.

And then he would wash his hands of the entire sordid affair. Hopefully, for good.

Tom Riddle sat in the deep leather armchair in his private study, the pre-dawn silence of his unplottable townhouse. The only light came from the dying embers of the fire he’d allowed himself, a rare concession to the November chill, and the single, focused beam illuminating the document in his hand.

It wasn’t a Ministry report.

It wasn’t a draft of proposed legislation.

It was a single sheet of cheap, creased parchment, folded simply, bearing no official seal.

Ginny Weasley’s letter.

Abraxas Malfoy had delivered it earlier that evening, his usual aristocratic composure strained by a mixture of distaste and nervous apprehension. He had presented it almost gingerly, as if it might spontaneously combust.

“A… communication, Tom,” Malfoy had begun, his voice carefully neutral, after being admitted to Riddle’s private study – a rare privilege not extended to many. “From… Miss Weasley. She… intercepted me at The Serpent’s Coil. Insisted I deliver it to you personally.”

Riddle had merely raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

He hadn’t commented on the impropriety of Weasley approaching Malfoy, nor on Malfoy’s decision to act as her courier. He had simply extended a hand.

Malfoy had then, with visible relief, relayed Weasley’s veiled threats, her insinuations about “historical matters,” “Hogwarts records,” and “unexplained student deaths.” He’d framed it carefully, emphasizing the girl’s desperate, reckless nature, while also subtly highlighting the potential for inconvenient public speculation should her… inquiries… continue unchecked.

“She spoke of a… proposal,” Malfoy had concluded, clearly eager to distance himself from the entire affair. “A resolution. She believes it is in your interest to see it.”

Riddle had listened in silence, his dark eyes fixed on Malfoy’s face, gauging not just the words, but the fear, the subtle plea for Riddle to simply handle this persistent annoyance.

He had then dismissed Malfoy with a curt nod, offering no reassurance, no indication of his intentions.

Now, alone in the pre-dawn stillness, he finally unfolded the Weasley girl’s missive.

He read it slowly, once, then again.

His initial reaction was of genuine surprise, quickly suppressed.

“I acknowledge that my conduct… was unprofessional and… indefensible.”

“My temper, as you have astutely observed, can be… problematic.”

“The current state of affairs… is clearly… counterproductive for all involved.”

“It is, to use a term you yourself employed, inefficient.”

“I propose a resolution.”

“My sole desire is to return to playing Quidditch… quietly and without further incident.”

“I am prepared to offer a formal, public apology…”

“I would appreciate your consideration in allowing… my inactive roster status to be reviewed…”

“I believe such a resolution would be the most efficient means of concluding this unfortunate affair…”

He leaned back in his chair, the letter resting lightly in his hand.

A faint, cold smile touched his lips.

She was learning.

Slowly, imperfectly, driven by desperation rather than intellect, but she was learning.

She had abandoned the direct assaults, the emotional outbursts.

She had recognized, finally, the futility of trying to match his power with her own undisciplined force.

She was attempting to speak his language.

Efficiency. Resolution. Mutual interest (however fabricated on her part). Acknowledgment of her own role in the “disorder.”

She was appealing, not to his non-existent compassion, but to his pragmatism, his desire for order, his aversion to “untidy spectacles.”

And the veiled threat, delivered through Malfoy, about historical inquiries… that had been surprisingly astute. Not the substance of the threat – he had no doubt his past was far more secure than she could possibly imagine – but the tactic itself.

It demonstrated a shift from emotional reaction to a more calculated, if still amateurish, attempt at leverage.

She was trying to negotiate.

Tom Riddle considered the proposal.

Her continued suspension, the pressure on the Harpies – it had served its purpose. It had demonstrated the consequences of defying him. It had broken her initial, reckless resistance.

But it was also becoming… tiresome.

The ongoing Ministry whispers, the potential for renewed press speculation if the Harpies continued to implode, the minor but persistent irritation of her existence as an unresolved issue – these were inefficiencies. Distractions.

Her offer of a public apology… that was a useful concession. It would reinforce the narrative of her culpability, his own blamelessness. It would publicly humiliate her, a satisfying conclusion to her defiance.

Her desire to return to Quidditch… that was irrelevant to him, except insofar as it provided her with a motivation for compliance.

Allowing the Ministry departments to “conclude their oversight” and her status to be “reviewed”… these were easily managed. The pressure could be lifted as easily as it had been applied.

It would restore order. It would remove her as an ongoing irritant. It would allow him to return his focus entirely to matters of genuine significance.

And it would demonstrate, once again, his absolute control.

He had broken her defiance, forced her to negotiate on his terms, extracted an apology, and would now, magnanimously, allow her a carefully controlled return to her trivial pursuits, all while reinforcing his own authority.

Yes. This resolution had… merit.

It was efficient. It was tidy. And it served his interests.

He reached for a sheet of his own private stationery – heavy cream parchment, far superior to the cheap material Weasley had used – and uncapped a fine, silver-nibbed fountain pen filled with dark, permanent ink.

He wouldn’t entrust this reply to Pringle’s typing. This required a more personal touch, while still maintaining the necessary distance and authority. The message itself would still be conveyed via his administrative assistant; direct correspondence from him to her was unwarranted.

His handwriting was elegant, precise, each letter perfectly formed, conveying an air of effortless command.

Miss Weasley,

He began, the formal address a subtle reassertion of the power dynamic, a reminder of her place.

Your recent correspondence, delivered via Mr. Malfoy, has been received and its contents noted.

Acknowledgment, but no praise for her method of delivery.

Your assessment of the current situation as “counterproductive” and “inefficient” is, for once, astute. The ongoing disruption serves no constructive purpose.

A small concession, validating her (his) terminology.

Your proposal for a resolution, including a formal public apology for your deplorable conduct, demonstrates a belated but welcome flicker of understanding regarding the consequences of your actions.

The barb was deliberate, a reminder of her transgressions, a refusal to let her apology seem like anything other than deserved penitence.

On the condition of such an unambiguous public apology, and your unequivocal commitment to refraining from any further unprofessional outbursts or ill-advised “inquiries,” I am prepared to advise the relevant Ministry departments that a review of the current sanctions against both yourself and the Holyhead Harpies may be timely.

He chose his words carefully. “Advise.” “May be timely.”

No direct promises, no commitments on his part. Merely a suggestion that circumstances might allow for a re-evaluation, contingent entirely on her absolute compliance.

The objective, as you correctly surmise, is to conclude this unfortunate affair with minimal further public spectacle. To that end, any direct discussion regarding the precise terms of this resolution should, naturally, be conducted with utmost discretion.

Here, he paused.

He had no intention of engaging in a lengthy negotiation with her. But a brief meeting to deliver his terms, to ensure her absolute understanding of his expectations that might be necessary. And, perhaps, not entirely without… interest.

To observe her demeanour now, stripped of her defiance, forced into a position of supplication.

Therefore, to facilitate this, and to avoid any repetition of previous… public encounters… I will make myself available for a brief consultation. At my private residence. Tomorrow evening. Seven o’clock.

He penned the address – a discreet location in a quiet, unplottable London square, its wards ensuring absolute privacy.

It was an invitation, yes, but also a command, and a subtle demonstration of power.

She would come to him, on his territory, on his terms.

Be punctual. And come alone.

This will be your sole opportunity to present your apology directly and to understand the conditions under which a resolution might be achieved. Further correspondence on this matter will not be entertained.

T. M. Riddle.

He signed it with his initials only, a final, impersonal touch.

The letter was brief. Efficient. Uncompromising.

It offered her a path to what she desired – a return to Quidditch, an end to the pressure on her team – but entirely on his terms.

It demanded her future compliance, and her presence, alone, in his private domain.

It was a calibrated response, designed to reassert his dominance, test her desperation, and ensure, once and for all, that Ginny Weasley understood her place.

He blotted the ink carefully, folded the heavy parchment, and sealed it with a plain, unmarked wax seal.

He would have Pringle dispatch it via a Ministry owl first thing in the morning.

Then, he would wait.

And observe, with considerable interest, how Miss Weasley chose to respond to his… invitation.

The gnat was still buzzing, but now, perhaps, it was buzzing a tune of his own composition. And that, Tom Riddle mused, was a significant improvement.

The heavy cream parchment felt unnervingly smooth beneath Ginny’s fingertips, the elegant, precise handwriting a stark contrast to the blunt, almost brutal efficiency of the message it conveyed.

T. M. Riddle.

His initials only. No salutation.

It wasn't a reply; it was a summons.

Ginny sat on the edge of her lumpy sofa, the Ministry owl that had delivered the letter having long since departed, leaving only the faint scent of official ink and something vaguely antiseptic.

She had reread the letter a dozen times, each perusal sending a fresh wave of conflicting emotions through her.

Relief, sharp and undeniable, that he had responded, that there was a path, however narrow and treacherous, out of the current impasse.

Apprehension, bordering on dread, at the nature of that path.

“At my private residence.”

“Tomorrow evening. Seven o’clock.”

“Be punctual. And come alone.”

“Your sole opportunity…”

It wasn't an invitation; it was a command performance.

He was dictating the terms, the time, the place.

He was making it clear that this meeting, if it was to happen, would be entirely on his turf, under his control.

The address provided was unfamiliar, not a Ministry building, but a residential location in a part of London she barely knew – a quiet, discreet square that, according to the rather vague directions included (clearly designed to be just sufficient, nothing more), was likely unplottable, shielded by more than just Muggle-Repelling Charms.

Finding it would be a challenge in itself.

Apparating directly to an unplottable location you’d never visited was impossible.

The directions hinted at a nearby landmark, a specific wrought-iron lamppost on a specific street corner, from which one presumably had to navigate by less direct, more intuitive means, likely guided by the faint magical signature of the wards themselves.

He wasn't making it easy.

He was testing her again, even before she arrived. Testing her resourcefulness, her determination, perhaps even her desperation.

And the condition… “your sole opportunity to present your apology directly and to understand the conditions under which a resolution might be achieved.”

Present her apology directly.

To him.

Alone.

In his private residence.

The thought made her stomach churn. It felt like walking willingly into the spider’s parlor.

Yet, what was the alternative?

Continued suspension.

The Harpies crumbling under pressure.

Her own career evaporating into nothingness.

Living with the knowledge that her pride, her inability to control her temper, had brought all this down upon them.

No.

She had made her decision, however unpalatable.

She had offered the apology in her letter; now she had to deliver it in person, if that was what it took.

She owed it to Gwenog, to the team.

She owed it, perhaps, even to herself, to see this through, to try and salvage something from the wreckage.

The next twenty-four hours passed in a haze of anxious preparation.

She informed her mother she’d be out for the evening, offering a vague excuse about meeting a “contact regarding League matters” that Molly, sensing her daughter’s renewed but fragile resolve, accepted with only a worried frown and an admonishment to “be careful, dear.”

Fred and George, when they caught wind of her impending excursion (likely via Molly’s anxious whispers), offered a range of increasingly alarming “protective enchantments” and “emergency escape devices” from their Wheezes arsenal, all of which Ginny politely but firmly declined.

This was something she had to do alone, as Riddle had stipulated. Bringing a prototype Dungbomb or a pair of Extendable Ears felt like a spectacularly bad idea.

She chose her attire with deliberate care. Not her best dress robes – that would feel too much like dressing for an execution. Not her casual Quidditch gear – that would be disrespectful, unprofessional. She settled on simple, dark trousers, a plain, well-mended tunic in a muted green, and sturdy, polished boots.

Presentable, but not ostentatious. An attempt to project an air of seriousness, of quiet determination, rather than defiance or supplication.

Her anonymous wand was tucked securely in her pocket, an inadequate comfort. She still felt the absence of her own wand like a missing limb.

As twilight began to bleed into the London sky the next evening, Ginny set out.

The initial Apparition, to the vaguely described street corner near Riddle’s supposed residence, was disorienting. She found herself on a quiet, tree-lined street she didn’t recognize, the houses tall and imposing, their windows dark.

The wrought-iron lamppost mentioned in Riddle’s directions stood exactly where it was supposed to be, casting a pale, flickering gaslight onto the damp pavement.

From here, the instructions became… less clear. “Proceed east along the square, attuned to the subtle emanations. Number Seven will reveal itself to the focused mind.”

Cryptic. Arrogant. Typical Riddle.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm the nervous flutter in her stomach, and started walking.

The square was eerily quiet, shielded from the usual city noise.

The houses were all grand, dark stone, their facades inscrutable.

There were no numbers visible, no obvious signs of life.

The air felt… different here. Thicker. Older. Charged with a subtle, almost imperceptible hum of magic.

She focused, as the instructions had advised, trying to attune herself to the “subtle emanations.” It felt like trying to hear a whisper in a crowded room.

She walked slowly, her senses straining, looking for any shimmer, any deviation in the magical atmosphere that might indicate a heavily warded, unplottable residence.

Several times she thought she felt something, a faint tingle on her skin, a subtle pressure against her mind, only for it to fade as she drew closer to a particular house, revealing it to be just another anonymous, unwelcoming facade.

Doubt began to creep in.

Was this a wild goose chase? Another of Riddle’s games, designed to make her wander aimlessly in the dark, only to fail?

She checked the battered watch her parents had given her for her seventeenth birthday. Quarter to seven.

She was running out of time.

“Be punctual,” he had warned.

Frustration warred with a rising sense of panic.

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to clear her mind, to focus solely on the faint magical currents she could sense around her.

She remembered her Seeker training with Valmai, the exercises designed to detect the almost invisible shimmer of a hidden Snitch. This felt similar, but infinitely more subtle.

She opened her eyes and continued walking, slower now, her gaze sweeping across the row of imposing townhouses.

Then, she saw it. Or rather, felt it.

A slight… waver… in the air around one particular house, a house that seemed to absorb the faint streetlight rather than reflect it. It was darker than the others, its windows like empty eye sockets.

As she drew closer, she felt a definite magical pressure, a sense of layered wards, ancient and powerful, pushing back against her perception.

There was no number on the door, no nameplate. But she knew that this was it.

Number Seven. Riddle’s private residence.

It didn’t look like a home. It looked like a fortress.

Impenetrable. Secretive.

Exactly what she would expect from him.

She reached the heavy oak door, her heart pounding.

It was precisely seven o’clock.

There was no knocker, no bell.

She hesitated for a moment, then raised her hand and rapped sharply on the wood, the sound echoing unnervingly in the quiet square.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Ginny began to wonder if she had made a mistake, if he had changed his mind, if this was yet another test.

Then, with a soft, almost inaudible click, the door swung inward, revealing a dimly lit hallway.

No one was visible. The door seemed to have opened of its own accord, or perhaps through unseen magic.

Taking a deep breath, clutching the strap of her small satchel (containing only her letter of apology and the anonymous wand), Ginny stepped across the threshold, into the lion’s den.

The heavy door swung shut behind her with another soft, final click, plunging the hallway into deeper shadow. The sounds of the outside world vanished completely, replaced by an oppressive, waiting silence.

The air inside was cool, still, carrying the familiar scent she now associated with Riddle – old books, expensive polish, and that underlying chill.

The hallway was panelled in dark wood, the floor covered by a thick, sound-dampening runner.

No portraits adorned the walls, no personal trinkets, only a single, severe-looking antique grandfather clock ticking softly in a shadowy alcove, its pendulum swinging with hypnotic regularity.

The silence was unnerving.

Was he watching her? Testing her nerve?

She stood uncertainly for a moment, unsure whether to call out, to wait, to proceed further into the shadowy depths of the house.

Then, a voice emerged from the shadows at the far end of the hallway, where a staircase spiralled upwards into darkness.

“Punctual, Miss Weasley. Commendable.”

Tom Riddle materialized from the gloom, a darker shadow against the dark wood, his form indistinct at first, then resolving as he moved silently towards her.

He wore no formal Ministry robes here, in his private domain. Instead, he was dressed in simple, perfectly tailored dark trousers and a dark, high-necked cashmere jumper that emphasized the lean lines of his frame.

He looked less like a Ministry official and more like… something else.

Something older, more dangerous, less constrained by societal norms.

His dark hair was immaculately styled, his handsome features unreadable in the dim light. Only his eyes seemed to catch the faint illumination from some unseen source, glinting with that unsettling intensity.

He stopped a few feet away from her, his posture relaxed. He surveyed her slowly, from her clutched satchel to her deliberately neutral attire, his gaze lingering for a moment on her face, perhaps searching for signs of lingering defiance or fear.

“You found the address without undue difficulty, I trust?” he inquired, his voice a soft murmur that nevertheless carried clearly in the silent hallway.

It wasn’t a question born of concern, but another subtle assessment of her capabilities.

“The directions were… adequate,” Ginny replied, trying to keep her voice steady, matching his formal tone, refusing to show any sign of the anxiety that churned within her.

“Indeed.” A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “Adequacy often suffices, when diligently applied.”

He gestured further into the house. “My study, I believe, will be more conducive to our… consultation.”

He didn't offer to take her cloak (she hadn't worn one, a deliberate choice to avoid appearing overly formal or encumbered).

He didn't offer her a drink.

He simply turned and began to walk deeper into the house, clearly expecting her to follow.

Ginny hesitated for only a fraction of a second, then took a deep breath and followed him, stepping further into his domain, acutely aware that she was utterly alone, unarmed in any meaningful way, and entirely at his mercy.

Chapter Text

The study, when they reached it, was a larger, more imposing version of his Ministry office, though imbued with a deeper, more personal sense of his authority.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves dominated every wall, crammed with ancient, leather-bound tomes whose titles, glimpsed in the flickering firelight, hinted at arcane knowledge far beyond Ministry regulations.

A massive mahogany desk, clear of clutter save for a single, closed ledger and an ornate silver letter opener, sat before a tall, mullioned window overlooking a dark, meticulously manicured garden Ginny hadn’t noticed from the street.

The air was cool, smelling faintly of old parchment, beeswax, and the dying embers of a fire that crackled softly in a large stone hearth, providing the room's primary illumination along with a few strategically placed, heavily shaded lamps.

It was a room designed for solitude, for intense concentration, uninterrupted.

Riddle gestured towards one of two severe, high-backed leather armchairs positioned before the desk. He didn’t take a seat himself, remaining standing, a silhouette against the firelight, observing her.

Ginny sat, perching on the edge of the unforgiving chair, her satchel clutched tightly in her lap.

The silence stretched, heavy and expectant.

He was waiting for her to speak, to begin her “apology.”

She cleared her throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. “Mr. Riddle,” she began, forcing the formal address past the lump in her throat. “Thank you for… agreeing to this meeting.”

He inclined his head fractionally, a gesture that conveyed neither welcome nor dismissal.

“I am here, as per your… invitation,” she continued, her gaze fixed somewhere on the intricate pattern of the rug beneath her feet, unable to meet his eyes directly. “To offer my apology for my conduct at the Gilded Snitch, and for my subsequent… intrusion… into your office.”

She paused, taking a shaky breath, the words feeling like stones in her mouth. “My actions were unprofessional. Inexcusable. My temper… got the better of me. I deeply regret the public spectacle, and any… inconvenience… or embarrassment I caused you, or the Ministry.”

She forced herself to look up then, to meet his gaze.

His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes watchful.

“I understand that such conduct warrants disciplinary action,” she went on, her voice gaining a sliver more steadiness. “And I accept responsibility for the consequences that have fallen upon myself and the Holyhead Harpies.”

There. She had said it.

The apology.

The admission of fault.

It felt like flaying herself open, offering up her pride on a platter.

Riddle listened in silence, his gaze unwavering.

When she finished, he didn’t speak immediately.

He simply continued to observe her, as if dissecting her words, her tone, her body language, searching for any hint of insincerity, any lingering defiance.

The silence stretched again, each tick of the grandfather clock in the hall echoing like a hammer blow.

Ginny’s heart pounded.

Had it been enough?

Had her attempt at measured contrition satisfied him?

Or would he see it as yet another performance?

Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet, devoid of inflection. “Regret,” he mused, as if tasting the word. “Apotent emotion. Often experienced too late to alter the course of events.”

He took a step closer, moving out of the firelight and into the shadows that clung to the edges of the room, making his features harder to discern. “You claim to accept responsibility, Miss Weasley. Yet your previous actions suggest a profound reluctance to accept anything that does not align with your own emotional impulses.”

He was testing her again, probing for a reaction.

Ginny bit back the instinctive, defensive retort that rose to her lips. She had to remain calm. “My previous actions were… ill-considered,” she admitted, her voice tight. “Driven by frustration, and… a misunderstanding of the… complexities involved.”

It was the closest she could come to acknowledging his influence, without explicitly validating his methods.

“A misunderstanding,” Riddle repeated softly. “Indeed.”

He paused. “And this ‘proposal’ of yours? This desire to return to your… recreational pursuits, quietly and without further incident? This sudden embrace of… discretion?”

He was mocking her, of course, highlighting the contrast between her previous recklessness and her current plea for a quiet resolution.

“My desire,” Ginny said, choosing her words carefully, “is to mitigate the ongoing damage to my team. Their performance, their funding, their reputation… they are suffering due to my mistakes. If my return to play, under strict conditions of professional conduct, can help alleviate that… then yes, that is what I seek.”

She was framing it as a concern for the team, just as she had in the letter.

An appeal to his sense of order, rather than her own personal desires.

Riddle was silent for another long moment, considering her words.

He moved again, circling slowly towards the side of the desk, never taking his eyes off her. The firelight caught his profile, highlighting the sharp, aristocratic line of his nose, the firm set of his jaw.

“A public apology, you offered,” he stated, not as a question, but as a reminder of her concession. “To be delivered… how? Through the Daily Prophet? A formal statement to the League? Such gestures can be… messy. Prone to misinterpretation by those, like Miss Skeeter, who thrive on sensationalism.”

Ginny’s stomach clenched at the mention of Skeeter. “I am… open to suggestions on the most… appropriate and discreet manner.” 

“Discretion,” Riddle mused. “A quality you are only now beginning to appreciate, it seems.”

He stopped beside his desk, resting one hand lightly on its polished surface. “Let us be clear, Miss Weasley. If – and I stress, if – a path to your reinstatement were to be considered, it would be contingent upon absolute, unwavering,and ongoing compliance.”

His gaze sharpened, pinning her. “No further outbursts. No further ill-advised ‘inquiries’ into matters that do not concern you. No further attempts to engage with me or my associates outside of strictly defined, official channels, should such channels ever become necessary again, which I sincerely doubt.”

He paused, letting the weight of his conditions sink in. “You would return to your Quidditch. You would play your games. You would keep your head down, your opinions to yourself, and your temperamentfirmly in check. Both on and off the pitch. Any deviation, however minor, would result in consequences far more permanent than your current suspension.”

The threat was unspoken but absolute.

He wasn’t just offering a reprieve; he was dictating the terms of her future conduct, ensuring her complete subjugation.

“Do I make myself clear, Miss Weasley?”

Ginny swallowed hard, the taste of ashes in her mouth.

This was it. The price of her return.

Complete, utter yield.

But the image of her team, of Gwenog’s weary face, of the Harpies’ proud emblem being dragged through the mud… it solidified her resolve.

“Yes, Mr. Riddle,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, but firm. “Perfectly clear.”

He held her gaze for another moment, searching, assessing. Then, he gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. “Very well.”

He straightened up, moving back towards the centre of the room, nearer the fire. “The precise details of your public statement of apology will be conveyed to you through my administrative assistant. It will be brief, unequivocal, and will focus solely on your regrettable lapse in professional conduct. No extraneous details, no attempts at justification.”

He turned to face the fire, his back to her, seemingly dismissing her once more, the consultation apparently concluded. “As for your reinstatement, I will ‘advise’ the relevant parties that, contingent upon your satisfactory public apology and subsequent impeccable behavior, a review of your status mightbe appropriate. The timeline for such a review will be at their discretion, naturally.”

Naturally.

He would control that too, ensuring she remained on a short leash.

“You may leave, Miss Weasley,” he said, his voice distant, his attention seemingly fixed on the flickering flames. “Mr. Pringle will be in contact regarding the apology. Do not attempt to contact this office directly again.”

Ginny sat frozen for a moment, the abrupt dismissal leaving her feeling strangely hollow.

It was over.

She had done it.

She had apologized, groveled, promised absolute compliance. And he had, in his own detached, manipulative way, agreed to her proposal.

She should feel relieved. Victorious, even, in a twisted sort of way. She had achieved her objective.

But all she felt was a profound, soul-crushing weariness, and the bitter aftertaste of her own compromised integrity.

Ginny remained seated, her limbs feeling heavy, unresponsive to Riddle's curt dismissal.

Leave? Just like that?

After baring her soul, or at least the carefully constructed facade of it?

The firelight flickered, casting his tall silhouette against the book-lined walls.

He hadn’t moved, his attention seemingly absorbed by the flames, as if she were already gone, already forgotten.

The silence in the room was absolute, save for the soft crackle of the fire and the relentless ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.

A strange mixture of emotions churned within her.

Relief, yes, that the agonizing apology was over, that a path to reinstatement, however narrow, had been offered. But also… a profound sense of anticlimax. A lingering, unsettling dissatisfaction.

She had come here prepared for a battle, a negotiation, perhaps even another terrifying confrontation.

Instead, she had delivered her lines, he had delivered his, and the transaction, it seemed, was complete.

Efficient. Tidy. Utterly devoid of… anything resembling human connection.

Which was what she should have expected, of course.

This was Tom Riddle. He didn't do "human connection." 

And yet…

Something shifted within her, a spark of the old defiance, the ingrained refusal to be so easily dismissed, so completely managed.

She had come here not just to apologize, but to… understand. To try and see beyond the mask.

And he was offering her nothing but another perfectly executed maneuver.

She thought of his study, his Ministry office.

The books. So many books. Ancient, powerful, hinting at knowledge far beyond the mundane.

What did a man like Tom Riddle do in his private time, when not orchestrating Ministry policy or… neutralizing threats?

The question was impulsive, irrelevant to her immediate predicament, but it snagged in her mind, a loose thread of curiosity.

Before she could censor herself, before she could remember the wisdom of quiet compliance she had just so painfully pledged, the words were out.

“What do you read?”

The question hung in the silent room, utterly unexpected, even to herself.

Tom Riddle, who had been pointedly staring into the fire, turned his head slowly, his expression unreadable in the flickering light.

He didn’t speak immediately.

He simply looked at her, a long, assessing gaze, as if trying to decipher the motive behind such an utterly irrelevant, almost bizarre inquiry.

Ginny felt a flush creep up her neck.

Stupid. That was stupid.

Why had she said that?

She should just get up and leave, as instructed.

But the question, once voiced, seemed to take on a life of its own, hanging between them, a tiny, unexpected disruption in the carefully orchestrated script of their meeting.

Finally, Riddle spoke, his voice soft, almost musing, a hint of something unreadable – surprise? Amusement? Annoyance? – lacing his tone. “Anunexpected question, Miss Weasley. Particularly given the pressing nature of our previous discussion.”

He paused. “Are you developing a sudden interest in Ministry archival procedures? Or perhaps the finer points of inter-departmental resource allocation? I confess, I find it difficult to imagine such topics holding your attention for long.”

The familiar condescension was there, but a subtle shift in the air.

He wasn’t dismissing her outright this time. He was… engaging. If only to dissect her peculiar tangent.

Ginny seized the unexpected opening, however small. “Not Ministry reports,” she clarified, trying to sound casual, though her heart was still hammering.

“Those books.” She gestured vaguely towards the towering shelves lining the walls. “They don’t look like Quidditch strategy manuals.”

An imperceptible smile touched Riddle’s lips. “Indeed. My literary tastes extend somewhat beyond the athletic arts.”

He turned slightly, his gaze sweeping over the rows of leather-bound volumes, a flicker of something almost possessive in his eyes. “These are companions, Miss Weasley. Sources of knowledge. Explorations of power, in its many forms.”

He paused, then, to Ginny’s utter astonishment, he actually seemed to consider her question seriously. He gestured towards a particular section, its spines darker, older-looking than the others.

“Currently,” he said, his voice taking on a more academic, almost detached tone, “I am re-examining certain primary texts on ancient magical theory. The fundamental principles underpinning spellcraft. The nature of magical resonance. The theoretical limits – or lack thereof – of sustained enchantments.”

He spoke of it as if discussing a particularly complex chess problem. There was no hint of the forbidden, the illicit, in his tone. Only intellectual curiosity, the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake.

Ginny stared at him, momentarily forgetting her apology, her suspension.

This was… unexpected.

A glimpse, however fleeting, behind the mask of the manipulative Ministry official.

A glimpse of the scholar. The intellect. The mind that Percy had, perhaps, glimpsed and admired, however naively.

“Ancient magical theory?” she echoed, trying to keep the surprise out of her voice. “Sounds… rather dry.”

Riddle’s faint smile returned. “Dryness, Miss Weasley, is often a matter of perspective. What one person sees as arid parchment, another might perceive as a map to uncharted territories of understanding.”

He turned back to face her fully, the firelight now illuminating his features more clearly. The intensity was still there in his eyes, but it was different now. Less overtly menacing, more… focused. Introspective.

“Understanding the foundations,” he continued, almost as if thinking aloud, “is crucial to building anything of lasting significance. Whether it is a Ministry department, a piece of legislation, or other, more enduring structures.”

The implication of that final phrase – “more enduring structures” – hung in the air, chillingly ambiguous. Ginny suspected he wasn’t talking about Hogwarts alumni associations.

But his willingness to even engage in such a topic with her, however obliquely… it was a crack in the facade. A small, unexpected point of connection.

She didn’t know why he was doing it.

Perhaps he was toying with her, enjoying her confusion.

Perhaps he was so confident in his own intellectual superiority that he saw no harm in offering a glimpse of his pursuits.

Or perhaps, just perhaps, her unexpected, irrelevant question had momentarily disarmed him, appealing to a part of him – the scholar, the obsessive intellect – that rarely saw the light of day in his interactions with “inferiors.”

“And what,” Ginny found herself asking, emboldened by his continued engagement, her own curiosity overriding her caution, “do you hope to… build… with all this ancient understanding?”

Riddle’s smile faded slightly. His eyes narrowed, the assessing glint returning.

He was clearly wondering how far she intended to push this unexpected tangent.

“That, Miss Weasley,” he said softly, his voice regaining a measure of its earlier coolness, “is a question far beyond the scope of this consultation. And far beyond your need to comprehend.”

The door was closing again. The brief, unexpected glimpse was over.

But Ginny felt a subtle shift in the dynamic.

She had, for a moment, engaged him on a level beyond accusations and apologies.

She had made him… think. Respond. Reveal a fraction of something other than his usual disdain.

It wasn't much. But it felt… significant.

“Right,” she said, pulling herself back, trying to sound casual, as if the brief foray into ancient magical theory had been a perfectly normal conversational detour. “Well. Thank you again for… seeing me.”

She made a move to stand, to finally obey his earlier dismissal.

“One moment, Miss Weasley,” Riddle said, his voice stopping her.

He moved towards his desk, picked up the ornate silver letter opener, and then, to Ginny’s surprise, walked towards one of the towering bookshelves. He scanned the spines for a moment, then selected a slim volume, its leather binding worn smooth with age.

He didn’t open it. He simply held it, turning it over in his long fingers.

“You expressed an interest in my reading,” he stated, his back still mostly to her. “A superficial interest, no doubt, born of momentary curiosity or perhaps a misguided attempt to ingratiate yourself.”

Ginny flushed slightly at the casual, accurate assessment of her likely motives.

“However,” he continued, turning back to face her, the book still in his hand, “genuine intellectual curiosity, however misplaced, is a rare commodity. Even amongst those who profess to value it.”

He walked back towards her, stopping a few feet away. He held out the book.

“This,” he said, his voice neutral, “is a moderately accessible treatise on the resonant properties of certain runic combinations. Foundational principles. Perhaps it will offer you a broader perspective than the latest Quidditch league tables.”

Ginny stared at the book, then up at his face, utterly bewildered.

Was he… lending her a book? Tom Riddle? After everything?

It felt like another test, another layer of his incomprehensible game.

Or was it… something else?

A subtle acknowledgement of her unexpected question?

A way of reasserting his intellectual superiority by offering her a glimpse into his world, knowing she likely wouldn’t comprehend it?

She hesitated, unsure how to respond.

“Take it, Miss Weasley,” Riddle said, his voice devoid of inflection, but with an underlying command. “Consider it... an assignment. To broaden your remarkably narrow intellectual horizons. It may even prove useful should you ever find yourself in a situation requiring more than brute force or emotional outbursts.”

He was insulting her again, even as he offered this strange, unexpected gesture.

Slowly, cautiously, Ginny reached out and took the book.

The ancient leather felt cool and smooth beneath her fingertips. It was surprisingly heavy for its size. There was no title on the spine, only a series of faint invisible embossed runes.

She looked up at him, searching his face for some clue, some hint as to his true motive. 

“Thank you,” she managed, the words feeling inadequate, confused.

“Do not thank me, Miss Weasley,” Riddle replied coolly. “I expect it to be returned. In pristine condition. And I may even… quiz you on its contents at a later date, should our paths cross again under less strained circumstances.”

Another command.

Another assertion of his control.

He was lending her a book, yes, but it came with conditions, with the implicit threat of future scrutiny.

He was giving her a tiny, confusing glimpse into his world, but only on his terms, and only, she suspected, because it served some obscure purpose of his own.

He gestured towards the door. “Now, I believe our consultation has indeed concluded. Mr. Pringle will be in contact regarding the apology. Do try not to cause any further disruptions on your way out.”

This time, Ginny stood.

The book felt heavy in her hand, a tangible symbol of the bewildering, unsettling nature of their encounter.

She nodded curtly, unable to find words, and walked towards the door, acutely aware of his gaze following her every step.

As her hand reached the doorknob of his study, she paused, a final, impulsive question rising to her lips, one that had been nagging at her since she’d first entered his private domain.

“Riddle?”

He didn’t reply, but she knew he was listening.

“All these books,” she said, gesturing vaguely around the room. “All this knowledge. Why?”

Why did he pursue it with such intensity? What was he truly seeking?

She didn’t expect an answer. Not a real one.

But she saw him turn slightly, his silhouette framed against the firelight.

He was silent for a long moment.

Then, he spoke.

“Because, Miss Weasley,” he said slowly, “knowledge… true knowledge... is the only power that endures. Everything else is merely fleeting. And I… intend to endure.”

It wasn’t just about understanding ancient magical theory; it was about something deeper, more fundamental to his very being. 

It hinted at an ambition so vast, so absolute, it was almost incomprehensible.

Ginny stared at his silhouette, the slim, rune-embossed book suddenly feeling heavier in her hand. She had asked an impulsive question, expecting a dismissal, or perhaps another condescending remark about her “narrow intellectual horizons.”

Instead, she had received… a glimpse.

A sincere statement of intent that resonated with the unsettling power she had always sensed beneath his polished facade.

A part of her, the sensible part that had been so painfully reasserting itself over the past few days, screamed at her to leave. Now. Before she said something else stupid, before she pushed him further, before he regretted this brief, unexpected lapse into whatever this was.

But the curiosity, the ingrained refusal to simply accept the surface of things, warred with her.

She had him talking, truly talking, not just dictating terms or delivering veiled threats. And the subject, however unsettling, was… fascinating.

“Endure?” she echoed, her voice less confrontational, more genuinely inquisitive. “Like… securing a lifetime appointment to the Wizengamot? Or something more… cryptic?”

She saw him turn his head slightly, as if surprised she was still there, still pursuing the conversation. She could almost feel him reassessing, recalibrating his response.

“Permanence, Miss Weasley,” he said, his voice regaining a measure of its cool detachment, though the underlying intensity remained, “is a prerequisite for achieving anything of lasting significance. Fleeting brilliance, however dazzling, is ultimately transient. Dissipates like an unstable potion.”

He gestured vaguely towards the shelves laden with ancient texts. “These volumes contain the accumulated wisdom – and the monumental follies – of centuries. They chronicle empires risen and fallen, magics discovered and lost, individuals who grasped for power and those who endured. There are patterns, Miss Weasley. Principles. Lessons for those with the intellect to discern them.”

He was lecturing her again, but it was different now. Less about her perceived inadequacies, more about his own worldview.

Ginny found herself frowning, trying to process his words. “So, all this reading… it’s about not repeating old blunders? Learning from the past to… what? Brew a better Ministry? Draft more foolproof enchantments for Gringotts?”

A faint smile touched Riddle’s lips. It wasn't a smile of amusement, but of almost pitying, condescension. “Your perspective, Miss Weasley, remains resolutely grounded in the mundane.”

“Mundane?” Ginny bristled slightly, the old defensiveness flaring. “What’s so mundane about wanting the Ministry to function without corruption? About wanting magical law to be just?”

“Justice, Miss Weasley,” Riddle countered smoothly, “is a concept often invoked by those lacking the power to define their own terms. Order, efficiency, lasting structures – these are not built on sentiment. They are built on understanding power, in all its forms. And power,” – his gaze swept back to the ancient tomes – “is inextricably linked to knowledge. The deeper the knowledge, the more profound the power. The more enduring the control.”

Ginny stared at him, a sudden, almost comical realization dawning. All these books, this obsession with ancient knowledge, this talk of enduring power and control…

“You’re a nerd,” she blurted out, the word escaping before she could stop it. “A massive, obsessive, power-hungry nerd.”

The moment the words left her mouth, she froze, horrified at her own audacity. She had just called Tom Riddle, the man who held her career and possibly her future in his hands, a nerd. After he had just granted her a conditional reprieve.

This was it. She’d finally, irrevocably, pushed him too far. Azkaban, here I come

Riddle, however, didn’t react with the explosive anger she expected. Instead, he tilted his head, a genuinely thoughtful expression crossing his features. 

“A ‘nerd’,” he repeated slowly, tasting the slightly unusual colloquialism – he’d heard it before, usually bandied about by younger students with derision for studious types. “An interesting, if somewhat... simplistic classification.”

He paused, considering it. “I suppose, from your remarkably straightforward worldview, Miss Weasley, focused as it is on physical exertion and the immediate thrill of competitive broomstick riding… the dedicated pursuit of profound intellectual understanding might indeed appear… ‘nerdy’.”

He wasn’t offended. He sounded almost… intrigued by the label, as if analyzing a newly discovered, slightly primitive form of categorization.

He clearly didn't expect her to grasp the nuances of the power he sought, the ambition that drove him.

“Well, you are,” Ginny found herself doubling down, emboldened by his lack of immediate retaliation, the lingering adrenaline making her reckless again. “All those hours spent poring over dusty old scrolls, muttering about ancient runes and lasting enchantments… No wonder we never crossed paths at Hogwarts. You were probably holed up in the library, deciphering forgotten spells, while the rest of us were, you know, actually living.”

She gestured vaguely, encompassing Quidditch matches, snowball fights on the grounds, even the occasional illicit butterbeer in Hogsmeade. “Life, Riddle. It’s not just about enduring. It’s about… experiencing. Connecting. Sometimes even making a glorious, messy mistake and learning from it.”

Like provoking a powerful, manipulative Ministry official into a vendetta, a voice in her head added wryly.

Riddle listened, his expression unchanging, but the intensity in his gaze sharpened. He was processing her words, her… philosophy, with that same analytical focus he applied to everything else.

“‘Living’,” he echoed, the word sounding almost alien on his tongue. “A chaotic, inefficient, and ultimately finite process, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Weasley? Driven by fleeting emotions and governed by biological frailties. Susceptible to curses, accidents, the manipulations of others.”

He took a step away from the fire, moving deeper into the room, his voice dropping slightly, taking on a more resonant timbre. “You speak of ‘connection.’ Yet connections break. People betray. Loyalties waver. Attachments become leverage points for enemies.”

His gaze swept over her, “You speak of ‘experience.’ Yet individual experience is subjective, limited, prone to flawed memory. Easily altered.” He paused, letting the subtle reference to his encounter with Skeeter hang in the air.

“And ‘mistakes’?” He gave another of those faint, humorless smiles. “Mistakes, Miss Weasley, are deviations from the optimal design. They are to be corrected, lessons extracted, and above all, avoided. Particularly when the consequences are significant.”

He had turned her own words, her attempt at a defense of a more… vibrant existence, back on her, dissecting them with his irrefutable logic.

Ginny found herself momentarily speechless.

He had a way of making everything she valued – passion, loyalty, even basic human fallibility – sound like a vulnerability, a weakness in magical design.

“So, what then?” she finally managed, frustration creeping back into her voice. “Is the goal to become some kind of perfectly enchanted, unfeeling automaton? To endure by… not living at all? Just observing from behind a wall of ancient books, manipulating everyone like pieces in a game of Wizard’s Chess?”

“The goal, Miss Weasley,” Riddle corrected, his voice devoid of any emotion, “is to transcend limitations. Magical. Temporal. Societal. To achieve a state of perfected existence. Unfettered by the messy, unpredictable variables that govern lesser magical beings.”

His gaze seemed to look through her, towards some distant, unimaginable horizon. “True power is not about fleeting victories in a Quidditch stadium, or the warmth of… camaraderie. It is about shaping reality itself. Bending the very fabric of magic to one’s will. Enduring beyond the frail constraints of mortal existence and fickle enchantments.”

The conviction in his voice was absolute, unnerving.

He wasn’t just talking about being a powerful wizard or an influential Ministry official. He was talking about something… more. Something that hinted at ambitions far darker, far more transgressive than she could comprehend.

The casual accusation of him being a “nerd” suddenly felt profoundly inadequate.

She had stumbled, blindly, into a philosophical debate with someone whose definition of “endurance” seemed to stretch towards something beyond the natural order of life and death.

The book in her hand, the treatise on runic combinations, no longer seemed like a random assignment. It felt like a tiny, deliberate breadcrumb, dropped from a table laden with forbidden feasts, a subtle hint of the depths he plumbed.

“And you think,” Ginny asked, her voice barely a whisper, “that all these ancient magics can help you do that? Transcend limitations? Shape reality?”

Riddle’s gaze returned to her, sharp and focused. The brief glimpse into his grander, more terrifying ambition was over. He was back to assessing her, the immediate variable.

“Ancient magic, Miss Weasley,” he said, his tone once again cool, didactic, “holds keys to understanding the fundamental laws that govern our world. Laws that most wizards, content with their superficial charms and convenient household spells, never bother to explore.”

He paused. “Whether those keys can unlock certain doors is a matter of diligent research, intellectual rigor, and a willingness to pursue knowledge wherever it may lead. Even into territories others deem unadvisable.”

The last word, “unadvisable,” hung in the air, charged with unspoken meaning. It connected, with clarity, to Percy’s smudged library notes, to the “Darkest Arts,” to Myrtle Warren’s unexplained death.

He wasn't just a scholar; he was a seeker of forbidden knowledge, a potential master of magics that sensible wizards knew to leave well alone. And he wasn't ashamed of it; he was… proud.

He saw it as a sign of his intellectual superiority, his willingness to go where others feared to tread.

Ginny felt a sudden, desperate need to push back, to challenge this arrogant dismissal of everything that made life worth living. “But what about… people?”

Feeling foolishly sentimental, yet unable to stop herself. “What about joy? Loyalty? Grief? Are those just messy variables to be controlled and magically suppressed in your quest for perfected, enduring existence?”

Riddle regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

Was that a flicker of contempt in his eyes? Or merely dispassionate analysis?

“Emotions, Miss Weasley,” he stated finally, his voice devoid of inflection, “are alchemical reactions within the mind. Neurological impulses influenced by magical currents. They can be understood. They can be managed. And when they become impediments… they can be neutralized.”

Like a potion ingredient deemed too volatile for a stable concoction.

He made it sound so simple.

So… clean.

So utterly, terrifyingly inhuman.

The chasm between their worldviews felt impossibly vast, unbridgeable.

She lived in a world of passion, loyalty, flawed human connection. He aspired to a world of perfect control, enduring power, and intellectual transcendence.

“So, no messy mistakes for Tom Riddle, then?” Ginny challenged, a note of bitterness creeping into her voice. “No room for error in your grand design for enduring power?”

A fleeting expression that held no warmth, only a chilling self-assurance. “Mistakes, Miss Weasley, are for those who lack the foresight to avoid them, or the ruthlessness to correct their consequences. I endeavor to be efficient in all things.”

The unspoken implication was clear: he did not make mistakes.

And if any deviation occurred, it was rectified. Silently. Permanently.

Like Rookwood.

Like, perhaps, Myrtle Warren.

Ginny felt a profound weariness settle over her.

This philosophical sparring, however unexpectedly he’d engaged in it, was leading nowhere. He was too entrenched in his own worldview.

She had achieved what she came for – a conditional reprieve. Pushing further felt futile and increasingly dangerous.

“Right,” she said, her voice flat. She clutched the slim, rune-embossed book. “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your… enduring time.”

She turned towards the door.

“Miss Weasley.”

His voice stopped her. She looked back. He hadn't moved, but his gaze was fixed on her.

“You seem to be forgetting something,” he stated, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips.

Ginny frowned. What else could there be?

“Your property,” Riddle clarified. “The rather volatile wand you lost in my Ministry office.”

Her wand. A jolt went through her. He had deliberately waited.

He moved towards a small, ornate cabinet, opened it with a key from his jumper. Inside, velvet-lined compartments held small boxes, unidentifiable artifacts. He withdrew her wand.

It looked small, familiar, and utterly out of place in his hand.

He closed and locked the cabinet, then turned, holding her wand out, hilt first.

“A useful tool, Miss Weasley,” he said, his voice neutral. “Though prone to unpredictable surges when wielded by an undisciplined hand.”

Ginny reached for it.

The familiar feel of the polished wood was a profound relief. A surge of her own magic pulsed through it, a comforting thrum against her palm.

As her fingers closed around the hilt, their hands brushed. His skin was cool, smooth. The fleeting contact sent an unexpected tremor up her arm, a sensation distinct from the intimacy in his office.

It wasn't threatening, but it was… charged.

A subtle disturbance in the magical currents between them, almost like the air crackling before a storm, but quieter, more personal.

Ginny snatched her hand back, clutching her wand.

The accidental touch had felt more potent than his deliberate caresses. Those had been manipulative. This felt… unscripted.

She stared at him, her mind replaying those moments in his Ministry office.

The question, suppressed and gnawing, burst out. “That day. In your office.” Her voice was stronger now, not pleading, but demanding, a forceful curiosity overriding her earlier caution. “You touched my cheek. My hair. Why?”

She wasn’t asking for an apology, nor was she expressing disgust at the memory, not entirely. It was the unexpectedness, the deliberate shift from threat to something unreadable, that had lodged itself in her mind.

She just wanted to understand the reason for that peculiar intimacy under duress.

“I recall,” he said slowly, his voice turning cold, “removing a smudge of dirt. A matter of… tidiness. And ensuring a stray strand of hair did not impede your… rather animated expressions.”

He was dismissing it, trivializing it, as if it were a mundane act of impersonal grooming.

“Tidiness?” Ginny echoed, a skeptical, almost challenging note in her voice.

She took a half-step closer, forgetting her earlier resolve for quiet compliance. The recovery of her wand had emboldened her.

“Is that what you call it? Just tidying up?” She tilted her head, a spark of defiance in her eyes. “How would you like it, Riddle, if I decided your appearance needed some… tidying? If I just reached out and…”

Before he could react, before she could fully process her own audacity, her hand moved. Not to slap, not to attack, but to mimic his earlier gesture.

She reached out, intending to brush his cheek, to see how he would react to such a deliberate, uninvited touch, to force him to experience the same disorienting intimacy he had imposed on her.

His reflexes were preternatural.

Faster than she could blink, his hand shot out, not to strike, but to intercept. His fingers closed around her wrist, not with bruising force, but with an unyielding grip that stopped her inches from his face.

The contact was electrifying, skin against skin, a sudden intimacy.

He didn't push her away. He pulled.

Gently, inexorably, he drew her closer, until she was standing mere inches from him, her captured hand trapped between their bodies.

The scent of old books and cool night air from his clothes filled her senses. She could feel the faint warmth radiating from him, see the dark intensity in his eyes as they bored into hers.

“That,” Tom Riddle breathed, his voice a low, dangerous murmur that vibrated through her captured wrist and into her very bones, “was an exceedingly foolish impulse, Miss Weasley.”

His grip tightened, not painfully, but with a possessive strength that brooked no resistance. “Our previous disagreements… the Ministry squabbles, your Quidditch-related grievances… those are matters of bureaucratic maneuvering, of public perception. I can tolerate your spirited, if misguided, interventions in those arenas, to a point.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth, then flickered back up to her eyes, a dangerous light glinting within their depths. “But this…” He gave her wrist a subtle, almost imperceptible tug, drawing her fractionally closer. “Uninvited physical contact. An attempt to breach my personal space, to impose your will upon my person, however… artlessly…”

He paused, his voice dropping further, becoming a silken threat. “That, Miss Weasley, is an entirely different category of transgression. That is something I do not tolerate. That is something I will punish. Actively. And believe me,” – his eyes held hers captive, pupils dilating slightly – “my methods of… personal correction... are far less constrained than Ministry protocols allow.”

Ginny scoffed, a shaky, defiant sound, though her heart was hammering against her ribs so hard she could feel it in her throat.

His proximity was overwhelming.

The heat from his body, the intensity of his gaze, the possessive grip on her wrist – it created a confusing maelstrom of fear, anger, and a bewildering, unwelcome prickle of… something else.

A strange awareness that made her skin tingle where he touched her, a dizzying lightness in her head that had nothing to do with fear.

Her breath hitched, her senses overwhelmed by his nearness.

The undeniable physical reaction, the way her senses seemed to heighten in his presence, the dangerous thrill that even now, trapped and threatened, coursed through her veins… It was undeniable. Confusing. Terrifying.

How had they gotten here? Again?

She had come for a resolution. She had apologized. They had an “understanding,” hadn’t they? Public apology, quiet reinstatement, no more trouble. That was supposed to be it.

Yet here she was, practically nose-to-nose with him, his fingers wrapped around her wrist, his voice a dark promise in her ear, all because she’d tried to… what? Prove a point? Understand his earlier confusing intimacy by replicating it?

She was shocked, not just by his reaction, but by the realization that there was still another layer to their conflict, another “issue” they hadn’t tackled.

The previous agreement, the apology, the conditions for her return to Quidditch – that was one thing. But this, this visceral reaction to her attempt to touch him, this warning about personal transgression… this was something else entirely.

And with a sudden surge of determination, overriding the confusion, Ginny knew she had to get to the bottom of it. Right now. Before this went any further, before she lost her nerve, before he simply dismissed her again.

She met his gaze, her own fierce despite the turmoil within. “So, it’s alright for you to ‘aesthetically tidy’ me in your office, to touch my face, my hair, when I’m cornered and disarmed, but if I even think about returning the favor, it’s a punishable offense? Is that how your ‘order’ works, Riddle? Rules for thee, but not for me?”

Tom Riddle let out a low, dark chuckle.

The sound was unsettling, devoid of genuine amusement, yet carrying a hint of something almost… indulgent.

His grip on her wrist didn't loosen. If anything, it tightened fractionally, even as his voice remained a silken murmur.

“What precisely did you expect me to say, Miss Weasley?” his eyes glinting in the firelight, fixed on hers with an intensity. “That my actions in my office were born of some… irrepressible attraction? That I touched your cheek, your hair, because I am drawn to you?”

He tilted his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Is that the narrative you’re constructing in that remarkably imaginative mind of yours? That I harbor some… fascination with a mud-caked, ill-tempered Quidditch player who publicly assaults me and then invades my private sanctum shouting accusations?”

Ginny narrowed her eyes, trying to pierce through his condescending amusement, searching for any flicker of truth, any sign that her question had actually caught him off guard.

His facade was, as always, impeccable. No hint of discomposure. No flicker of vulnerability.

Yet… she sensed it.

A subtle shift in the air, a change in the already charged atmosphere between them.

His grip on her wrist, while still firm, felt less like a threat and more like… a connection. Unwanted, certainly, but undeniably there.

The way his gaze lingered on her face, the slight dilation of his pupils – these weren’t the reactions of a man merely annoyed by an impertinent question.

Inwardly, Tom Riddle was, indeed, caught off guard. Not by her question – her capacity for blunt, ill-advised inquiries was well established – but by the resurgence of that unwelcome, visceral response within himself.

He had her trapped.

He had reasserted his dominance.

The apology had been delivered.

The terms of her compliance understood.

The matter should have been concluded.

And yet, here he was again, inches from her, his fingers wrapped around her wrist, his carefully constructed composure threatened not by her anger, but by this… this infuriating pull.

He had touched her in his office, yes. He had rationalized it as a means of asserting control, of unsettling her, of satisfying a detached curiosity about her reactions.

Tidiness. Order.

But now, with her so close, her scent filling his senses, her defiant eyes challenging him, confusing awareness in their depths… he recognized the lie in his own justification.

There had been more to it than that.

A momentary lapse in his own meticulous control.

A desire to… touch.

To feel the texture of her skin, the vibrancy of her hair.

To possess, however fleetingly, some tangible aspect of the fire that burned so brightly, so infuriatingly, within her.

It was a weakness.

/A dangerous, unacceptable anomaly.

And her question had just forced him to confront it, internally, even as he outwardly dismissed it with practiced disdain.

“Your capacity for self-delusion is truly remarkable, Miss Weasley,” he continued, betraying none of his internal turmoil. “My actions are always dictated by logic, by the pursuit of specific outcomes. Sentiment, romantic or otherwise, plays no part in my calculations.”

He was reasserting the narrative, the one he needed to believe, the one he needed her to believe.

But Ginny, despite the overwhelming power of his presence, felt a subtle shift.

She had struck a nerve, however inadvertently. She had touched upon something he preferred to keep hidden, even from himself.

The realization was both terrifying and… strangely empowering.

She could see the battle raging behind his eyes, the conflict between his iron will and this unexpected flicker of… something.

And in that moment, she understood that their “understanding,” their carefully negotiated truce, was far more fragile than she had realized.

The public apology, her return to Quidditch, his cessation of pressure on the Harpies – those were the terms of one agreement.

But this… this other thing… this unspoken tension that arced between them whenever they were this close… this was an entirely different problem.

A problem for which she had no answer, no strategy.

And it was a problem that, she suspected, was far more dangerous than any Ministry sanction or Quidditch suspension.

For the sake of her team, for the sake of salvaging what was left of her career, for the sake of the fragile truce they had just forged, she had to back down. Now.

Before this escalated further, before he recognized the flicker of his own unwanted response and reacted with even greater ruthlessness to extinguish it, and her along with it.

She forced herself to relax fractionally, to let some of the fight drain out of her eyes, though it felt like a betrayal of every instinct.

She needed to de-escalate.

She needed to remind him of the agreement, of their proposed resolution.

“Alright, Riddle,” she said, her voice less confrontational, though still holding a trace of its usual edge. “Fine. It was tidiness. Whatever you say.”

She didn’t believe him, not entirely. But she would let him have his denial. For now.

She looked pointedly at his hand still gripping her wrist. “Can we consider this… personal correction… concluded then? Or do you intend to add ‘unwarranted physical restraint’ to the list of my supposed transgressions before Mr. Pringle even drafts my public apology?”

She was reminding him of their agreement, of the terms.

Appealing, again, to his sense of order, of procedure. Trying to steer them back onto the safer, if still treacherous, ground of their negotiated truce.

Riddle’s gaze remained fixed on hers for another long moment, searching, assessing. He saw the shift in her demeanor, the deliberate attempt to de-escalate.

He recognized her retreat for what it was – a reluctant concession.

She was choosing to preserve the agreement, the path back to her Quidditch, over pursuing this… other, more dangerous line of inquiry.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, his fingers loosened their grip on her wrist. He didn’t release her immediately, but the pressure eased, replaced by a lighter hold.

The subtle shift in his touch sent another confusing jolt through Ginny.

It felt less like a threat now, and more like… a lingering question.

He was still considering. Still assessing.

The internal battle, she sensed, was not yet fully resolved.

The air between them remained charged, filled with unspoken words and unwelcome realizations.

Ginny knew, with a certainty that even if he let her walk out of this room, even if she delivered the apology and returned to the Harpies, this… this other problem… it wasn’t over.

It was just… paused.

A volatile undercurrent now flowing beneath the surface of their carefully constructed, mutually inconvenient truce.

And she had no idea how to navigate it, or what it might mean for her future, beyond the Quidditch pitch.

Chapter Text

The next morning, a crisp Ministry owl delivered a slim, official-looking envelope to Ginny’s flat.

Inside, on heavy cream parchment identical to the one bearing Riddle’s summons, was a typed document.

No personal note. No salutation. Just the text.

At the top, in bold, severe lettering:

FORMAL STATEMENT OF ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
CONCERNING EVENTS OF OCTOBER 17TH AT THE GILDED SNITCH RECEPTION
BY MISS GINEVRA MOLLY WEASLEY

Ginny’s stomach clenched as she read the title.

This wasn’t just an apology; it was a legalistic pronouncement, drafted with the precision of a Ministry decree, almost like a submission to the Wizengamot for a minor infraction.

Her own wand lay on the table beside her, recovered from Riddle the previous night. It  should have been a comfort. Instead, it felt like a tether of the concessions she had made, the control he still wielded.

She scanned the body of the text, her apprehension growing with each carefully chosen, utterly impersonal word.

“I, Ginevra Molly Weasley, Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies Quidditch team, do hereby issue this formal statement concerning my conduct at the Gilded Snitch reception on the evening of October 17th.

My actions on that occasion, specifically involving a physical interaction directed towards Senior Ministry Advisor Tom Riddle, were inappropriate and contrary to the standards of professional conduct expected of a member of the British and Irish Quidditch League.

I acknowledge that my temperament was regrettably uncontrolled in that instance, andmy subsequent actions constituted a serious lapse in judgment for which I accept responsibility. 

I offer my formal apologies to Mr. Riddle for the inappropriate physical contact and for any disruption my actions may have caused to the event.

I further extend my apologies to the management of The Gilded Snitch, the sponsors present, my teammates, the Holyhead Harpies organization, and the Quidditch League for the unfortunate incident.

I understand that disciplinary measures were deemed necessary by the League and my team, and I accept the consequences of my actions.

I am committed to ensuring that such an incident will not be repeated and to upholding the professional standards of the League moving forward.

It is my sincere hope that this statement will be accepted, and that all parties can now move forward with a renewed focus on their respective professional responsibilities.”

Beneath the main text, in smaller, equally precise type, were instructions:

“This statement is to be signed by Miss Weasley in the presence of a Ministry-accredited Magical Scrivener. Once attested, copies are to be dispatched via registered owl post to the following recipients:

1. The Office of Senior Advisor Tom Riddle, Ministry of Magic.
2. The Office of Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.
3. The Management Office, Holyhead Harpies Quidditch Club.
4. The League Commissioner’s Office, British and Irish Quidditch League.
5. The Editor, Sports Pages, The Daily Prophet (for factual record keeping).

Failure to comply with these distribution requirements in a timely manner will be considered a breach of the agreed-upon terms for resolution.”

Ginny stared at the document, a knot forming in her stomach.

This wasn’t the grovelling, self-flagellating confession she had perhaps braced herself for.

It was… surprisingly okay.

Yes, it was formal, legalistic, and clearly drafted by Riddle (or his meticulous assistant). It still required her to take responsibility, to acknowledge her lapse in judgment, to apologize for the physical altercation but it wasn't designed for public humiliation.

“Inappropriate physical contact” instead of “unwarranted assault.”

“Temperament regrettably uncontrolled in that instance” instead of painting her as perpetually volatile.

The distribution list, while still official, was also less gratuitous than she might have feared.

The Daily Prophet was included, yes, but “for factual record keeping,” a phrasing that suggested a desire for an official, unembellished statement on record, rather than an invitation for Skeeter’s usual sensationalist carnival.

Witch Weekly, with its penchant for gossip and fashion critiques, was notably absent.

This was Riddle, the precise mind, the stickler for procedure, ensuring all official bases were covered, that a formal record existed, that the matter was officially addressed and closed.

It was strict, yes. It demanded accountability but it wasn't overtly malicious in its public framing.

It still stung. Deeply.

Signing a document that so clearly laid the blame at her feet, that minimized the intense provocation she had felt, was a bitter pill.

But it wasn’t the soul-crushing public evisceration she had perhaps unconsciously prepared for.

This felt less like a public shaming and more like… a carefully constructed magical contract, binding and unyielding.

One where she admitted fault for the specific transgression (the slap), offered the required apologies to the relevant parties, and committed to future good conduct, all in exchange for the possibility of reinstatement.

It was still entirely on his terms. He still held all the power.

But there was a subtle difference in tone from what she might have expected.

This felt more like Riddle, the Senior Advisor, ensuring a problematic situation was resolved with efficiency and adherence to protocol, albeit a protocol heavily weighted in his favor. He was ensuring the "disorder" she had created was formally rectified, the "inefficiency" of her continued public drama brought to a neat, documented close.

The relief was… complicated.

It wasn't the joyous relief of absolution, but the weary relief of someone who has braced for a devastating blow and received something merely… very unpleasant.

She still had to sign it.

She still had to publicly acknowledge her fault, however nuanced she felt the reality was.

But perhaps… perhaps this offered a sliver more dignity than she had]\ anticipated.

A very small sliver.

With a deep, shuddering sigh, Ginny Weasley picked up her own wand and summoned a fresh quill and a pot of her cheapest ink.

She spread the pristine cream parchment on her rickety table. Her hand trembled slightly as she dipped the quill, the scratch of the nib against the official paper sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet flat.

She would sign it.

She would send it.

She would endure the inevitable public commentary, however muted Riddle intended it to be. Skeeter would still find a way to inject her venom, Ginny was sure.

She would do what was required.

But as she signed her name – Ginevra Molly Weasley – at the bottom of Tom Riddle’s precisely worded statement.

He was being “fair” in his legalistic, self-serving way, perhaps. Strict but adhering to a twisted sort of procedural correctness.

But that didn’t change the fundamental injustice of the power imbalance. It didn’t change the manipulations that had led her here.

This formal apology, this carefully managed resolution, didn’t erase the memory of his cool fingers on her cheek, the threat in his eyes, the way he had used her emotions against her.

He might be closing this particular chapter with bureaucratic efficiency. But the story between them, Ginny suspected, was far from over.

The trip to the Ministry-accredited Magical Scrivener in a dusty little office off Diagon Alley was a grim, perfunctory affair.

The Scrivener, a wizened old wizard with spectacles perched on the end of his nose, barely glanced at the content of the document, his interest solely focused on verifying Ginny’s identity and attesting to her signature with a series of precise, officious stamps and enchantments that glowed faintly before fading.

He clearly dealt with far stranger magical contracts and attestations on a daily basis.

Ginny signed copy after copy, her hand aching, her stomach churning with each repetition of her carefully scripted acknowledgement of fault.

Then came the owls.

Five of them, dispatched from the main Diagon Alley Post Office, each carrying a neatly rolled, attested copy of her statement to its designated recipient.

She watched them fly off in different directions, carrying her carefully worded capitulation out into the wizarding world, feeling a profound sense of dread and a strange, almost liberating resignation.

It was done.

The first, most public part of Riddle’s price had been paid.

The reactions were more subdued than she had braced for, yet still carried their own sting.

The Daily Prophet, the next morning, ran a surprisingly factual, if brief, piece on an inside page of the sports section, not the front-page splash Skeeter usually commanded.

WEASLEY ISSUES FORMAL APOLOGY FOR GILDED SNITCH INCIDENT

The article was short, quoting key phrases from her statement directly, without Skeeter’s usual embellishments or speculative commentary.

It noted that Miss Weasley accepted “full responsibility” for the “inappropriate physical contact” with Senior Ministry Advisor Tom Riddle and had apologized to all relevant parties.

It mentioned her current inactive roster status and the League’s ongoing review.

It was dry.

It was factual.

It was exactly what Riddle, in his instruction “for factual record keeping,” had likely intended.

But even its dry neutrality felt like a public branding. The entire wizarding sporting world now knew she had formally admitted fault, formally apologized.

There was no screaming headline, no salacious photograph this time but the official record was, in its own way, just as implicatory.

Her teammates in the Harpies’ changing room that morning were noticeably less awkward. The official statement seemed to have cleared some of the air, replacing lurid speculation with hard fact.

Nia Jenkins actually offered a small, sympathetic smile.

Rhiannon and Megan still talked mostly about the weather, but it felt less forced.

Gwenog, as usual, met her gaze directly. She didn’t comment on the Prophet article, but there was a subtle easing of the tension around her eyes. She simply nodded towards the conditioning area. “Warm up, Weasley. Laps first.”

The public humiliation was less overt, but the internal weight of her "surrender" remained.

The League Commissioner’s Office issued a terse statement acknowledging receipt of the apology and stating that Miss Weasley’s status remained “under review pending further observation of her conduct and the Harpies’ internal disciplinary processes.”

The Harpies’ management, through Mr. Cadwallader, released a slightly more optimistic statement, acknowledging Miss Weasley’s apology and expressing “confidence that Miss Weasley understands the seriousness of her lapse in judgment and will adhere to the highest professional standards moving forward. The club will continue to cooperate fully with the League’s review.”

Ludo Bagman, predictably, said nothing publicly, likely relieved the matter was being handled with official decorum.

And from Tom Riddle’s office?

Silence.

Absolute, deafening silence.

No acknowledgement of receipt.

No further communication.

He had received her attested apology. He had ensured its factual, if limited, public dissemination. He had achieved his objective of a formal, documented resolution to the “unfortunate affair.”

Now, he was clearly content to let the bureaucratic wheels turn at their own pace, to let her wait, to let the uncertainty of her future hang over her.

The days crawled by, each one a repetition of the last.

Solitary conditioning.

Sideline observation.

The slowly thawing, but still cautious, interactions with her teammates.

The weight of her public apology, however factually reported.

The gnawing uncertainty about her reinstatement.

She kept her head down, her opinions to herself, her temper firmly leashed. She was the model of quiet compliance.

The rune-embossed book he had lent her still sat on her bedside table, unopened. A silent reminder of their strange, unsettling encounter in his study, an encounter that felt worlds away from these dry, legalistic proceedings.

She was playing by his rules. The rules of formal procedure, of public statements, of quiet contrition.

And she hated it.

But she also knew, with a certainty that this was the only game currently on offer if she ever wanted to feel the wind in her hair, the Quaffle in her hand, the roar of a real crowd again.

Weeks bled into a monotonous, grey rhythm.

November’s chill deepened, bringing with it biting winds and persistent drizzle that seemed to mirror Ginny’s own internal gloom.

She continued her solitary penance at the Harpies’ training ground.

The conditioning drills, once a welcome physical outlet, now felt like a Sisyphean task – endless laps, punishing weight routines, repetitive solo Quaffle drills against a stubbornly indifferent practice hoop.

She pushed herself relentlessly, partly out of ingrained habit, partly because Gwenog’s (and Bronwyn’s) watchful eyes missed nothing, and partly because physical exhaustion was the only reliable way to quiet the relentless churning in her own mind.

Observing team practices from the sidelines remained a unique form of torture.

The Harpies, still reeling from the Wanderers defeat and the subsequent Kestrels thrashing, were struggling.

Nia Jenkins was trying, but the Chaser line lacked its usual incisive edge, its telepathic understanding. Passes went astray. Scoring opportunities were fumbled.

Gwenog’s voice, usually a booming torrent of tactical instruction, often held a raw edge of frustration that Ginny felt keenly.

The interactions with her teammates slowly, cautiously, thawed.

The official apology, however stilted, had cleared some of the air. The overt hostility had faded, replaced by a kind of wary sympathy.

Rhiannon and Megan would offer brief, polite greetings, sometimes even a hesitant comment about the weather or a particularly brutal drill.

Valmai Morgan, when not consumed by her own Seeker anxieties, would occasionally flash Ginny a quick, encouraging smile from high above the pitch.

Even Carys Pritchard’s icy disdain seemed to have melted slightly, replaced by a grudging neutrality.

The easy camaraderie, the shared jokes, the unspoken understanding that bound a team together – that was gone. Ginny was still an outsider, a problem temporarily contained, her future uncertain.

She kept her head down.

She followed Gwenog’s instructions to the letter.

She offered no opinions, volunteered no advice, even when she saw obvious tactical errors or missed opportunities that made her fingers itch for her broom.

Her temper, was banked, smothered under layers of hard-won discipline and the bitter taste of consequence.

It was exhausting, this constant self-monitoring, this deliberate suppression of her natural impulses. It felt like wearing a magical straightjacket.

And Riddle… remained silent.

No further communications.

No acknowledgements.

He had received her apology.

He had set the terms.

Now, he was clearly content to let the bureaucratic wheels grind at their own glacial pace, leaving her twisting in the wind of uncertainty.

The rune-embossed book he had lent her remained on her bedside table in her London flat, a reproachful presence. She hadn’t opened it.

The thought of delving into its contents felt… premature. Presumptuous. As if accepting another of his strange, unsettling invitations before the first, most critical matter – her reinstatement – was resolved.

In her “free time” – a concept that felt alien and unwelcome – Ginny found herself adrift.

Quidditch had been her life, her focus, her passion. Without the relentless demands of training, travel, and matches, the hours stretched before her, vast and empty.

She couldn’t just sit in her flat, staring at the walls, replaying her mistakes.

She tried reading – Quidditch magazines felt like rubbing salt in a wound, so she gravitated towards battered old adventure novels from her childhood, tales of daring heroes and straightforward battles, a world away from the complex, morally ambiguous game she found herself entangled in.

She flew.

Not on the Harpies’ pitch – that was forbidden during team drills – but in the early mornings, or late afternoons, finding secluded patches of common land outside London where she could push her Comet Two Ninety through the sky, unseen, unjudged.

The wind against her face, the sheer physical freedom of flight, was a temporary solace, a reminder of who she was, or who she used to be. But even that felt… tainted.

She was flying alone, for no purpose other than to burn off restless energy, the joy tinged with the bitterness of her exile.

Occasionally, needing a break from the oppressive atmosphere of her own thoughts and Harpies’ training ground, she would seek out familiar faces from her Hogwarts days.

She didn’t seek out Ron and Hermione. They were married now, both carving out careers within the Ministry.

Hermione, predictably, was rising rapidly within the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, already a junior policy advisor known for her sharp intellect and meticulous attention to detail – Ginny sometimes wondered, with a grimace, if their paths might cross professionally, given Riddle’s expansive advisory role.

Ron, after a brief, unhappy stint as an Auror trainee (the vigilance and strict protocols hadn’t suited his more laid-back nature), had found a surprising niche in the Department of Magical Transportation, working on Floo Network regulation and safety – a role that, Ginny suspected, allowed for a more predictable schedule and fewer life-or-death situations.

They were building a life together, focused on their careers, their new home.

Ginny’s relationship with Ron, despite their closeness in age, had always been complicated. He was Harry’s best friend first, her brother second.

When Harry had vanished in the maze, a part of Ron had seemed to vanish with him. He’d withdrawn, become quieter, his usual jovial nature shadowed by a grief that Ginny, in her own raw pain, hadn’t known how to breach.

They saw each other at Burrow gatherings, of course, exchanged polite, slightly strained pleasantries. But the easy camaraderie of their shared childhood felt distant now, overlaid by unspoken losses and the diverging paths of adulthood.

He and Hermione were focused on their future together, their Ministry careers, the quiet establishment of their own family unit. Ginny’s current, self-inflicted drama felt like an unwelcome intrusion.

And frankly, Ginny wasn’t sure she could face Hermione’s well-intentioned but inevitably incisive analysis of her poor choices just yet. Hermione would have a perfectly logical, ten-point plan for how Ginny should have handled Riddle, complete with footnotes and cross-references to Ministry disciplinary codes. 

No, her current mess felt too personal, too raw, to share with them.

Instead, she sought out Luna Lovegood.

Luna, with her dreamy gaze and unwavering belief in the existence of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, lived in a world refreshingly unburdened by Ministry politics or Quidditch League scandals.

Ginny would sometimes find her wandering the edges of Muggle London parks, sketching unusual cloud formations or patiently explaining the mating rituals of Blibbering Humdingers to bewildered pigeons.

Luna never asked about the suspension, never commented on the Prophet articles.

She simply accepted Ginny’s presence with her usual serene smile, offering observations about the Nargles likely infesting the Ministry or the aura of certain breeds of particularly fluffy sheep.

Her gentle, unjudgmental eccentricity was a balm.

Sitting beside Luna on a park bench, sharing a bag of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans (Ginny carefully avoiding the earwax ones), discussing whether Wrackspurts were responsible for the Harpies’ current losing streak… it was a brief, welcome escape.

She also reconnected, somewhat unexpectedly, with Neville Longbottom.

Neville, now a trainee Herbologist at Kew Gardens (the magical, hidden section, of course), was still endearingly clumsy but possessed a quiet strength and unwavering loyalty that Ginny had always admired.

She found him one blustery afternoon amidst rows of strangely pulsating Venetian Fanged Geraniums (the very same species that had witnessed her confrontation with Riddle at The Gilded Snitch, a fact that sent an ironic shiver down her spine).

Neville, unlike Luna, was acutely aware of Ginny’s situation, his face etched with concern when she sought him out. He didn’t pry, but his sympathy was palpable.

“Heard things have been… tough, Ginny,” he’d said, carefully pruning a particularly aggressive Snargaluff plant. “With the team, and… everything.”

“Understatement of the year, Nev,” Ginny had replied with a wry smile.

They fell into an easy companionship, spending several afternoons wandering the magical greenhouses, Neville enthusiastically explaining the properties of Gurdyroots or the delicate art of coaxing a Mimbulus Mimbletonia to squirt Stinksap in a controlled direction. His passion for Herbology was infectious, his quiet dedication a grounding presence.

He never offered advice about Riddle, never judged her actions. He just… listened, when she occasionally let slip a frustrated comment about her suspension or the pressure on the team. And sometimes, his unassuming presence was exactly what she needed – a reminder that there were still pockets of decency in a world that felt increasingly hostile.

It was during one of these visits to Kew, as Neville was excitedly showing her a newly sprouted patch of Bubotuber seedlings, that a Ministry owl found her.

Not the sleek, imperious owl that delivered Riddle’s missives, nor the harried, overworked bird that usually brought Harpies’ internal communications. This was a standard, brown Ministry owl, looking slightly flustered, as if it had been searching for her for some time.

Ginny’s heart lurched.

More bad news?

Another tightening of the screws?

The owl offered its leg.

The parchment was official, bearing the seal of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.

With trembling fingers, Ginny unrolled it, Neville watching her with concern.

Dear Miss Weasley,

Further to your formal statement of apology dated 17th of October,, and in light of ongoing observations regarding your conduct and commitment to your team, this Department has conferred with the League Commissioner’s Office and the management of the Holyhead Harpies.

We are pleased to inform you that a preliminary consensus has been reached regarding your current inactive roster status.

A formal review meeting has been scheduled for [date two weeks hence] at the Ministry, to discuss the potential parameters for your conditional reinstatement to active play.

Your attendance, along with that of your team captain, is required.

Further details regarding the specific conditions and expectations will be outlined at that meeting.

We trust your conduct will continue to reflect the highest professional standards in the interim.

Sincerely,

Ludo Bagman
Head, Department of Magical Games and Sports
(Countersigned by a representative of the League Commissioner’s Office)

Ginny stared at the parchment, reading it again, and then a third time, her mind struggling to process the words.

“Preliminary consensus…”

“Conditional reinstatement…”

“Review meeting scheduled…”

It wasn’t a guarantee.

It wasn’t an immediate lifting of the suspension. But it was… something.

A flicker of light at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

Riddle had kept his word. Or rather, he had “advised” the relevant parties, and those parties, predictably, had fallen into line.

She had apologized. She had kept her head down. And now, the bureaucratic wheels were beginning to turn, however slowly, in her favor.

A wave of relief, so profound it almost buckled her knees, washed over her. She let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding for weeks.

“Ginny? You alright?” Neville asked, peering at her worriedly, his hand hovering near a pot of vigorously writhing Devil’s Snare as if unsure whether to offer comfort or defend himself.

“I… I think so, Nev,” Ginny managed, a watery smile breaking through. She handed him the letter.

Neville read it, his brow furrowed in concentration, then his face broke into a wide, delighted grin. “Ginny! That’s… that’s brilliant! Reinstatement! Conditional, yes, but still!”

“Preliminary consensus for a review meeting to discuss potential parameters for conditional reinstatement,” Ginny corrected, the bureaucratic jargon already ingrained. “It’s not a done deal. But it’s… a chance.”

A chance.

After weeks of despair, of feeling trapped and powerless, that single word felt like a lifeline.

The relief was quickly followed by a surge of adrenaline, a renewed sense of purpose.

Two weeks.

Two weeks until the meeting.

Two weeks to continue proving she could adhere to the “highest professional standards.”

Two weeks to ensure she was physically and mentally ready to step back onto the pitch, if and when the opportunity finally came.

“I have to tell Gwenog,” Ginny said, already turning towards the exit of the greenhouse, the Bubotuber seedlings forgotten.

“Go!” Neville urged, beaming. “This is fantastic news! You deserve this, Ginny. You really do.”

Yes, it was good news. It was what she had worked for, what she had humbled herself for.

But it still felt… tainted.

This wasn't a victory earned through skill or determination on the pitch. This was a reprieve granted by the grace of Tom Riddle, a consequence of her carefully negotiated surrender.

He still held the strings.

He had allowed this.

And the conditions for her return, the "expectations" to be outlined at the meeting… she had a sinking feeling they would be as precise, as demanding, and as unyielding as the man himself.

Gwenog Jones read the official parchment from Bagman’s office twice, her expression unreadable. Ginny stood before her in the small, cluttered Harpies’ team office, perched nervously on the edge of a worn wooden chair, the scent of old leather and stale tea thick in the air.

She had Flooed directly to Holyhead after leaving Neville at Kew, the news from the Ministry too significant to relay via owl.

When Gwenog finally looked up, her gaze was direct, searching.

“Conditional reinstatement,” she said, tapping the parchment. “Preliminary consensus. Review meeting.” She paused. “Riddle kept his end of the bargain, then. Or at least, he’s letting the Ministry pretend they’re making the decision.”

Ginny nodded, unable to suppress a small surge of relief at Gwenog’s pragmatic assessment. No false congratulations, no naive assumptions. Just Gwenog, cutting straight to the heart of it. “It seems so, Captain.”

“Two weeks,” Gwenog mused, her eyes scanning the letter again. “And you have to attend with me. Bagman will be there, a League Commissioner drone, probably someone from Player Registration looking officious.”

She snorted. “And I’d bet my best broom Riddle himself will find a way to be… ‘observing in an advisory capacity’.”

Ginny’s stomach tightened at the thought. Another meeting. Another opportunity for Riddle to dissect her. But this time, it would be with Gwenog by her side. That, at least, felt like a small comfort.

“The ‘conditions and expectations’,” Gwenog continued, her voice dry, “I imagine those will be comprehensive.”

“I expect so,” Ginny admitted.

Gwenog leaned back in her creaky chair, studying Ginny intently. “You did what you had to do, Weasley. You swallowed your pride, you wrote that letter, you jumped through his hoops. And it seems to have nudged things. For now.”

She sighed, running a hand through her short hair. “Doesn’t mean I like it. Doesn’t mean I trust him an inch. But if this gets you back on a broom, playing for this team, without the whole bloody Ministry collapsing on our heads… then it’s a start.”

A start. Yes. That’s what it felt like. Not an end, but a precarious, conditional beginning.

“So,” Gwenog said, her tone shifting, becoming brisk, businesslike. “Two weeks. We need to make sure you’re not just ‘conditionally reinstated,’ but match-fit. Blindingly, undeniably match-fit. So fit, so sharp, that even Riddle’s stooges can’t find an excuse to keep you grounded.”

A spark ignited in Ginny’s chest, the familiar fire of determination, of purpose, rekindled by Gwenog’s words. “I’m ready, Captain.”

“Good.” A rare, almost fierce grin touched Gwenog’s lips. “Because from tomorrow, your ‘solitary conditioning’ is over. You’re back in full team practice. Drills, scrimmages, the whole bloody circus. We’ve got two weeks to get you back in sync with Griffiths and Lloyd, to remind Nia Jenkins what a reserve Chaser’s bench feels like, and to put the fear of Merlin back into the rest of this league.”

Back in full team practice.

The words were music.

“But Weasley,” Gwenog’s expression hardened again, her eyes like chips of flint. “One toe out of line – on the pitch, off the pitch, especially in any public forum or official Ministry setting – and this whole delicate house of cards comes tumbling down. Riddle will be watching. They’ll all be watching, looking for any excuse.”

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a low, intense whisper. “You keep that temper on a chain so short it chokes you. You smile, you nod, you offer polite, meaningless platitudes to anyone with a Ministry badge or a press pass. You fly like a sylph, and you score like a manticore. Understood?”

“Understood, Captain,” Ginny said, her voice ringing with a newfound resolve.

The conditions were harsh, the scrutiny would be intense. But the prize… the chance to play again, to fight for her team, to reclaim a part of herself… it was worth it.

The next two weeks were a blur of intense, focused activity.

Ginny threw herself into team practice with a ferocity that surprised even herself. The solitary conditioning had maintained her fitness, but the finely tuned instincts of a Chaser needed to be rehoned.

The first few days were clumsy, but slowly, it started to come back.

Rhiannon Griffiths and Megan Lloyd began to anticipate her moves again, their familiar three-Chaser weave reforming.

The joy of being back in the air, part of the team, was intoxicating.

Nia Jenkins accepted her return to the reserve bench with professionalism.

The atmosphere within the team gradually lightened, the Harpy spirit flickering back to life.

Off the pitch, Ginny was a model of quiet compliance. She avoided controversial situations and even managed a strained but civil nod to Percy in Diagon Alley.

The rune-embossed book from Riddle remained on her bedside table, unopened. Her focus was singular: the review meeting.

The day of the review meeting dawned grey and drizzly.

Ginny, in simple dark robes, met Gwenog at the Ministry.

The conference room was sterile, the air stale. Ludo Bagman presided, flanked by a stern League witch and Mr. Trimble from Player Registration. To Ginny’s relief, Riddle was absent.

The meeting began with Trimble’s tedious recitation of her transgressions and apology. Bagman then cleared his throat. “Yes, well… Miss Weasley, Captain Jones… we’ve reviewed the… unfortunate incident, your formal apology, and observations regarding Miss Weasley’s conduct… The consensus is that… a conditional reinstatement to active play may be considered.”

Ginny held her breath.

“However,” the League witch interjected, her voice crisp. “This reinstatement comes with strict, non-negotiable conditions, primarily focusing on your professional conduct and public representation.”

She slid a piece of parchment across the table.

“Firstly, Miss Weasley, you will be placed on formal probation for the remainder of the current Quidditch season. Any substantiated instance of on-pitch aggression exceeding League regulations, or any public outburst deemed unsportsmanlike or detrimental to the League's image, will result in immediate and permanent revocation of your playing license.”

This was clearer, more focused on her actual role as a player.

“Secondly,” she continued, “all press engagement must be managed through official team channels. Any interviews, statements, or public appearances related to your League participation must be pre-approved by Harpies management and the League office. This is to ensure consistent and professional messaging.”

A gag order regarding League matters, but not an impossible restriction on her entire life.

“Thirdly, you will be required to participate in a series of League-mandated professional conduct workshops focusing on conflict resolution and public representation for athletes. Attendance and active participation are mandatory.”

Workshops, not mind-healer sessions. More about professional decorum than psychological evaluation, which felt less invasive.

“And finally,” the witch concluded, her gaze firm, “any future formal complaints or grievances you wish to raise regarding League matters, or indeed concerning any Ministry official in their official capacity relating to the League, must be channeled exclusively through your team captain and official Harpies management to the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Direct, unchanneled approaches to Ministry personnel on such matters will be viewed as a breach of this probation.”

This was the key restriction related to the Ministry, but it was framed around official League business and official capacity.

It didn't explicitly forbid her from speaking to her father about his day or bumping into Percy, but it clearly aimed to prevent her from, for example, cornering Bagman again or trying to take her complaints about Riddle directly to another Ministry department.

It was about respecting the hierarchy and official processes, especially when it involved complaints against influential figures.

The witch looked from Ginny to Gwenog. “Are these conditions understood and accepted?”

Gwenog spoke first. “The Holyhead Harpies understand and accept these conditions. We will ensure Miss Weasley adheres to them.”

She gave Ginny a subtle, warning look.

Ginny nodded, her throat tight. “Yes. I understand. And I accept.”

The conditions were still restrictive, still a reminder of her precarious position, but they felt… more manageable. More focused on her role as a player and less like an attempt to control every aspect of her personal interactions.

“Very well,” Bagman said, looking relieved. “Then, Miss Weasley, effective immediately, your suspension is lifted. You are conditionally reinstated to the Holyhead Harpies active roster.”

He managed a weak smile. “Welcome back. Try to ensure your… passion… remains on the pitch, eh?”

It was done.

Conditional, probational, but she was back.

Walking out of the Ministry with Gwenog, the grey London drizzle felt almost refreshing.

“Professional conduct workshops,” Gwenog snorted. “Probably run by some Ministry drone who thinks a Bludger is a type of pastry. Still, better than having your head shrunk.”

“And no more ‘unsolicited contact’ about League matters,” Ginny mused, a ghost of her old smirk returning. “So, if Riddle happens to be discussing dragon dung disposal with Dad at the Ministry canteen, I can still say hello?”

Gwenog clapped her on the shoulder. “Just don’t start critiquing his dragon dung disposal techniques, Weasley. Or his taste in robes. Stick to Quidditch. And for Merlin’s sake, fly like the wind and score like your life depends on it. Because right now, it probably does.”

Her expression turned serious. “But those conditions… they’re still a tightrope. He’ll still be watching for any misstep, any excuse to bring the hammer down again. Don’t give him one.”

“I know,” Ginny said, her own smile fading. “But I’m back on the team, Captain. That’s all that matters right now.”

And it was. For now.

The return to full team status was… strange.

Her teammates welcomed her back, not with fanfare, but with almost wary acceptance.

Nia Jenkins gracefully ceded the starting Chaser position, her relief palpable.

The first practice session as an officially reinstated player felt like a rebirth.

The Quaffle in her hand, the wind in her hair, the familiar calls of Rhiannon and Megan beside her – it was like coming home.

She played with a fierce, controlled intensity, channeling all her frustration, all her anger, all her relief, into every pass, every feint, every shot.

She was still Ginny Weasley, fiery and aggressive. But there was a new layer now, a hard-won discipline, a keen awareness of the consequences of losing control.

The Harpies had a match against the Falmouth Falcons the following Saturday – a home game.

The Falcons were known for their acrobatic Seeker and a solid, if somewhat unimaginative, defensive line. They weren't top-tier, but they were consistent, disciplined, and would exploit any weakness. It wouldn’t be an easy return, especially with the Harpies still trying to recover their form and morale.

The week leading up to the match was a blur of intense training, tactical briefings, and Ginny’s first, awkward session with the League-mandated professional conduct workshop – a rather dry affair led by a Ministry official who seemed to believe all Quidditch-related aggression could be solved with better flowcharting.

Ginny found it utterly pointless but endured it with polite patience.

The night before the Falcons match, as she lay in her narrow bed in her London flat, the rune-embossed book Riddle had lent her caught her eye.

It still sat on her bedside table, unopened.

Now that her reinstatement was official, now that she had a path forward, however conditional… perhaps it was time.

Not as an assignment from him, not as a concession. But out of her own stubborn curiosity.

To see what secrets it held.

To try and understand, just a little, the mind of the man who had so profoundly, so infuriatingly, altered the course of her life.

She picked it up, the ancient leather cool against her palm.

With a deep breath, Ginny Weasley opened the book.

The weeks following Ginny Weasley’s conditional reinstatement were, for Tom Riddle, a period of intense, if outwardly unremarkable, activity.

She had capitulated.

She had delivered the required apology.

She was now operating under strict, Ministry-approved probation.

The matter was, for all intents and purposes, resolved.

He had, of course, ensured that the terms of her probation were comprehensive yet focused primarily on her professional conduct within the League.

There was no need for overly broad restrictions that might invite accusations of vindictiveness or personal vendetta.

The aim had been control, order, and the cessation of her disruptive influence, not gratuitous punishment.

He had no time for such emotional indulgences.

His schedule, as Pringle could attest with weary accuracy, remained “fully allocated.”

The Dragon Containment Protocols, after much inter-departmental wrangling and Riddle’s discreet but firm guidance, were finally nearing consensus.

The new oversight sub-committee, populated by individuals Riddle had carefully vetted for their pragmatism and amenability was poised to assume its responsibilities.

The legislative proposals he had been advising on were moving through the Wizengamot sub-committees. His suggested amendments were being incorporated, strengthening Ministry powers in areas of surveillance, artifact control, and emergency response.

He wasn't rewriting the laws, merely refining their potential applications.

His review of the Ministry’s long-range communication networks continued, yielding valuable insights into information flow and potential vulnerabilities. He had identified several outdated warding schemes and proposed upgrades that would, coincidentally, grant his advisory office prioritized access to certain secure channels during “times of inter-departmental crisis.”

Knowledge, as always, was power, and controlling the flow of knowledge was a fundamental aspect of that power.

The Magical Artefact Provenance Committee meetings provided a stream of intellectual stimulation. hHe found a certain detached pleasure in unraveling the complex histories of ancient artifacts, deciphering obscure ownership claims, and identifying potential magical properties that previous generations had overlooked or deliberatelyconcealed. It was a meticulous, scholarly pursuit, far removed from the crass realities of Ministry politics, yet yielding insights that could prove invaluable.

One particularly intriguing case involved a set of obsidian scrying bowls rumored to have belonged to Herpo the Foul.

The official Ministry records were incomplete, contradictory. Riddle was patiently cross-referencing ancient texts, deciphering fragmented runic inscriptions, and subtly guiding the Committee’s inquiries towards a conclusion that might conveniently leave the bowls’ true potential unremarked upon in the final report, perhaps allowing for their later private study.

His private endeavors also continued apace.

Consultations with Abraxas Malfoy regarding the acquisition of certain rare texts – texts that would never appear on any Ministry library log – were proving fruitful.

His inner circle met discreetly, their loyalty cultivated through a mixture of shared ideology, fear, and the promise of future influence. He was building a network, a cadre of loyal, capable individuals who understood his vision for a more ordered, more powerful wizarding world, a world where sentimentality and Muggle-coddling were relics of a weaker age.

And always, in the quiet hours before dawn, in the absolute privacy of his warded study, there was the deeper research.

The pursuit of knowledge.

The exploration of magic in its most fundamental, most potent forms.

The meticulous unraveling of secrets that promised permanence.

Compared to these grand, long-term strategic objectives, the Weasley girl’s temporary disruption was a footnote.

He had dealt with her. She was contained.

He had, of course, received reports from his various discreet channels within the Ministry and the Quidditch League.

Her public apology, delivered as per his precise instructions.

Her conditional reinstatement, the terms of which he had indirectly shaped.

Her return to Harpies’ practice, her subsequent participation in matches.

He even received, via a particularly junior clerk in the Department of Magical Games and Sports who sought to curry favor, copies of the official match reports detailing her performance.

Three goals against the Falmouth Falcons in her return match.

A crucial assist in the narrow victory over the Chudley Cannons.

A more subdued, disciplined style of play, though flashes of the old fire remained.

Fewer penalties. No public outbursts.

She was adhering to the terms of her probation. As expected.

He hadn’t attended any of her subsequent matches. There was no need. His point had been made. His control asserted.

Her continued presence on the Quidditch pitch was now contingent upon her good behavior.

He barely thought of her.

Except…

Occasionally, late at night, when the demands of Ministry reports and strategic planning momentarily receded, a fleeting image would intrude.

Her flushed, furious face in his office, inches from his own.

The surprisingly soft texture of her skin beneath his fingers as he’d brushed away the mud.

The defiant spark in her eyes, even when trapped, disarmed, threatened.

These were… anomalies.

Unwelcome, irrational intrusions into his meticulously ordered thoughts.

He dismissed them as residual biochemical reactions, the lingering echoes of a distasteful but necessary confrontation.

He was not a man given to sentimental reflection or emotional entanglement.

And yet…

The rune-embossed book.

He had lent it to her.

Why?

He had rationalized it at the time as an "assignment," a way to further assert his intellectual superiority, to offer a condescending glimpse into a world she couldn't comprehend.

But there had been more to it than that, he knew, with a dispassionate self-awareness that was, in itself, unsettling.

Her unexpected question about his reading, her crude but surprisingly insightful accusation of him being a “nerd”… it had momentarily breached his defenses.

It had appealed, however briefly, to the scholar within him, the obsessive seeker of knowledge who rarely found anyone capable of even glimpsing the scope of his intellectual pursuits.

He hadn't expected her to understand the book. He hadn't expected her to even open it.

It was a complex treatise on the resonance of ancient runic structures, drawing on obscure Sumerian and Egyptian magical theories. Hardly light reading for a Quidditch Chaser.

But the gesture itself… it had been uncharacteristic.

A deviation from his usual methods of control and dismissal.

He found himself, occasionally, wondering if she had opened it.

Not out of any concern for her intellectual development, certainly. But out of a detached, academic curiosity.

Would she be baffled?

Frustrated?

Would she toss it aside in disgust?

Or would that stubborn, infuriating persistence she had demonstrated in her confrontations, in her clumsy attempts at bureaucratic engagement, somehow translate into an equally stubborn attempt to decipher its meaning?

Unlikely.

But the thought lingered, a tiny, unacknowledged question mark in the periphery of his mind.

Chapter Text

The Falmouth Falcons match was a brutal, bruising affair.

Ginny, back in her Harpy green and gold, felt the familiar surge of adrenaline as she kicked off, the roar of the home crowd a welcome balm after weeks of silence. The Quaffle felt like an extension of her hand, the Comet Two Ninety responding to her every command.

She played with a controlled fury, every pass precise, every feint sharp, every shot on goal delivered with blistering power.

The probation, the workshops, Riddle’s looming shadow – she pushed it all to the back of her mind. On the pitch, there was only the game.

She scored the first goal within minutes, a driving run that left two Falcons Chasers floundering. The satisfaction was immense, pure, uncomplicated.

The Falcons, sensing the Harpies’ recent fragility, fought back hard. Their defensive line was solid, their Beaters relentless.

Ginny took several hard knocks, the familiar ache of impact a welcome reminder that she was back where she belonged.

She scored twice more, her aggression channeled, her focus absolute. She didn't rise to the bait when a Falcons Chaser deliberately clipped her, didn't retaliate when an errant Bludger grazed her shoulder. Gwenog’s warnings echoed in her ears: “Keep that temper on a chain so short it chokes you.”

The Harpies won, narrowly, 170-140, Valmai snatching the Snitch just as the Falcons were threatening a comeback. The relief in the changing room afterwards was palpable.

Gwenog even managed a tight, approving nod in Ginny’s direction.

It wasn’t a triumphant victory, but it was a victory.

A step back from the brink.

The Chudley Cannons match the following week was a different beast entirely. Away, against a notoriously scrappy team desperate for points, the game was a chaotic mess of fouls, near-misses, and questionable refereeing.

Ginny found herself constantly marked, her every move anticipated. She didn’t score, her shots blocked, her runs intercepted. Frustration simmered, the old temper threatening to flare. She remembered the conditions of her probation. She swallowed it down, channeling it into even fiercer defensive play, into creating openings for Rhiannon and Megan.

It was a brutal, attritional game, the score seesawing back and forth.

The Cannons, buoyed by their vociferous home crowd, played with a manic energy that bordered on reckless.

In the final, nerve-shredding minutes, with the score tied, Ginny drew two defenders with a desperate feint near the Cannons’ goalposts. Just as she was about to be flattened, she managed a near-impossible reverse pass through the tangle of bodies.

Rhiannon, anticipating the move, snatched it from the air and slammed it home.

The whistle blew moments later as Valmai, after a frantic chase through a barrage of enchanted orange smoke bombs from the Cannons’ supporters, managed to secure the Snitch by the tips of her fingers, inches ahead of the Cannons’ Seeker.

The Harpies had won.

190-180.

An ugly, hard-fought, desperately needed victory.

The relief in the changing room was less jubilant this time, more a weary, grateful exhaustion.

Gwenog, while still critical of the sloppy play and near-disaster, acknowledged the grit they’d shown. "Ugly wins still count," she'd grunted, though her eyes held a flicker of grudging respect for their tenacity.

Ginny felt the victory keenly, but the familiar sting of not scoring herself, of relying on that single, desperate assist, lingered. Her controlled aggression had helped, but it still felt like she was playing with one hand tied behind her back.

Life settled into a new, if precarious, rhythm.

Practice. Physio. Team meetings. Travel. Matches.

The professional conduct workshops, which Ginny endured with outward politeness while inwardly dissecting the Ministry official’s appalling lack of understanding of Quidditch dynamics.

She was back in her element, immersed in the world she loved.

The ache of her suspension was fading, replaced by the familiar aches of a Chaser in mid-season – bruised ribs, sore shoulders, the satisfying exhaustion after a hard-won game.

And yet…

Something had shifted within her, a subtle recalibration of her internal landscape.

The rune-embossed book Riddle had lent her still sat on her bedside table.

For the first week after her reinstatement, she had ignored it. The memory of their encounter in his study, the unsettling intimacy, the sheer audacity of his “assignment” – it had been too raw, too confusing.

She had focused on Quidditch, on proving she deserved to be back on the team, on adhering to the myriad conditions of her probation.

But the book remained, a reproachful presence.

It wasn’t Riddle’s condescending challenge alone that drew her to it, though her pride still bristled at the memory.

It was something deeper, something inherently Ginny.

She was fiercely competitive. Not just on the Quidditch pitch, but in life.

Riddle had thrown down a gauntlet, however subtly, by giving her that book. He had implied she wouldn't understand it, that it was beyond her "narrow intellectual horizons."

That was a challenge she, Ginny Weasley, found increasingly difficult to ignore.

To leave it unread felt like conceding a point to him, admitting he was right about her.

Furthermore, Ginny possessed a stubborn, almost reckless curiosity, especially when told something was beyond her or when she sensed a mystery.

Riddle,with his secrets and his unnerving assertions about enduring knowledge, was the biggest mystery she had ever encountered.

This book felt like a piece of that puzzle, a clue, however obscure.

To ignore it felt like deliberately turning away from a hidden path, and Ginny, despite her practical nature, had always been drawn to the less-trodden ways.

She also had a core of defiance that ran bone-deep.

Riddle expected her to be baffled, to give up. He expected her to remain “just an athlete.”

Part of her wanted to prove him wrong, not necessarily to impress him, but to satisfy her own stubborn refusal to be so easily categorized and dismissed.

If he thought this knowledge was so powerful, so foundational, then why shouldn't she try to understand it?

What gave him the exclusive right to such understanding?

Finally, there was the unsettling encounter in his study. His words about "enduring," about "shaping reality," had hinted at ambitions far beyond the Ministry. That, combined with Percy's notes and her own suspicions about Myrtle Warren, painted a disturbing picture.

This book, filled with ancient magical theory, felt connected to that darkness, to the source of his power. Understanding even a fraction of it might offer some insight into what she was truly up against, not just in terms of Ministry politics.

It wasn't about becoming a scholar; it was about arming herself with knowledge, however rudimentary, against an opponent whose true capabilities she was only beginning to glimpse.

So, one evening, after a particularly grueling practice where every muscle screamed in protest, she found herself too keyed up to sleep, too restless to simply stare at the ceiling. The usual remedies – a hot bath, a mindless Quidditch magazine – felt inadequate.

Her gaze fell on the rune-embossed book.

With a sigh that was part resignation, part defiant curiosity, she picked it up.

The ancient leather felt cool and smooth beneath her fingertips. She opened it, bracing herself for the wave of incomprehension she remembered from her first brief glance.

The spidery script, the intricate diagrams, the language – it was still daunting.

But this time, she didn’t slam it shut.

She found a piece of scrap parchment, a battered quill. She started at the beginning.

The first chapter was titled, in faded, elegant script: “De Resonantia Symbolorum Antiquorum” – Of the Resonance of Ancient Symbols.

It began with a dense, philosophical discussion of magic as a fundamental universal constant, not a collection of spells, but an interconnected web of energies.

It spoke of runes not merely as an alphabet, but as keys, conduits, capable of attuning to and manipulating these energies, if their “true resonant frequencies” were understood.

Ginny’s head swam.

Her OWL in Ancient Runes had been about translation, about recognizing historical scripts.

This was… something else entirely.

This was magical physics, magical philosophy.

She painstakingly copied out a particularly complex diagram depicting a series of interlocking circles, each inscribed with unfamiliar runic sequences, connected by lines that seemed to represent flows of energy.

Arrows indicated direction, intensity.

Celestial symbols – moons, stars, planetary alignments – were woven into the design.

She didn’t understand it. Not really.

Tthe act of copying it, of tracing the lines, of trying to decipher the individual runes, was… absorbing. It required intense concentration, a different kind of focus than tracking a Bludger or anticipating a pass.

It was like trying to solve a complex puzzle, one where the pieces were written in a language she barely knew.

She looked up unfamiliar terms in her old Hogwarts textbooks, but they offered little help. “Thaumaturgical amplification,” “celestial congruencies,” “sympathetic resonance grids” – these were not concepts covered in standard Ministry-approved curricula.

The next day, during a break in practice, while Rhiannon and Megan were dissecting their strategy for the upcoming Puddlemere United match (a notoriously defensive team), Ginny found herself staring at the diagram she’d copied, a frown of concentration on her face.

Her mind wasn't on Puddlemere's defensive formations; it was trying to make sense of the interlocking circles and cryptic symbols.

“Lost in thought, Weasley?” Gwenog’s voice startled her. Her captain stood beside her, a water bottle in hand, her expression unreadable.

Ginny quickly shoved the parchment under her practice robes. “Just… thinking about Puddlemere’s defensive shell, Captain. Trying to figure out how to crack it.”

A plausible lie, given their next opponents.

Gwenog grunted. “Good. We need more thinking, less… whatever that was against the Cannons.” She took a swig of water, her gaze lingering on Ginny for a moment before she moved on to address the rest of the team.

The lie felt uncomfortable.

She wasn’t used to hiding things, especially not things that consumed her thoughts.

But how could she explain this sudden, inexplicable interest in ancient magical theory to Gwenog, or to anyone?

They’d think she’d finally cracked under the pressure.

Her trips to Flourish and Blotts became more frequent, her focus shifting from the Quidditch aisle to the dusty, neglected sections at the back of the shop.

She started small.

“A Beginner’s Compendium of Runic Alphabets,” “Divination through Celestial Alignments: An Introduction,” “Basic Principles of Thaumaturgical Theory.”

The shop assistants, who had previously seen her only grabbing the latest Quidditch biographies, now watched with bemused curiosity as she accumulated stacks of these obscure, academic tomes.

“Developing a new hobby, Miss Weasley?” one of them, a young wizard with ink-stained fingers, had asked, trying to make conversation as he rang up her purchases.

“Something like that,” Ginny had mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

She wasn’t becoming a scholar.

She wasn’t trying to master this knowledge.

She told herself she was just… trying to understand the vocabulary. Trying to find a Rosetta Stone for Riddle’s incomprehensible book.

She would sit in her small flat for hours in the evenings, surrounded by borrowed library books and her own painstakingly copied notes, cross-referencing, comparing, trying to decipher the dense prose of the rune-embossed volume.

It was like chipping away at a mountain with a teaspoon.

But slowly, agonizingly, fragments began to make a strange kind of sense.

The “resonant properties” seemed to refer to how certain runic combinations, when precisely aligned and perhaps imbued with specific intent, could attract or repel certain types of magical energy.

The “celestial congruencies” appeared to link these runic alignments to the movements of planets and stars, suggesting that the efficacy of certain operations was dependent on timing, on cosmic alignments.

The “thaumaturgical amplification” was about using these resonant grids, these celestial alignments, to magnify the power of focused will, to achieve effects far beyond standard spellcasting.

This wasn’t just about understanding ancient symbols; it was about manipulating the fundamental forces of magic itself.

It was about power.

A different kind of power than she had ever conceived of.

Not the power of a well-aimed Bludger, or a perfectly executed Sloth Grip Roll.

But the power to… shape reality. As Riddle had said.

The realization, when it began to truly dawn on her, was deeply unsettling.

She wasn't just deciphering an academic treatise.

She was gaining a glimpse into the mindset of someone whose ambitions stretched far beyond the confines of the Ministry, far beyond the known limits of conventional magic.

What had driven him to seek out this knowledge?

What did he intend to do with it?

His words in his study – “I intend to endure” – took on a new, more sinister resonance.

Was this book, this ancient, obscure knowledge, a key to that “endurance”?

A path to… what?

Immortality? 

The thought was preposterous, the stuff of dark legends and cautionary tales whispered by nervous Hogwarts professors.

And yet…

The more she delved into the periphery of the concepts hinted at in Riddle’s book, the more she felt she was standing on the edge of a precipice, looking down into an abyss of power and ambition that was both terrifying and strangely compelling.

She wasn’t becoming obsessed with the book itself.

She was becoming obsessed with the questions it raised.

Questions about Tom Riddle.

About the nature of his power.

About the true extent of his ambition.

About the darkness that lay hidden beneath his polished facade.

What had he done to her?

He had, in his own infuriating, condescending way, cracked open a door to a world she hadn’t known existed.

He had planted a seed of curiosity, a hunger for understanding, that she couldn’t seem to ignore.

He had, perhaps inadvertently, given her a new, far more dangerous game to play.

Not on the Quidditch pitch, but in the realms of forbidden knowledge and unspoken ambitions.

December’s chill had settled over London, bringing with it a lull in the Harpies’ match schedule but no real respite from the relentless training.

Gwenog, determined to claw back their season from the brink, pushed them harder than ever.

Ginny, playing under the tight leash of her probation, channeled her frustrations into blistering shots and impeccable discipline.

The Harpies were slowly, painfully, starting to win again.

One grey Tuesday, after a particularly brutal practice session focused on breaking down Puddlemere United’s notoriously impenetrable defensive formations (their next match, looming in early January), Gwenog pulled Ginny aside in the team office.

“Weasley,” she began, her tone brisk, all business. “Got a job for you. And before you ask, yes, it involves the Ministry.”

Ginny’s stomach tightened. “What kind of job?”

“Parchment-pushing,” Gwenog said, gesturing towards a thick stack of forms on her cluttered desk. “Revised player registration updates, equipment compliance declarations for the new League safety protocols, and the blasted travel stipend applications for the second half of the season. They’re all due at the Department of Magical Games and Sports by end of day tomorrow. And they need to be hand-delivered, triple-stamped, and probably sung to sleep by a Ministry-approved lullaby, knowing those bureaucratic blighters.”

She sighed, rubbing her temples. “Normally, Cadwallader would handle this, but he’s off schmoozing some potential new broom sponsor in Dublin. And frankly, after the last few fiascos, I want someone who actually understands Quidditch and Ministry red tape to make sure these don’t get ‘lost in transit’ or ‘incorrectly filed’.”

She fixed Ginny with a pointed look. “You know the Ministry layout. And,” she added, a faint, almost challenging glint in her eye, “you’re currently on probation, which means you’re highly motivated to be the absolute model of polite, efficient, non-controversial Ministry engagement. Right?”

Ginny nodded slowly, understanding dawning.

This wasn’t just about delivering paperwork.

A chance for her to demonstrate her newfound commitment to “professional conduct” within the very walls where she had previously caused so much chaos.

“Right, Captain,” she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “I can handle it.”

“Good,” Gwenog said, a hint of relief in her voice. “Megan Lloyd will go with you.”

Ginny blinked.

Megan? Her fellow Chaser was reliable, level-headed, but not exactly known for her love of Ministry bureaucracy.

Gwenog saw her surprise.

“Team bonding,” she said, her expression carefully neutral. “And, you know, two heads are better than one when deciphering Ministry forms. Besides,” – her gaze sharpened – “it’s always good to have a responsible teammate along for official Ministry visits. To ensure everything proceeds… smoothly.”

Ah. So that was it.

Megan wasn’t just company; she was Ginny’s unofficial probation officer, her accountability partner, tasked with ensuring Ginny didn’t, for instance, decide to pay another unscheduled, furious visit to a certain Senior Advisor’s office.

The unspoken message was clear.

Ginny suppressed a sigh.

Fair enough. She’d earned the lack of trust.

The next morning, Ginny and Megan, both dressed in respectable, non-Quidditch attire, flooed to the Ministry Atrium. The stack of official Harpies’ parchment felt heavy in Ginny’s satchel.

The Department of Magical Games and Sports was, predictably, a chaotic hive of activity. It took them nearly an hour of being shunted from one indifferent underling to another before they finally managed to submit the Harpies’ paperwork to the correct, overworked junior administrator.

“Right,” Ginny said to Megan as they finally escaped. “Paperwork submitted. Now, I was thinking of popping down to see Dad. Haven’t seen him properly since… well... everything. And his office is practically on the way to the Apparition points.”

Megan, clearly relieved to be free of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, readily agreed. “Lead on. Anywhere’s better than that paper-pushers’ paradise.”

Arthur Weasley’s office, tucked away in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts department on one of the lower levels, was a small, cluttered haven of Muggle oddities and patient tinkering.

Enchanted toasters whirred softly, rubber ducks quacked intermittently, and stacks of Muggle magazines threatened to topple from every surface.

They found Arthur peering intently at a Muggle device that looked suspiciously like a self-stirring teacup, a frown of concentration on his face.

He looked up as they entered, his face breaking into a warm smile. “Ginny! Megan! What a lovely surprise! Come in, come in! Mind the enchanted kettle, it’s been a bit temperamental this morning.”

Before Ginny could reply, another voice, familiar and fussy, chimed in from behind a particularly tall stack of Muggle instruction manuals. “Honestly, Dad, you really must catalogue these contraptions more efficiently. The cross-referencing system is entirely inadequate.”

Percy Weasley emerged, looking distinctly out of place amidst the Muggle clutter in his pristine Ministry robes, a clipboard clutched in his hand. He blinked in surprise upon seeing Ginny and Megan.

“Oh,” Ginny said, a wide, slightly challenging grin spreading across her face. “Well, look at this. A veritable Weasley family reunion in the heart of the Ministry. What brings you slumming it down here in the land of bewitched blenders, Perce? Run out of important regulations to draft upstairs?”

Percy’s face tightened. “I am assisting Father with a departmental audit of artifact acquisition protocols, Ginevra,” he said stiffly. “A vital task to ensure compliance with Ministry efficiency standards. Unlike some, I take my responsibilities seriously.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” Ginny retorted, her grin not wavering. “Probably got a color-coded chart for the correct way to enchant a rubber duck, haven’t you?”

Arthur chuckled, stepping between them. “Now, now, you two. Percy is being a great help. Though,” he added, winking at Ginny, “I think he’s still a bit baffled by the internal combustion engine.”

He turned to Ginny. “It’s wonderful to see you, dear. Though I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time. I’ve just been summoned to an urgent inter-departmental briefing on… well, it’s rather complicated, something about enchanted garden gnomes being used as unlicensed security devices in Muggle suburbs. I have to dash.”

He gathered a sheaf of notes, looking flustered. “Percy, can you see your sister and Megan out? Make sure they find the lifts alright?”

“Of course, Father,” Percy said, with an air of put-upon responsibility.

Arthur gave Ginny a quick hug. “Good to see you looking… well, Ginny. Keep your chin up.”

He offered a polite nod to Megan and hurried out of the office, muttering about rogue gnomes and zoning violations.

A slightly awkward silence descended, broken only by the intermittent quacking of a rubber duck.

“Right then,” Ginny said, turning to Percy with a challenging glint in her eye. “Lead on, esteemed Junior Assistant Secretary. Show us the way out of this Muggle-infested labyrinth before we accidentally activate a charmed washing machine and flood the entire department.”

Percy sighed, the long-suffering sigh of an older brother burdened with an irrepressibly sarcastic younger sister. “Honestly, Ginny. Must you always be so dramatic?” He gestured curtly towards the door. “This way. And try not to touch anything. Some of these items are deceptively volatile.”

They walked out into the corridor, Megan trailing slightly behind, looking amused by the sibling banter.

“So, Perce,” Ginny continued as they headed towards the lifts, “still enjoying life rubbing shoulders with the important and influential? Making sure Minister Fudge’s tea is brewed to the precise regulation temperature?”

“My work is of significant importance to the smooth functioning of this Ministry, Ginevra,” Percy retorted, his back stiffening. “Unlike some who seem to specialize in creating… public disturbances.”

“Ah, yes,” Ginny said cheerfully. “Still causing ripples in the hallowed halls, is it? Good to know I’ve made a lasting impression.”

“A lasting impression of recklessness and unprofessionalism,” Percy corrected, his voice tight. “You’re lucky Mr. Riddle didn’t press for more severe sanctions. You have no idea how much diplomatic effort was required by some of us to ensure the matter was contained.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Diplomatic effort? From you, Perce? Or did you just offer to reorganize his sock drawer as a gesture of goodwill?”

“I will not dignify that with a response,” Percy sniffed, jabbing the lift button with unnecessary force.

The lift arrived, empty.

They stepped inside, Megan still trying to suppress a grin.

“Just saying, Perce,” Ginny continued, leaning against the lift wall, “for someone so obsessed with rules and regulations, you seem remarkably comfortable with the kind of ‘influence’ some people use it for. Doesn’t it ever bother you? The way things really work around here? Backroom deals, the convenient ‘misunderstandings’ that always seem to benefit the powerful?”

Percy’s face flushed slightly. “Mr. Riddle is a highly effective administrator. He achieves results. The Ministry needs strong leadership, clear direction. Sometimes decisions are necessary for the greater good.”

Ginny considered her next words carefully.

The conditions of her probation explicitly forbade raising grievances about Ministry officials directly or in a manner detrimental to the League's image.

Bantering with Percy, in the privacy of a lift with only her teammate as a witness, about the general nature of Ministry power dynamics, while certainly pushing the boundaries of “polite, efficient, non-controversial Ministry engagement,” didn’t feel like a direct, formal complaint against Riddle himself or a public outburst.

It was more a cynical observation, a jab at Percy’s perceived naivety.

Still, she knew she was treading a fine line.

She kept her tone light, almost teasing, rather than accusatory.

“The greater good,” Ginny echoed thoughtfully, a slight, almost imperceptible smirk playing on her lips. “Funny, that. Often a convenient justification when things get a bit murky, wouldn't you say?”

The lift shuddered to a halt.

The doors slid open onto Level Two. The Advisor’s Corridor.

Standing just outside the lift, deep in quiet conversation with a stern-faced, robed wizard Ginny didn’t recognize, was Tom Riddle.

Dressed in his usual impeccable Ministry robes, dark hair perfectly styled, his expression one of focused attentiveness as he listened to the other wizard. He held a slim, leather-bound portfolio.

The stern-faced wizard, clearly junior to Riddle despite his age, nodded deferentially, said something in a low voice, then turned and walked briskly down the corridor, disappearing into one of the unmarked office doors.

Riddle remained standing there for a moment, his gaze following the departing wizard, his expression thoughtful. Then, as if sensing their presence, he turned his head.

His dark eyes met Ginny’s.

There was no surprise in his expression. Only a cool, assessing acknowledgement.

Percy, who had maintained a posture of rigid, uncomfortable neutrality throughout the short lift ride, seized the opportunity for a swift, professional exit. He stepped out smoothly, then, remembering the protocol due to a Senior Advisor, offered Riddle a crisp, formal nod.

“Mr. Riddle,” Percy said, his voice perfectly modulated, betraying none of the internal anxiety his sister’s presence clearly caused him. 

Riddle inclined his head fractionally, a noncommittal acknowledgement. He didn’t speak.

Percy, ever mindful of appearances and the potential for his sister to cause further disruption to his carefully cultivated Ministry reputation, then cast a brief, pointed look at Ginny.

It was a look that conveyed a severe, older-brotherly disapproval, an admonishment to conduct herself with decorum and to cease being a source of familial embarrassment within these hallowed halls.

Having delivered this silent reprimand, he turned on his heel and strode purposefully down the Advisor’s Corridor, his posture impeccable, clearly heading towards some important, regulation-related task that demanded his meticulous attention.

Tom Riddle, Ginny noted with a flicker of grim amusement, observed everything. His dark eyes had registered Percy’s swift departure and the almost imperceptible glance of disapproval directed at Ginny, one eyebrow arching slightly in what might have been detached, clinical interest in the dynamics of Weasley sibling interactions.

The lift doors slid shut, encasing Ginny, Megan, and Riddle in an awkward silence. The gentle hum of the lift’s enchantments seemed unnaturally loud.

Ginny kept her gaze fixed firmly on the scrolling floor indicator, acutely aware of Riddle standing just a few feet away, his presence radiating heavy aura and unnerving stillness. She could feel Megan beside her, practically holding her breath, radiating nervousness.

The descent to the Atrium felt like an eternity.

When the golden grilles finally slid open, revealing the bustling main floor of the Ministry, Riddle stepped out first.

He paused for a moment, adjusting the leather portfolio under his arm, then offered a brief, impersonal nod in Ginny’s general direction – a gesture so devoid of warmth or personal recognition it barely qualified as a farewell – before turning and striding purposefully across the marble floor towards one of the less-travelled archways leading to a different section of the Ministry.

He didn’t look back.

The moment his imposing figure disappeared from view, Megan let out a breath she seemed to have been holding for the entire lift ride, a sound like a deflating Bludger.

“Merlin’s beard…” she began, then caught herself, glancing around the crowded Atrium. “Well. That was… tense. I think I prefer facing a Bludger barrage from the Ballycastle Bats. Less chance of spontaneous combustion from sheer awkwardness.”

Ginny managed a weak chuckle, though her own heart was still hammering from the unexpected proximity. “Tell me about it. You’d think after everything, I’d be used to him by now.”

“Used to him?” Megan stared at her. “Ginny, no one gets ‘used to’ Tom Riddle. He’s like… a perfectly tailored thunderstorm. You just try to find sturdy cover and hope you don’t get struck by lightning.” She shivered dramatically.

“Right. Public Floo points are this way. Let’s get out of here before he changes his mind and decides our very presence offends his sense of order.” She started to move towards the designated Apparition and Floo area, clearly eager to put as much distance as possible between herself and the Ministry.

Ginny, however, hesitated.

Something had shifted during that brief lift ride.

Riddle’s expression when he’d seen Percy’s disapproving glance. That detached amusement.

The way he hadn’t addressed her directly, hadn’t even seemed particularly bothered by her presence beyond the initial acknowledgement.

It was almost as if… he was adhering to the terms of their truce as strictly as she was.

Maintaining a professional distance, avoiding unnecessary engagement.

And the book.

The rune-embossed book still sat on her bedside table, mostly unread beyond those initial, frustrating attempts at deciphering its dense prose.

His “assignment.”

His condescending challenge to broaden her “narrow intellectual horizons.”

She had intended to ignore it, to focus solely on Quidditch, on fulfilling the conditions of her probation.

But his unexpected presence in the lift, the fleeting glimpse of the man behind the Ministry mask, the lingering mystery of his true ambitions… 

If their truce meant a cessation of overt hostilities, if it meant a return to a semblance of normalcy, however conditional… did it also mean she could, perhaps, engage with him on a different level?

Not as a defiant antagonist, not as a supplicant, but as… something else?

“Megan,” Ginny said, her voice suddenly firm, making her teammate pause. “You go on ahead. I… I actually need to have a quick word with Mr. Riddle.”

Megan spun around, her eyes wide with disbelief, then horror. “A word? With him? Ginny, are you completely insane? After everything? After Gwenog’s warnings? After your probation specifically states no ‘direct, unchanneled approaches to Ministry personnel’?”

“This isn’t about League matters,” Ginny said quickly, trying to reassure her, though her own heart was starting to pound with a mixture of trepidation and reckless resolve. “And it’s not a complaint, or a grievance. It’s… personal. About something he… lent me.”

“Lent you?” Megan looked even more bewildered. “Ginny, this sounds like a spectacularly bad idea. He just got you reinstated, conditionally. Don’t poke the manticore! Especially not when it’s just shown you the path out of its cage!”

“I know, I know,” Ginny said, running a hand through her hair, feeling the familiar pull of her own impulsiveness warring with the hard-won lessons of the past few weeks. “But it’s important. And it won’t be a confrontation. Just a quick question. I promise.”

Megan still looked deeply unconvinced. “Gwenog will have my head if you get yourself suspended again before we even make it back to Holyhead. And she specifically put me with you to ensure…”

“I know,” Ginny interrupted gently. “And I appreciate it, Meg. Truly. But this… this is something I need to do.”

She met her teammate’s worried gaze, trying to convey a sense of calm she didn’t entirely feel. “Look, just give me ten minutes. If I’m not back at the Apparition points by then, send out a search party. Or better yet, send Gwenog. She’ll know what to do.”

Megan hesitated, clearly torn between her loyalty to Ginny and her fear of both Riddle and their formidable captain. Finally, with a reluctant sigh, she nodded. “Ten minutes, Weasley. And if you end up front-page news again tomorrow, I’m casting Blibbering Humdinger infestation in your flat. Understood?”

“Understood,” Ginny said, managing a grateful smile. “Thanks, Meg.”

Megan gave her one last, worried look. With that parting shot, she turned and hurried towards the Apparition points, clearly not wanting to be anywhere nearby if things went sideways.

Ginny watched her go.

This was probably foolish.

Violating the spirit, if not the precise letter, of her probation by seeking out Riddle directly, even for a supposedly personal matter.

But the question about the book, about his unexpected intellectual challenge, had lodged itself in her mind, refusing to be ignored.

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and turned towards the archway where Riddle had disappeared.

She had to move quickly, before he vanished into whatever department he was heading towards, before she lost her nerve.

She broke into a jog, her boots echoing on the marble floor, drawing a few surprised glances from passing Ministry workers. She scanned the corridors ahead, searching for his tall, dark figure.

There.

He was further down the corridor than she expected, walking at a purposeful pace, the leather portfolio still tucked under his arm.

“Mr. Riddle!” she called out, her voice louder than she intended, echoing slightly in the relatively quiet corridor.

He didn’t slow down, didn’t turn.

It was possible he hadn’t heard her, or was simply choosing to ignore her.

Ginny grit her teeth and ran faster.

“Riddle, wait!”

She finally caught up to him, reaching out impulsively to touch his arm, a light contact, just enough to get his attention.

He stopped.

So abruptly that Ginny, still moving with momentum, almost collided with him.

He turned slowly, his expression unreadable, but his dark eyes held surprise, quickly masked by his composure. He looked down at where her fingers had briefly touched his sleeve, then back up at her face, one eyebrow slightly raised in unimpressed query.

“Miss Weasley,” he said, his voice carrying an unmistakable edge of warning. “To what do I owe this unexpected pursuit? I trust this isn’t another attempt to discuss the nuances of Ministry?"

“No,” Ginny said, dropping her hand from his sleeve.

She didn’t step back, holding her ground in the Ministry corridor. A few passing wizards glanced their way, then hurried on, clearly not wanting to be drawn into a Senior Advisor's business.

“It’s not about Ministry business. Not directly.” She met Riddle’s assessing gaze.

There was no point beating around the bush; he’d see through any attempt at subtlety.

“It’s your book,” she stated plainly, the words clipped. “The one you lent me. With all the runes and the fancy diagrams.”

His eyebrow arched, a silent query.

“I’ve read some of it,” Ginny continued, her voice firm, not pretending mastery nor feigning intellectual depth. “Frankly, it’s a bit much. Dense. And more than a little disturbing, if I’m honest. All that talk about ‘thaumaturgical amplification’ and ‘celestial congruencies’… it’s not exactly light reading, is it?”

A hint of her usual dry wit surfaced, but there was no fawning admiration, no desperate bid for his approval. “But I get the gist, I think. It’s about power. The kind that doesn’t come from a well-aimed spell. It feels like it’s about… well, it feels like it’s about trying to rewrite the rules of magic itself.”

She held his gaze, direct and unwavering, not accusing him of anything beyond lending her an incredibly dense and possibly dangerous book.

She had connected some dots, however imperfectly, and she wasn't afraid to say so.

A flicker of something – not surprise, but a sharpening of focus – registered in his eyes. He was listening.

When she finished, the silence in the corridor felt charged.

“And you share these observations with me now because?” His voice was neutral, but the question itself was a challenge.

Ginny let out an impatient sound. “Because, I’m done with it.”

She reached into her satchel and pulled out the slim, rune-embossed volume. “It’s your book. You clearly find it fascinating. I find it… heavy. And frankly, I’ve got enough on my plate trying to stay on the right side of my probation without getting tangled up in whatever it is.”

She held the book out to him. “So, here. Take it back. My ‘intellectual horizons’ have been sufficiently… broadened, thanks. I’d rather focus on not getting flattened by a Bludger next Saturday.”

She wasn’t ranting, nor feigning deep understanding or desperate curiosity. She was returning his property, having formed her own, admittedly limited, opinion.

Disengaging from this particular, unsolicited intellectual exercise.

Riddle regarded her, and the proffered book, for a long moment. A thoughtful, almost appraising expression crossed his features.

“You are returning it,” he stated, as if the concept were novel. “After expressing such pointed, if somewhat unrefined, insights into its potential applications.”

“Well, yes,” Ginny said, a touch of impatience creeping into her voice. “It’s yours, isn’t it? And like I said, it’s not exactly something to flick through in the changing rooms before a match, or on the team’s ride to an away game.”

She expected him to take it, perhaps with a condescending remark.

Instead, he surprised her.

“Your interpretation, Miss Weasley,” he said slowly, choosing his words with deliberate care, “while lacking the nuance one might expect from a scholar of arcane arts, and demonstrating an aversion to its deeper implications, is not entirely… inaccurate. You have, it seems, grasped certain fundamental concepts, however crudely.”

Was that… a grudging acknowledgement? Buried under layers of condescension, but an acknowledgement nonetheless?

Before she could fully process it, he continued, his tone shifting, becoming brisk, almost businesslike, but without the reprimanding edge she'd come to expect. “The text, as you rightly surmise, Miss Weasley, is not intended for casual perusal. Its concepts are complex, its implications far-reaching. A proper discussion of its themes, or indeed, your rather spirited interpretations, requires a foundational knowledge, and a more conducive environment than a Ministry corridor during working hours.”

She opened her mouth to protest, perhaps to tell him to just take the book and be done with it, but he cut her off, his next words utterly unexpected.

“Tomorrow morning,” he said, his gaze returning to hers, sharp and direct. “Eight o’clock. The Alchemist’s Brew. It is a quiet café in Diagon Alley, known for its strong coffee and its patrons’ preference for early, undisturbed contemplation. The mental acuity required for engaging with such texts is, I find, optimal in the post-dawn clarity, before the  distractions of the day fully assert themselves.”

Ginny blinked, her mind struggling to process the abrupt shift.

The Alchemist’s Brew?

Breakfast?

To discuss… a book she was trying to return?

With him?

“Are you… asking me to meet you? For breakfast? To talk about… this?” She gestured with the book, her bafflement evident.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Riddle’s lips.

“I am informing you, Miss Weasley, that should you wish to return the book in a more appropriate setting, and perhaps expound upon your interpretations of its contents, I will make myself available for a limited period tomorrow morning to accommodate that.”

He paused, his eyes holding hers. “Consider it an opportunity to properly conclude this transaction. Or perhaps,” – the smile widened fractionally – “an opportunity for me to ascertain whether your grasp of complex magical theory is a genuine anomaly, or merely a statistical outlier unlikely to be repeated.”

Ginny stared at him, completely wrong-footed.

An invitation? Conditional, condescending, yes, but an invitation nonetheless, all because she was trying to give him back his disturbing book.

She hadn't asked for this, hadn't angled for it.

“Really?” she said, the single word laced with a heavy dose of sarcasm and disbelief. “Breakfast? Discussing that?” She gestured again with the rune-embossed volume.

“Over kippers and toast? Sounds thrilling.” Her tone was dry, unimpressed.

Tom Riddle, for the first time, looked faintly amused. The smile reached his eyes, just for a fleeting moment, transforming his handsome features, making him seem almost human.

“You initiated this particular line of inquiry by returning the book and offering your critique, Miss Weasley,” he said, his voice losing some of its icy formality, taking on a note of dry, almost self-deprecating honesty. “And I possess an unfortunate inclination to dissect unexpected data points. Even when presented by unconventional sources. And I find the clarity of the early morning mind, unburdened by the day's trivialities, most conducive to such dissections.”

He glanced at his watch. “Eight o’clock. The Alchemist’s Brew. Bring the book. Be punctual. And try, if at all possible, not to engage in any public altercations before then.”

With that, he gave her a curt, almost dismissive nod, turned on his heel, and strode purposefully down the corridor, leaving Ginny standing alone, utterly bewildered, clutching the rune-embossed book, her mind reeling.

He hadn't even taken it back.

He was extending this, for reasons she couldn't fathom, beyond her simple attempt to return it.

Chapter Text

The Alchemist’s Brew was a place of hushed contemplation.

Tucked away on a Diagon Alley side street that smelled faintly of old parchment and something that might have been dried dragon’s liver, it was the kind of place where even the clinking of a teaspoon felt like a minor disruption. Leaded glass windows, slightly fogged with the December morning chill, cast a muted, grey light over the dark wooden tables.

Ginny, arriving precisely at eight, the rune-embossed book clutched under her arm, immediately spotted Riddle.

He was in a shadowy corner, naturally, already bent over a sheaf of Ministry parchments, a silver-tipped quill dancing across the margins with infuriating precision.

A half-empty teacup – black, she’d wager – sat beside his elbow.

Even on a Saturday, the man seemed incapable of detaching from his work.

“Miss Weasley,” he acknowledged as she approached,  gestured to the empty chair with a flick of his eyes, not pausing his annotation. “Punctual. An admirable, if recently acquired, trait.”

Ginny slid into the chair, dropping the ancient book onto the table between them with a soft thud. It landed beside his open leather portfolio.

“Weekend, Riddle?” she couldn’t resist saying, her voice laced with dryness. “Heard some people use them for, you know, not being attached to Ministry reports. Might involve seeing sunlight.”

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. “Ambition, Miss Weasley,” – his gaze flickered up, meeting hers for a moment – “as you yourself have demonstrated with your rather spirited pursuit of Quidditch, rarely takes a holiday.”

He paused. “You dedicate yourself to the precise trajectory of a Quaffle. I dedicate myself to the structuring of other systems. Different arenas, perhaps. But the underlying compulsion to achieve… it shares certain resonances, wouldn’t you agree?”

Ginny frowned, unsettled.

Her love for Quidditch felt instinctive. His ambition felt… differrent.

“I suppose,” she conceded, pushing the book slightly further towards him. “Though I’m fairly certain no one’s ever been turned into a gnome for fumbling a pass. Usually, it’s just public humiliation and a week of Gwenog’s death stares.”

A young wizard approached with nervous deference. “Good morning. Your usual, Mr. Riddle? And for you, miss?” His quill hovered, trembling.

“As always, Silas,” Riddle murmured.

“Coffee,” Ginny said. “Black. And strong enough to wake the dead.”

Silas nodded quickly and tiptoed away. The silence descended, broken only by the scratch of Riddle’s quill.

Ginny stared at the rune-embossed book.

“So,” she began, “this ancient magical doorstop.” She tapped its cover. “You wanted to discuss my ‘unrefined interpretations’?”

Riddle set down his quill, giving her his full attention. “Indeed. Your observations in the Ministry corridor, while lacking scholarly rigor, nonetheless indicated a certain rudimentary engagement with the text’s core principles. An engagement, I confess, that surpassed my initial expectations.”

He leaned back, steepling his fingers. “You used terms like ‘disturbing.’ You alluded to ‘thaumaturgical amplification’ and ‘celestial congruencies.’ You rather dramatically suggested it was about ‘rewriting the rules of magic itself.’ Expound upon these, Miss Weasley. Convince me your foray into arcane literature was more than just a desperate attempt to appear less predictable.”

It was a demand for justification.

Ginny took a fortifying gulp of coffee. “Alright, Riddle. It’s not exactly ‘Bedtime Stories for Baby Bowtruckles,’ is it? All that stuff about ‘resonant frequencies’ and ‘sympathetic magical grids’… it feels less like waving a wand and saying ‘Wingardium Leviosa’ and more like trying to alter the fundamental forces of the universe. ”

She paused. “And the bits about ‘sustained enchantments,’ the ones that ‘endure beyond normal limits’… It’s not just about making a Cheering Charm last longer. It feels like trying to etch your will onto the very fabric of magic, so it never fades. And the ‘why’ of it all… it’s always just hinted at, isn’t it?”

She met his gaze directly. “It’s about finding ways to make magic do things it’s clearly not meant to do. And that, Riddle, still strikes me as fundamentally off. Like trying to teach a Kneazle Arithmancy. Unnatural. And probably doomed to end badly.”

Riddle listened, his expression unreadable. “Your analogies, Miss Weasley,” he said finally, “while remarkably vivid,nonetheless capture a certain intuitive understanding of the text’s more ambitious implications.”

He picked up his teacup. “You find the concept of ‘shattering boundaries’ unsettling. Yet, is that not the very essence of innovation? Consider your own field. Did not the Chaser who first perfected the Sloth Grip Roll ‘shatter the boundary’ of conventional Quaffle handling? Did not the Seeker who first executed a Wronski Feint redefine the limits of aerial maneuverability, all in pursuit of a seemingly impossible catch? Every significant advancement, Miss Weasley, even in a brutish sport, begins with a refusal to accept the limitations of the present, a daring to attempt what others deem reckless or impossible.”

He set down his cup, his gaze sharpening. “The ‘rules of magic’ you invoke, much like the early, restrictive rules of Quidditch, are often little more than the accumulated superstitions or cautious limitations of previous generations. This text,” – he gestured towards the volume – “and others like it, dare to question those limitations. They explore the possibility that the perceived boundaries of magic are, in fact, merely the boundaries of our current understanding. Boundaries that, with sufficient knowledge, sufficient will, can be redrawn.”

Ginny blinked.

He was using Quidditch.

Using her world, the world he usually disdained, to explain his pursuit of… whatever this was.

It was disarming, unexpected.

And, curse him, it made a twisted kind of sense, even if the scale of his ‘boundary shattering’ felt infinitely more dangerous than inventing a new broomstick maneuver.

“And that doesn’t strike you as breathtakingly arrogant?” Ginny challenged, though her voice lacked some of its earlier conviction. “To assume that you, Tom Riddle, possess the ‘sufficient knowledge and will’ to casually redraw the fundamental laws of magic, just because some long-dead wizard invented a new way to avoid a Bludger?”

A faint smile touched Riddle’s lips. “Arrogance, Miss Weasley, is the domain of the incompetent who overestimate their abilities. The rigorous pursuit of knowledge, the meticulous application of intellect — these are the hallmarks of true scholarship. And occasionally,” – his eyes glinted – “they lead to innovations that redefine the game, rather than catastrophic on-pitch collisions.”

He paused. “You stated you were ‘done with it.’ That it was ‘heavy.’ Yet, your observations suggest a deeper engagement than you initially professed. Curiosity, it seems, Miss Weasley, is a tenacious weed.”

Ginny flushed. “Alright, fine,” she admitted. “It’s hard to completely ignore a book that feels like it’s actively trying to give you a headache. And yes, after our enlightening chat… in your study, I was curious to see what kind of ‘foundational principles’ could lead someone to believe they’re destined to ‘endure’ by becoming some kind of magical overlord.”

“And?” Riddle prompted. “Have your intellectual horizons been sufficiently expanded? Or do you still find the concepts as impenetrable as the Chudley Cannons’ defensive strategy?”

He was baiting her.

“I’m not saying I’ve suddenly become an expert in ancient Sumerian thaumaturgy,” Ginny retorted. “A lot of it still reads like it was translated from parseltongue by a particularly confused gnome. But I get the core of it. It’s about power. Finding ways to twist magic to your will, to make it permanent, to make yourself more than just a wizard. Like something out of those creepy old tales where some power-mad sorcerer tries to become something and ends up as a pile of cursed dust.”

She met his gaze squarely. “And yes, Riddle, that still strikes me as disturbing. And frankly, more than a little megalomaniacal.”

He didn’t flinch. Instead, a thoughtful expression settled on his features.

“Your persistent focus on the potential for negative outcomes is noted, Miss Weasley,” he said, his tone dry. “Most individuals, when faced with concepts that challenge their ingrained understanding, retreat into familiar dogma. It requires a certain intellectual resilience to confront the unfamiliar, even if one ultimately rejects its conclusions.”

He paused, then picked up the rune-embossed book. “This particular volume,” he said, his voice taking on a slightly different quality, “is indeed a gateway to challenging perspectives. It explores avenues of power that the Ministry, in its understandable but often overly cautious desire to prevent another Grindelwald, has deemed best left unexplored. Pathways that require not just intellect, but fearlessness in the face of the unknown.”

He looked up, and for a fleeting moment, Ginny saw not the manipulative official, nor the condescending intellectual, but something else. A glimpse of the solitary seeker.

“But to dismiss its contents as mere ‘megalomania’ without fully comprehending the profound intellectual journey it represents…” He shook his head. “That, Miss Weasley, is to choose ignorance over understanding. Not unlike those who dismiss the subtle artistry of a well-executed Porskoff Ploy as mere ‘thuggery’.”

Ginny stared at him.

He was doing it again – using Quidditch terminology, specific plays, with an unnerving accuracy that suggested he paid more attention to her world than he let on.

And in doing so, he was acknowledging her understanding, however critical.

The faint, enigmatic smile returned. “Perhaps, Miss Weasley,” he said softly, “your capacity for confronting disturbing concepts is greater than you, or I, initially assumed. Or perhaps,” – his eyes glinted – “you simply possess a more robust intellectual constitution than is immediately apparent beneath the… Quidditch Chaser exterior.”

He placed the book back on the table, squarely between them.

He hadn’t taken it back.

He had, in his own infuriating, roundabout way, invited her to continue the dialogue.

Silas returned, silently refilling their cups.

When he had retreated, Ginny found herself looking at the book, then back at Riddle, a new, deeply unsettling thought beginning to form.

He wasn’t just discussing the book with her as an intellectual exercise.

He was engaging.

On a level that felt, disconcertingly almost like an equal.

The power dynamic was still undeniably present. But here, in this quiet café, over this ancient, disturbing book, the lines felt blurred.

He was treating her not as an inferior to be lectured, but as… a mind. A mind capable of grappling with dangerous ideas.

Why?

Was it another, more subtle form of manipulation?

A way to draw her further into his sphere?

Or was there something else at play?

“So,” she said, trying to regain her composure. “Are you going to take your magical doorstop back now? Or am I expected to produce a peer-reviewed essay on the socio-thaumaturgical implications of sustained enchantments before you’ll consider this intellectual curiosity satisfied?”

She was aiming for sarcasm but her voice lacked its usual biting edge. It sounded… uncertain.

Riddle regarded her for a long, contemplative moment. Then, he reached across the table, not for the rune-embossed book, but for one of his own Ministry parchments – the Dragon Containment Protocol draft – and slid it towards her.

“Perhaps,” he said, his voice neutral, “your newly engaged perspective might offer some unconventional insights into the practical challenges of inter-departmental cooperation regarding the containment of Class Five XXXXX magical creatures. After all,” – a faint smile touched his lips – “dealing with the unpredictable flight patterns of a nesting Ukrainian Ironbelly, or anticipating the defensive maneuvers of a cornered Hebridean Black, requires directness of approach that is often absent in Ministry committee deliberations. Or perhaps you’ll simply find the bureaucratic jargon even more impenetrable than ancient Sumerian runic theory.”

He gestured towards the official Ministry document. “Consider it… light comparative reading. To further broaden those intellectual horizons.”

Ginny stared at the parchment, then up at his face, utterly dumbfounded.

Was he serious? Tom Riddle?

Inviting her opinion on a high-level Ministry policy document concerning dragon containment?

It was absurd. 

And yet… She saw the faint challenge in his dark eyes, the hint of dry, intellectual amusement.

He wasn’t just testing her intellect anymore.

He was testing her willingness to engage on his terms, in his world.

He was offering her a glimpse, however small and condescendingly framed, into the complexities he navigated daily.

Ginny stared at the official Ministry parchment Riddle had slid across the table, its dense blocks of text and neatly aligned clauses a world away from the arcane symbols of the rune book. The heading was clear: “DRAFT PROPOSAL: REVISED PROTOCOLS FOR INTER-DEPARTMENTAL COORDINATION IN CLASS FIVE XXXXX MAGICAL CREATURE CONTAINMENT (DRAGON INCIDENTS).”

Her first, instinctive reaction was a surge of bewildered caution. “Am I even allowed to look at this?” she asked, her voice betraying her surprise. “Isn’t this restricted Ministry business? Highly classified dragon stuff?”

Riddle leaned back, taking a slow sip of his tea, his expression one of faint, almost paternalistic amusement. “Miss Weasley,” he said, his tone dry, “while your newfound appreciation for Ministry protocol is noted, your assumptions regarding the clandestine nature of all governmental documentation are somewhat exaggerated.”

He gestured towards the parchment. “This particular draft, in its current iteration, is a preliminary framework document intended for inter-departmental consultation and public comment. A summary of its key proposals was, in fact, released for limited public review via the Ministry’s official Gazette of Magical Law and Administration last week, as per standard procedure for regulatory revisions of this nature. I assure you, I would hardly compromise sensitive Ministry operations by soliciting the opinion of a Quidditch Chaser on matters requiring high-level security clearance.”

He paused, a glint in his eye. “The full internal annexes, detailing specific warding schematics for dragon sanctuaries and emergency Auror deployment strategies, are, of course, not included in this public consultation draft. Those remain appropriately restricted.”

Ginny flushed slightly at the gentle rebuke, the implication that she wouldn’t know the difference between a public consultation document and classified Ministry directives.

He was still managing to be condescending, even while offering this bizarre invitation for her input.

“Right,” she muttered, pulling the parchment closer, though still hesitant to actually touch it. “Public comment. So, you’re basically crowdsourcing dragon management strategies from anyone who can be bothered to read the Gazette? Sounds efficient.”

“Seeking diverse perspectives, Miss Weasley,” Riddle corrected smoothly, “even from unconventional sources, can sometimes yield unexpected insights. The Ministry, for all its accumulated wisdom, occasionally benefits from a viewpoint untainted by decades of ingrained bureaucratic procedure.”

He was practically inviting her to find fault, to offer her ‘unconventional’ perspective.

It was another test, she realized.

Not just of her intellect, but of her willingness to engage, to step outside her comfort zone.

She absently ran a finger over the official Ministry seal at the top of the page.

“Dragons,” she mused, almost to herself. “This is really more my brother Charlie’s sort of thing.”

Riddle’s eyebrow arched fractionally. “Indeed? Another Weasley with a particular affinity for hazardous magical creatures?”

There was no judgment in his tone, merely information-gathering curiosity.

“Charlie works with dragons,” Ginny explained, a touch of pride in her voice despite herself. “In Romania. At a dragon sanctuary. He’s a dragonologist. Lives and breathes them. Probably knows more about Ukrainian Ironbellies and Norwegian Ridgebacks than anyone at the Ministry, no offense.”

“None taken,” Riddle murmured, his gaze thoughtful. “A specialist, then. Dedicated to the practical study and management of these formidable beasts. An admirable, if somewhat perilous, vocation. Does his work often involve inter-departmental coordination challenges with the Romanian Ministry of Magic, or perhaps with international magical creature regulation bodies?”

He was subtly probing.

Gathering information, not just about Charlie, but about the broader networks and challenges involved in dragon management, information that might be relevant to his own protocol revisions.

Even in a casual conversation, his mind was working, analyzing, seeking out useful data.

She shrugged. “I suppose. He mostly complains about the endless forms and permits. And the occasional thrill-seeking wizard trying to sneak a peek at a nesting Hebridean Black and nearly getting themselves incinerated. He says the biggest challenge isn’t the dragons, it’s the bureaucracy and the fools who don’t respect their power.”

“A sentiment with which I can empathize,” Riddle said, a dry note in his voice. “The human element is often the most unpredictable, and frustrating, variable in any system.”

Ginny found herself looking at the dragon protocol draft with a new, albeit still wary, interest. If Charlie dealt with this kind of thing daily…

She tentatively picked it up, her eyes scanning the dense paragraphs.

“Section 3, Clause B: ‘Emergency Containment Zones – Minimum Ward Strength & Perimeter Establishment Timelines’…”

“Appendix II: ‘Recommended De-Escalation Charms for Agitated Brood Mothers (Species-Specific Variations)’…”

It was, as Riddle had predicted, largely impenetrable bureaucratic jargon, interspersed with highly technical magical terminology. But occasionally, a phrase or a concept would snag her attention, something that resonated with Charlie’s exasperated letters home.

“…emphasis on reactive containment rather than proactive habitat management…”

“…insufficient allocation of resources for long-term sanctuary maintenance versus emergency response…”

“…lack of standardized communication protocols between national dragon reserves during cross-border incidents…”

She found herself frowning, muttering under her breath. “That’s just daft. Charlie always says you can’t just wait for a dragon to escape and then try to magic it back into a too-small enclosure. You need proper space, understanding their territorial needs. And this bit about communication, he lost a Ridgeback hatchling last year because the Hungarian Dragon Reserve didn’t notify them about a rogue poacher ring operating in the border region until it was too late…”

She was ranting, almost forgetting Riddle was there, her mind filled with Charlie’s frustrations, with the practical realities of dealing with creatures that didn’t adhere to Ministry directives or neat flowcharts.

She looked up, suddenly self-conscious, realizing she’d been speaking her thoughts aloud.

Riddle was watching her, his expression unreadable, his quill poised silently above his own parchments.

He hadn’t interrupted, hadn’t offered any comment. He had simply listened.

A flush crept up Ginny’s neck.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, pushing the draft back towards him. “Got a bit carried away. Charlie gets quite passionate about dragon welfare. And Ministry incompetence.”

She expected a sarcastic remark, a condescending dismissal of her brother’s concerns. Instead, Riddle remained silent for a moment, his gaze thoughtful.

“Your brother’s practical field experience,” he said finally, his voice neutral, “appears to highlight potential deficiencies in the proposed theoretical framework. Specifically regarding proactive habitat management and inter-reserve communication. Interesting.”

He made a small, precise note on the edge of his own copy of the draft, his quill moving with its usual swift efficiency.

Ginny stared at him.

Had he actually taken her secondhand rant seriously? Considered itvalid?

“Why…” she began, then stopped, unsure how to phrase the question that was suddenly burning in her mind. “Why are you suddenly listening? To me? About dragons?”

She gestured vaguely between them. “I mean, a few weeks ago, you wouldn’t even let your assistant schedule a fifteen-minute meeting. Now we’re having breakfast, you’re lending me disturbing books about ancient magic, and you’re asking my opinion – or rather, my brother’s opinion relayed through me – on high-level Ministry dragon policy?”

She shook her head, bewildered. “What changed, Riddle? Did you run out of actual experts to consult?”

Tom set down his quill, regarding her with that unnervingly steady gaze. A faint smile played on his lips.

“What makes you assume I wasn’t listening before, Miss Weasley?” he inquired softly. “I assure you, I am always listening. Even when appearing to be engrossed in other matters. It is a prerequisite for effective information gathering. One often learns more from observing than from direct interrogation.”

He paused, letting that sink in. “What you mean to ask, I believe, is not why I am listening, but why I am engaging. Why I am soliciting your perspective on matters seemingly beyond your usual sphere of interest.”

He leaned back, the faint smile lingering. “Perhaps, Miss Weasley, it is because your perspective, however unrefined, however filtered through sentimentality and impulsiveness, occasionally offers a refreshingly direct counterpoint to the usual sycophancy and cautious obfuscation I encounter within Ministry circles.”

He tilted his head, his eyes glinting. “Or perhaps,” he continued, his voice dropping slightly, taking on that familiar, unsettling intimacy, “I simply find your particular brand of disruptive energy, a more stimulating intellectual exercise. You are, if nothing else, Miss Weasley, rarely tedious.”

The backhanded compliment, the subtle implication that he found her… stimulating… 

He was still being condescending, still asserting his intellectual superiority.

But there was something else there too, something that hinted at a genuine, if detached, curiosity about the way her mind worked, however different it was from his own.

Ginny let out a long, slow sigh, the sound a mixture of exasperation and weary amusement. She pushed the Dragon Containment Protocol draft decisively back across the table towards Riddle.

“Look, Riddle,” she said, her voice firm but lacking its usual confrontational edge, “as fascinating as it is to imagine myself as an unofficial consultant on inter-departmental dragon wrangling, I still think you’re barking up the wrong Kneazle. My brother Charlie is your man for this. He actually knows a Hungarian Horntail’s preferred nesting material from a Welsh Green’s mating call. I just know they’re big, scaly, breathe fire, and are generally best avoided unless you’re a particularly suicidal Seeker.”

She leaned back in her own chair, mirroring his earlier posture, a gesture of subtle, unconscious mimicry. “My ‘unconventional insights’ on this are likely to be limited to ‘maybe try asking the dragons nicely if they wouldn’t mind staying put?’ or ‘have you considered bigger, stronger cages with really good locks?’ Hardly groundbreaking policy revision material.”

She met his gaze directly. “You keep dragging me into these… intellectual sparring matches. First the rune book, now this. And frankly, for someone so keen on dissecting magical theory and Ministry procedure, I’m not entirely convinced you’d dare step onto a Quidditch pitch for five minutes, let alone know which end of a broom to point towards the sky when a Bludger is hurtling at your head at ninety miles an hour.”

It wasn’t just about knowing how to fly; it was a direct challenge to his courage, his willingness to face the raw chaos of her world.

She was implying he wouldn't dare risk the physical danger, the lack of absolute control inherent in the game.

Tom regarded her for a moment.

He didn’t rise to the bait of her broomstick comment with his usual condescension. Instead, his response was almost reflective.

“Ah, the Quidditch pitch,” he mused, his gaze drifting towards the leaded glass window, as if seeing something beyond the grimy Diagon Alley street. “An arena of physical risks, the reliance on brute force, and unpredictable variables such as an opponent’s errant Bludger . I confess, Miss Weasley, I prefer arenas where intellect and strategy are the primary determinants of success, not the capricious whims of gravity or the structural integrity of a Nimbus 2000 when faced with a rogue iron ball.”

He wasn’t dismissing Quidditch with his usual disdain.

He was analyzing it, dispassionately, like another system.

He was, in his own way, acknowledging the inherent dangers, the lack of control that he clearly found distasteful, even as he subtly sidestepped the direct challenge to his courage.

It was the most reasonable he had ever sounded when discussing Quidditch.

Ginny found herself momentarily silenced by his unexpected candor.

Then, with a boldness that surprised even herself, a boldness born perhaps of the strange, almost surreal normalcy of this breakfast meeting, she reached across the table.

Her fingers, slightly calloused, lightly tapped the back of his hand where it rested on his Ministry parchments, the quill momentarily stilled.

The contact was brief, almost accidental, yet it felt significant.

A deliberate interruption, a physical punctuation mark.

Riddle looked down at her hand resting on his, then up at her face, his expression unreadable, though a flicker of surprise registered in his dark eyes. He didn’t pull away.

“Riddle,” Ginny said, her voice softer now, less challenging, almost exasperatedly fond, if such a thing were possible with him. “Can we just… eat? Before we dive back into dragon protocols or the philosophical implications of enchantments?”

She gestured vaguely towards the table, the untouched toast on her own plate, the half-empty coffee cup. “I mean, honestly. Can’t a person get some actual sustenance into their stomach before engaging in a debate about the fundamental nature of magic or the optimal trajectory for Ministry policy? I’ve had three refills of Silas’s admittedly excellent coffee, and I haven’t even had a chance to see if they do a decent kipper here. Do they do kippers, do you think?”

Tom stared at her, his usual composure momentarily, almost imperceptibly, ruffled.

Her directness, her casual interruption of his work, her entirely unexpected concern for… kippers… it was so far outside the usual parameters of his interactions that he seemed, for a fleeting second, genuinely at a loss.

Then, the mask of cool detachment settled back into place, though the surprise still lingered in his eyes. “I confess, Miss Weasley,” he said, his voice regaining its usual dry tone, “the culinary offerings of this establishment have rarely been my primary focus. I find breakfast, as a meal, generally… unnecessary. A distraction from the more pressing pursuits of the morning.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Ginny retorted, waving a dismissive hand, though she carefully avoided touching his hand again. “It’s the most important meal of the day. Sets you up for… well, for enduring, I suppose. Or in my case, for not getting flattened by Gwenog’s Bludger drills.”

She leaned forward slightly, her expression earnest, though a teasing glint danced in her eyes. “You don’t need to be so… formal… with me all the time. Not here, anyway. You’re so uptight most of the time, Riddle. It’s like you’re constantly expecting a Hogwarts professor to pop out and give you a grade on your conversational skills. Or like there’s always an invisible Ministry auditor lurking, ready to dock points for inappropriate levity.”

She wasn’t insulting him, not really.

It was more an observation, delivered with a surprising lack of malice, almost a plea for him to… lighten up. Just a fraction.

Tom Riddle found himself observing her with a detached curiosity that was, for once, tinged with something akin to… bemusement.

Her assessment of his usual demeanor was, he had to admit, not entirely inaccurate.

He did operate under a constant, self-imposed pressure for perfection, for the flawless execution of his objectives. The idea of an invisible Ministry auditor, it wasn’t far from the truth of his own relentless internal scrutiny.

And her concern for kippers. It was so utterly...

He should dismiss her.

Reassert the professional distance. Remind her of the terms of their engagement.

But he found he didn’t want to. Not immediately.

This unexpected conversational detour, this glimpse into her more unguarded personality, was interesting. Another data point.

And perhaps, just perhaps, a brief cessation of intellectual sparring, a concession to the mundane ritual of breakfast might not be entirely without merit. It might even provide further opportunities for observation.

He was about to summon Silas, to inquire about the availability of kippers, when Ginny surprised him again.

She suddenly pushed back her chair, a decisive movement.

“No,” she announced, a mischievous spark igniting in her eyes. “You know what? We’re going somewhere else.”

She started gathering her few things – her satchel, the still-unread copy of the Daily Prophet Silas had delivered with her coffee. “My choice. My treat. It’s your lucky day, Riddle, because I don’t usually treat Ministry officials to breakfast. Ask Percy. He’ll tell you how I’ve never once offered to buy him so much as a Cauldron Cake, not even on his birthday.”

She looked up, saw him still seated, watching her with that unreadable expression.

He hadn’t moved.

With a sigh that was pure, exasperated Ginny Weasley, she marched around the table. Before he could react, she reached out and began to neatly stack his Ministry parchments, placing the Dragon Protocol draft on top, and then, with a flourish, slid his silver-tipped quill into its designated loop in his leather portfolio.

She closed the portfolio with a decisive snap and held it out to him, directly in front of his face.

“Well, come on then, Mr. ‘I-Don’t-Eat-Breakfast’,” she said, her voice laced with a teasing challenge that was almost… friendly. “I’m going to show you a place that serves a bacon sandwich so good, it’ll make you forget all about thaumaturgical amplification and the resonant properties of ancient runes. For at least ten minutes, anyway. And if they don’t do bacon sandwiches that can achieve that level of magical distraction,” – she grinned, a flash of her old, uninhibited spirit – “then their coffee is strong enough to strip paint, which, frankly, sounds like something you might appreciate.”

She stood there, holding his portfolio, waiting, a challenge in her eyes, an invitation to step, however briefly, outside his meticulously ordered world.

Tom found himself held hostage by a (formerly) mud-streaked Quidditch Chaser with a craving for bacon sandwiches.

He regarded his leather portfolio, now firmly in Ginny Weasley’s grasp, then looked up at her determined, almost challengingly expectant face. 

“And if I decline, Miss Weasley?” he inquired, his voice dangerously soft, a subtle challenge woven into the polite words.

He was testing her resolve, her audacity. Daring her to push this almost whimsical agenda further.

Ginny let out a small, impatient sigh, not a theatrical one, but the genuine sound of someone tired of navigating treacherous waters.

“Honestly, Riddle,” she said, shifting the portfolio slightly in her grip, “I’m just… done. Done with the Ministry gloom, done with tiptoeing around you like a booby-trapped with hexes, done with this endless back-and-forth where every word feels like a strategic move in a game I don’t even fully understand the rules to.”

She met his gaze directly, her own surprisingly devoid of immediate anger , more weary and direct than anything else. “Just for an hour. Can we just… exist? Without the Ministry protocols, without you dissecting my every syllable for hidden motives and me trying to figure out if you’re about to curse me or offer me another incomprehensible book?”

She gestured with her free hand towards the street outside, where the muted sounds of Diagon Alley beginning its Saturday bustle were just starting to filter in. “Sunlight, Riddle. Remember that stuff? Fresh air? Maybe even a bacon sandwich that hasn’t been subjected to a Ministry efficiency review? It might do you some good. Might even… remind you there’s a world outside ancient Sumerian runic theory for a bit.”

Her tone was direct, almost blunt, but beneath it lay a plea for a temporary cessation of hostilities, a brief respite from the constant tension that defined their interactions.

Tom considered her.

This was… unexpected.

Her usual mode of engagement was either explosive defiance or, more recently, a kind of wary, reluctant compliance. This… this almost brusque insistence, this weariness with the gamesmanship… it was a new variable.

And the truth was, he found himself… intrigued.

Not by the prospect of bacon sandwiches, certainly. The thought was faintly repulsive.

But by her audacity.

By her refusal to simply accept his dismissal of her proposed outing.

By this strange, almost disarming directness.

“I have an aversion to bacon, Miss Weasley,” he stated, his voice flat, a simple statement of fact, yet also another subtle test of her persistence.

Ginny rolled her eyes, though there was no real heat in the gesture. “Merlin’s beard, Riddle, must you be contrary about everything? Fine. No bacon. I’m sure they do toast. Or porridge. Or perhaps some suitably austere, nutrition-focused gruel that meets your exacting standards for morning sustenance. The point is, get up. We’re leaving.”

She didn’t wait for his assent.

She turned, still clutching his portfolio, and headed towards the door of The Alchemist’s Brew, clearly expecting him to follow, an air of impatient resolve about her.

For a long moment, Tom Riddle remained seated, watching her retreating back.

Every instinct, every ingrained habit of control and strategic planning, screamed at him to refuse.

To reassert his authority. To dismiss this foolish, impulsive whim.

To remain in his ordered, predictable environment, surrounded by his parchments and his thoughts.

But…

He found himself standing up.

He adjusted his perfectly tailored dark robes, a reflexive gesture. He picked up the rune-embossed book from the table – he wasn’t about to leave that in her possession unsupervised any longer than necessary.

Then, with a sigh that was almost imperceptible, a sigh that acknowledged the inherent illogicality of his own actions, Tom  followed Ginny Weasley out of the quiet, shadowy confines of The Alchemist’s Brew and into the unexpectedly bright, increasingly bustling reality of a Diagon Alley Saturday morning.

The transition was jarring.

The hushed reverence of the café gave way to the cheerful cacophony of the street.

Witches in brightly coloured robes hurried past, laden with shopping bags.

Children shrieked with laughter as they chased enchanted bubbles drifting from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes further down the street.

The air smelled of broomstick polish, cauldron cakes, and the faint tang of unknown magical ingredients wafting from the Apothecary.

Ginny navigated the growing crowds with an athletic grace, clearly more at ease in this vibrant chaos than in the hushed formality of their previous encounters.

She wasn’t overtly cheerful, but there was a subtle shift in her demeanor, a lessening of the tight, defensive posture she usually adopted around him.

Riddle, walking beside her – she had, with surprising assertiveness, matched her pace to his, forcing him into this unwelcome proximity.

He drew a few curious glances, his immaculate attire and air of authority setting him apart from the usual Diagon Alley throng.

He found the noise, the bright colours, the sheer, uncontrolled exuberance of it all… distinctly irritating.

“Right then,” Ginny said, her voice practical, though not overly bright.

She still held his portfolio, tucked securely under her arm.

“There’s a place a couple of streets over, ‘The Daily Crust.’ Not too fancy, not a dive. They do decent pastries, and their coffee is strong enough to strip paint, which I maintain is a quality you’d appreciate. And for the bacon-averse, I happen to know they make a surprisingly good kippered herring on toast, if you’re feeling adventurous. Or they have plain toast. Very plain. Probably Ministry-regulation plain.”

She didn't exactly grin at him, but there was a faint upward quirk to her lips, a hint of her usual dry wit, now directed at his presumed preferences rather than as a direct challenge.

“The Daily Crust, Miss Weasley?” Riddle inquired, his voice dry. “Are you certain this establishment meets the minimum standards for civilized morning sustenance? Or are we venturing into territory where the primary culinary recommendation is its structural integrity?”

“It’s got character, Riddle,” Ginny retorted, her tone matter-of-fact. “And it’s not crawling with Ministry types dissecting departmental budgets over their crumpets. Less chance of anyone important seeing you slumming it with the likes of me. You might even find the lack of bowing… different. Or profoundly unsettling. Either way, a change of scenery.”

She glanced at him sideways, her expression unreadable for a moment, then a flicker of something almost like curiosity crossed her features. “So, tell me, Riddle, when you’re not rewriting the fundamental laws of magic, or drafting dragon containment protocols… what do you actually do for… fun? Or is ‘fun’ another one of those messy human emotions you’ve successfully eradicated from your system?”

The question was still impertinent, but delivered with a bluntness that lacked the earlier, sharper edge of accusation. It felt more like a genuine, if slightly exasperated, inquiry.

He usually discouraged such personal inquiries but her tone, her unexpected shift from wary antagonist to almost… bluntly inquisitive… it was new.

He considered his response carefully.

“My definition of ‘fun’, Miss Weasley,” he said, his voice neutral, “likely deviates considerably from your own, which I imagine involves activities such as broomstick riding, the consumption of alarming quantities of sugar, and possibly hexing your unfortunate siblings for sport.”

“Only Percy,” Ginny corrected automatically, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. “And only when he really, really deserves it. Which is often.”

She paused. “So, that’s a no on the hexing siblings for sport, then? What about quiet contemplation of ancient Sumerian pottery shards? Or perhaps competitive filing? I hear the Ministry inter-departmental filing championships are fiercely contested.”

He almost smiled. Almost. The corner of his mouth twitched.

“My leisure activities, Miss Weasley,” he stated, “are generally of a more solitary. They involve research. Analysis. The pursuit of knowledge that extends beyond the confines of Ministry.”

“So, more dusty old books, then,” Ginny summarized, her tone resigned but not entirely dismissive. “Right. Got it. Sounds… thorough. You really know how to live, Riddle.”

She didn't nudge him, maintaining a small but noticeable space between them as they navigated the increasingly crowded street.

The earlier, almost casual physical contact in The Alchemist's Brew had been an anomaly, a product of her impulsive action. Here, in public, a different awareness seemed to govern her movements.

“You know,” she continued, her tone thoughtful, as if genuinely puzzling something out, “for someone so obsessed with enduring, you don’t seem to be enjoying the actual process of… well, being. It’s all future plans and ancient texts. What about now? This morning? The smell of new parchment from Flourish and Blotts?” She sniffed slightly as they passed the renowned bookshop, from which indeed a papery aroma was emanating. “Simple things, Riddle. They have their merits. Even for Senior Ministry Advisors with grand, world-altering ambitions.”

They turned onto a slightly less crowded side street, one lined with smaller, independent wizarding shops – an apothecary specializing in rare potion ingredients, a quiet antiquarian bookstore, a shop selling self-writing quills in an astonishing array of colours.

Riddle found the relative calm, the less frenetic energy, marginally less offensive than the main thoroughfare.

Ginny stopped before a modest establishment with a cheerful, if slightly faded, blue-painted frontage. A sign outside proclaimed, in neat, chalk lettering: “The Daily Crust: Freshly Baked Goods & Fortifying Beverages. Kippers a Speciality (When Goblins Haven’t Cornered the Market).”

“Here we are,” Ginny announced, her tone matter-of-fact. “Not too grand, not too grim. Just… decent. And usually, goblin-free before ten.”

She pushed open the door, which chimed softly, and stepped inside.

Riddle hesitated for only a fraction of a second.

This was still a deviation from his Saturday mornings, which usually involved several hours of uninterrupted work in his private study before any consideration of venturing out.

But he had already committed to this… experiment.

He followed her into The Daily Crust.

The interior was warm, smelling pleasantly of baking bread, roasted coffee beans, and a faint, savory aroma that might, indeed, have been kippers.

It was bustling but not chaotic, with a mix of patrons – a few Ministry workers grabbing a quick breakfast before heading in for weekend duties, and an elderly witch engrossed in the Daily Prophet crossword.

The decor was simple – sturdy wooden tables, mismatched chairs, a counter laden with pastries and scones. It was clean, bright, and possessed a certain unpretentious charm.

Ginny had already claimed a small table by a window overlooking the street, and was gesturing for him to join her, an expectant expression on her face.

He moved towards the table, aware of a few curious glances cast his way, but far fewer than in the main Diagon Alley crush. Here, he was less of an obvious anomaly.

He sat opposite Ginny Weasley at the small, slightly wobbly wooden table in The Daily Crust, the cheerful chatter of the café a muted backdrop to their unlikely breakfast.

His leather portfolio, now retrieved from Ginny and resting on the chair beside him. The rune-embossed book sat on the table between them.

A plump, rosy-cheeked witch with flour dusting her apron approached their table, beaming. “Morning, Ginny dear! The usual, is it? Two rashers of back bacon, scrambled eggs, grilled tomato, and a side of wholemeal toast? And your bottomless black coffee, I presume?”

Ginny grinned, a wide, uninhibited expression that momentarily transformed her face, chasing away the shadows of the past few weeks. “Morning, Martha! You know me too well. And yes, keep the coffee coming. My… colleague…” – she gestured towards Riddle – “will have… well, he’s still deciding. He’s a bit… particular about his choices.”

Martha’s gaze shifted to Riddle, her smile faltering slightly as she took in his severe dark robes, his air of quiet authority. She clearly wasn’t used to patrons of his calibre in her establishment. “Oh. Right then. Tea for you too, sir? Or perhaps a coffee? Our kippers are fresh this morning, if you’re feeling adventurous.”

Riddle, who had been observing the easy, familiar exchange between Weasley and the café owner with detached interest, inclined his head politely. “Tea. Black. No sugar.” He paused, then, to Ginny’s visible surprise, added, “And perhaps, a slice of your plainest toast. Unbuttered, if possible.”

Martha blinked, clearly unaccustomed to such an austere order, but recovered quickly. “Certainly, sir! Coming right up!” She bustled off towards the counter.

Ginny stared at him, “Plain toast? Unbuttered? Are you actively trying to make breakfast as joyless as possible? Is this some kind of advanced Ministry asceticism training I’m unaware of? Or are you just worried a stray crumb might compromise your plans?”

“I find excessive food indulgencecounterproductive to mental clarity, Miss Weasley,” Riddle stated, his voice neutral. “And kippered herring strikes me as unnecessarily aromatic for this early hour.”

“Right,” Ginny said, shaking her head, though the smile lingered. “Merlin forbid your mental clarity be compromised by the lingering scent of smoked fish. Or, forbid, the sheer, unadulterated joy of a perfectly scrambled egg.”

Their beverages arrived – Ginny’s a large, steaming mug of coffee, Riddle’s a delicate porcelain cup of black tea – along with Riddle’s single, unadorned slice of toast and Ginny’s more balanced, but still substantial, breakfast. The bacon was lean, the eggs fluffy, the tomato grilled to perfection, and the toast a healthy wholemeal.

It was a sensible athlete’s breakfast, designed for sustained energy.

Ginny attacked it with her usual focused energy. She speared a piece of bacon and egg onto her fork, consuming it with an efficient appreciation that was almost businesslike.

Riddle, in contrast, dissected his toast with his knife and fork, consuming it in small, methodical bites, as if it were a particularly dull but necessary piece of parchment requiring careful analysis. He took slow sip of his tea.

He watched her eat for a moment, a faint, almost imperceptible frown creasing his brow.

“Miss Weasley,” he began, his voice carefully neutral, after she had consumed a respectable portion of her breakfast with an efficiency that was, in its own way, impressive. “Does the consumption of such portions not present aerodynamic challenges? For a professional Quidditch player, I mean. One might imagine it could impede optimal flight performance, if not carefully calibrated.”

Ginny paused, her coffee cup halfway to her lips. She looked at him, then down at her plate, then back at him, a genuinely perplexed expression on her face.

“Aerodynamic challenges?” she echoed, taking a sip of her coffee. “From bacon and eggs? Riddle, are you serious?”

She set down her cup. “This, my friend, is fuel. High-octane, Chaser-grade fuel. You think I can spend three hours getting battered by Bludgers and wrestling with opposing Chasers on a single slice of unbuttered toast and a thimbleful of tea? I’d be out of energy before the first Snidget sighting.”

She took another bite of her breakfast, chewing thoughtfully. “Quidditch isn’t some delicate ballet, Riddle. It’s a battle. You need stamina. You need strength. And that means you need proper sustenance, complex magical energies, sustained vitality. Not just air and good intentions.”

She wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Besides,” she added, a mischievous glint in her eye, “a well-fueled Chaser is a focused Chaser. Less likely to make stupid mistakes. Or get hangry and accidentally hex the referee. And frankly, after a breakfast like this, I feel like I could out-fly, out-maneuver, and out-score anyone. Even on a broomstick held together with hope and an opponent's glare.”

Riddle regarded her, his expression unreadable.

He clearly didn’t comprehend the concept of food as performance-enhancing fuel beyond basic biological necessity. The idea of strategically consuming it for optimal physical output seemed alien to him.

“An interesting perspective on nutritional charms and their application,” he murmured, turning his attention back to the last remaining crumb of his toast, as if it held the secrets to her baffling metabolic efficiency. He took another sip of his tea.

Ginny grinned, sensing she had, for once, completely stumped him. “Just practical Chaser wisdom, Riddle. You wouldn’t understand. Too busy with your resonant frequencies and Ministry regulations.”

She finished her breakfast, then leaned back in her chair, sighing contentedly as she took another large gulp of coffee.

The initial awkwardness of sharing a meal with Tom Riddle had faded slightly, replaced by a strange, almost surreal sense of normalcy.

He was still infuriating, still condescending. But here, in the cheerful clatter of The Daily Crust, with a plate of bacon and eggs between them, he felt marginally less like a particularly uptight, socially inept academic.

A very dangerous academic, she reminded herself, but an academic nonetheless.

The silence stretched for a moment, broken only by the clinking of cutlery from nearby tables and Martha bustling behind the counter.

Ginny figured Riddle wouldn’t initiate any further conversation if she didn’t. He seemed perfectly content to sit in silence, dissecting his toast and, presumably, analyzing her every move.

“So,” she began, breaking the quiet, her tone deliberately casual, “this Ministry audit Percy’s helping Dad with. ‘Artifact acquisition protocols,’ he called it. Sounds thrilling. Is that your doing as well?”

She was fishing, subtly, trying to gauge his reaction, to see if he was awarre of, or involved in, even the most mundane aspects of Ministry operations that touched her family.

Riddle paused, his teacup halfway to his lips. He regarded her for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Then, he set the cup down with deliberate care.

“The Ministry, Miss Weasley,” he said, his voice smooth, almost didactic, “is a vast and complex organism. Many of its functions, particularly at the departmental level, operate under their own established protocols and review cycles. While my advisory role occasionally requires me to offer input on matters of cross-departmental synergy, I assure you, I do not personally oversee every minor administrative audit or internal compliance check.”

He paused, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. “Though I confess, the thought of your brother meticulously cross-referencing enchanted rubber duck acquisition forms does possess a certain bureaucratic charm.”

Ginny snorted, a genuine laugh escaping her. “You have no idea. He probably has a flowchart for the correct way to catalogue bewitched garden gnomes. Dad says he’s actually being quite helpful, though. Bringing some much-needed order to the chaos of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office.”

“Order out of chaos,” Riddle mused, his gaze distant for a moment, as if considering a broader philosophical principle. “A laudable objective. Though often, Miss Weasley, the most prevailing order is not imposed, but rather cultivated. Grown from an understanding of the underlying structures, the inherent energies.”

He was doing it again. Veering off into his cryptic pronouncements about power and endurance.

Ginny decided to steer the conversation back to less existentially fraught territory.

“Right,” she said, trying for a lighter tone. “So, if you’re not personally auditing Dad’s rubber duck collection, what vital Ministry business brings a Senior Advisor of your stature out on a Saturday morning? Or is this your idea of a wild weekend? A daring foray into a café that doesn’t require security clearance?”

She was teasing him, pushing the boundaries of their fragile truce, but there was a genuine curiosity beneath the sarcasm.

She still couldn’t quite fathom why he had agreed to this bizarre breakfast meeting, why he was tolerating her presence, her impertinent questions.

Riddle regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to her surprise, he actually answered the question.

“I had an early consultation, Miss Weasley,” he said, his voice neutral, “with a representative from the Goblin Liaison Office. Regarding discrepancies in the historical valuations of sequestered assets. A matter requiring discretion and nuanced understanding of both wizarding and goblin legal frameworks.”

Goblins. Sequestered assets. Historical valuations.

It sounded exactly like the kind of complex, high-stakes negotiation Riddle would excel at. And it explained his presence in Diagon Alley so early on a Saturday.

“Right,” Ginny said again, feeling slightly out of her depth. “Sounds… complicated. And probably involves a lot more gold than the Harpies’ current travel stipend.”

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, a thoughtful expression on her face. “You know, for someone who seems to spend most of his time dealing with ancient runes, Ministry regulations, and apparently, disgruntled goblins… you seem to know an awful lot about Quidditch.”

His eyebrow arched fractionally. “An observation, Miss Weasley?”

“More like a question,” Ginny admitted. “You quote Quidditch terminology, specific plays, with surprising accuracy. You even used my own arguments about it against me, back at The Alchemist’s Brew. For someone who claims to find the sport a ‘brutish distraction for lesser minds,’ you seem remarkably well-informed about its finer nuances.”

She was genuinely curious.

It was one of the many contradictions about him that she couldn’t quite reconcile. His disdain for Quidditch seemed genuine, yet his knowledge of it was unsettlingly precise.

Riddle paused, his gaze thoughtful. He seemed to be considering his response carefully.

“Information, Miss Weasley,” he said finally, his voice smooth, “is a valuable commodity. In any arena."

“Right,” Ginny said slowly, processing his words. “So, all that Quidditch knowledge… it’s just you doing your homework? Sizing up the unanticipated variable?”

“Thorough preparation, Miss Weasley,” Riddle corrected smoothly.

He reached for his teacup, taking a slow, deliberate sip. 

Ginny found herself staring at him, at the way the muted morning light caught the sharp planes of his face, the absolute stillness of his composure.

She had come here intending to return a book, to fulfill a bizarre, almost accidental breakfast invitation. She had expected more condescension, more veiled threats, perhaps another lecture on the inadequacies of her intellect.

Instead, she had found… this.

A strange, almost surreal conversation, where he acknowledged her perspective (however dismissively), explained his own (however cryptically), and even, however grudgingly, admitted to a certain curiosity about her.

The anger, the fear, the raw frustration that had defined their previous encounters still simmered beneath the surface, but overlaid now was a confusing layer of something else.

A reluctant understanding, perhaps.

A grudging respect for his intellect, even as she abhorred his methods.

She had to ask.

“Can I ask you something? Not about Quidditch. Not about Ministry policy. About… us. About all this.” She gestured vaguely between them.

His eyebrow arched fractionally. He set down his teacup with deliberate precision. 

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, her gaze direct, unflinching. “Why? Why all of it? The initial dismissal at the gala, yes, I get that. Pure-blood arrogance and disdain. Standard stuff. But then… the way you kept showing up. Flourish and Blotts. The Leaky Cauldron. The Ministry events. It felt… deliberate. Like you were watching me. Testing me.”

She paused, searching his face for any reaction.

His expression remained impassive.

“And then the disciplinary hearing for the Tutshill match,” she continued, her voice gaining a slight edge of remembered frustration. “It just… vanished. Gwenog said someone on the Committee must be a Harpies fan. But I knew, somehow, it was you. Why? Why would you intervene? It made no sense.”

“And the Ministry review of the Harpies,” she pressed on, the words tumbling out now, a litany of her confusion. “Perkins poking around. Was that just a coincidence? Or were you sending a message? And then the funding cuts, the travel stipends were those aimed at me? At the team?”

She took another breath, her gaze unwavering. “And the book. Why lend me that book? Was there something else to it?”

Tom listened to Ginny’s barrage of questions, his expression unreadable, his teacup resting untouched before him.

He let the silence stretch for a moment after she finished, his dark eyes fixed on hers, as if dissecting not just her words, but the underlying emotions – the confusion, the lingering suspicion, the desperate need for answers.

When he finally spoke, his voice was almost… patient.

“Miss Weasley,” he began, his tone devoid of its usual condescension, though a faint, almost imperceptible weariness laced his words, he leaned back fractionally in his chair. “You seem to operate under the assumption that my every action, every interaction, every Ministry policy review, is somehow meticulously orchestrated with the sole purpose of influencing your rather tumultuous existence.”

He paused, letting that sink in. “Let me assure you, I have neither the time nor, frankly, the inclination for such focused, personal vendettas. My responsibilities within the Ministry are extensive. My intellectual pursuits, as you have glimpsed, are demanding. The notion that I would dedicate significant resources and mental energy to subtly manipulating the career trajectory of a single Quidditch player,, with all due respect, rather self-aggrandizing on your part.”

Ginny felt a flush creep up her neck.

He was dismissing her suspicions, framing them as arrogance, as if she imagined herself important enough to warrant such dedicated, malicious attention.

“The disciplinary hearing for the Tutshill match,” he continued, addressing her points with methodical precision, “was resolved, as I understand it, through the standard League review process. Perhaps a member of the Committee did indeed possess a certain fondness for the Harpies. Or perhaps, upon reviewing the evidence, they simply concluded that your actions, while regrettable, did not warrant a career-ending suspension at that juncture. Such decisions are often based on precedent, on the perceived severity of the infraction relative to past incidents. My involvement was… unnecessary.”

He picked up his teacup, taking a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving hers. “As for the Ministry review of the Harpies’ finances and compliance, these are routine administrative procedures, Miss Weasley. Departments are subject to periodic audits. League teams are required to adhere to specific regulations. Mr. Perkins, I believe, was merely fulfilling his assigned duties.”

He set the cup down. “The funding cuts, the travel stipend revisions. These are regrettable but often unavoidable consequences of broader Ministry budgetary constraints and resource allocation reviews. The Department of Magical Games and Sports, like all departments, must operate within its allocated budget. Decisions are made based on perceived need, strategic priorities, and, yes, occasionally, the political climate.\”

He paused again, his gaze sharpening slightly. “Your actions at the Gilded Snitch, Miss Weasley, were public. They were witnessed. They involved a physical assault upon a Senior Ministry Advisor. Such an incident, regardless of my personal feelings on the matter, inevitably attracts attention. It creates ripples. Other Ministry officials, League administrators, sponsors, they would naturally take note. They would form their own judgments. They would react according to their own protocols and perceived interests.”

He leaned forward fractionally, his voice dropping slightly. “The repercussions you experienced – your suspension, the pressure on your team – were the direct, foreseeable consequences of your own public, unprofessional conduct. My role in that was largely observational. And, when consulted, to offer an advisory opinion consistent with maintaining Ministry decorum and League stability. To suggest otherwise is to absolve yourself of responsibility and to credit me with a level of micromanagement that, frankly, I find rather tedious to contemplate.”

Ginny listened, a knot of frustration tightening in her stomach.

He was doing it again.

He made it all sound so… reasonable. So logical. So… impersonal.

And yet…

She still didn’t entirely believe him.

His explanations were too neat, too perfectly aligned with official narratives.

He was too good at manipulating perceptions, at twisting words.

But she also knew that arguing further was pointless.

She had no proof, only suspicions, gut feelings.

And pushing him now, after this fragile, unexpected truce they had stumbled into, felt like deliberately poking the manticore Gwenog had warned her about.

She had asked her questions. He had given his answers, however unsatisfactory.

Perhaps it was time to… let it go. For now.

To accept his version of events, at least outwardly, and focus on the precarious opportunity he had granted her.

She let out a slow breath, deliberately relaxing the tension in her shoulders. “Alright,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “Fair enough. Perhaps I have been… overly imaginative.”

Riddle inclined his head, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He recognized the shift, the unspoken agreement to move on from this particular line of inquiry.

He simply sat, observing, his own teacup untouched now, his thoughts, as always, impossible to discern.

Ginny finished the last of her coffee, the strong, bitter taste a welcome contrast to the complexities of their conversation. She wiped her mouth with a napkin, feeling a strange mixture of exhaustion and… something else.

Not relief, exactly. But a sense of having navigated a particularly treacherous stretch of rapids without capsizing completely.

She had confronted him, in her own way.

She had asked her questions.

She had received his answers, however oblique.

And she was still here, not in Azkaban, not Obliviated, not even facing another lecture on her character flaws.

It was, in its own bizarre way, progress.

“Well,” she said, pushing back her chair slightly, “this has been… unexpectedly civilized. For us, anyway.” She offered another small, almost genuine smile. “Thanks for the… enlightening breakfast.”

Riddle inclined his head, a gesture that was neither agreement nor dismissal, merely acknowledgement of her statement. “Civility is often a more efficient means of achieving desired outcomes than unrestrained emotional displays. A lesson some learn more readily than others.”

The barb was there, subtle but unmistakable, a final reminder of their previous encounters, of the power dynamic that still, undeniably, existed between them.

Ginny met his gaze, a flicker of her old defiance sparking in her eyes, but she didn't rise to it.

She had made her concessions, paid her dues.

She wouldn’t be goaded now.

This attempt at a more measured interaction, however strained, was the best she could manage.

It wasn't about becoming friends, or even allies. It was about navigating a treacherous situation with a degree of self-awareness she hadn't possessed before.

She knew, with a clarity that had been hard-won, that her previous actions had been wrong, fueled by uncontrolled temper, however provoked she had felt.

“Right,” she said, her tone deliberately light. “Well, I’ll try to remember that the next time a Bludger is aiming for my head. Or the next time a Ministry official lends me a book that feels like it could summon something unpleasant if you read it backwards under a full moon.”

She stood up, slinging her satchel over her shoulder.

The rune-embossed book remained on the table, a testament to their odd, unresolved intellectual sparring.

She hadn’t taken it back, and he hadn’t asked for it. It lay there, a peculiar, shared artifact of their unexpected breakfast.

“I should probably let you get back to your dragon protocols and goblin liaisoning,” she said, offering a polite, almost formal nod. “And I have a date with Gwenog’s particularly vicious new set of Chaser drills. Aerodynamic challenges and all.”

Riddle also rose, his movements fluid, economical. He picked up his leather portfolio from the adjacent chair.

The absence of the formal robes subtly shifted his presence, making him seem less like an untouchable official and more like… himself, whatever that truly meant.

As Ginny turned to leave, intending to settle the bill with Martha at the counter, Riddle spoke, his voice unexpectedly interrupting her departure.

“Miss Weasley.”

She paused, looking back at him, a question in her eyes.

He had retrieved a small, discreet coin purse from an inner pocket of his trousers. He extracted several Galleons, placing them neatly on the table beside her mostly empty coffee cup. The gold gleamed dully in the café’s muted light.

“Allow me,” he said, his tone almost matter-of-fact. “Consider it a prudent measure, given the current fiscal climate.”

Ginny stared at the Galleons, then up at his face, utterly bewildered.

She hadn’t expected this. She hadn't even considered he might offer to pay.

The widespread budget cuts affecting all Ministry departments, including those supporting the Quidditch League, were common knowledge. It was a Ministry-wide directive, a reality everyone was facing.

“What?” she managed, her voice betraying her surprise. “Riddle, I said it was my treat. I can afford a bacon sandwich and a couple of coffees.”

“Indeed,” he replied smoothly, making no move to retrieve the coins. “However, the Ministry-wide budgetary adjustments will inevitably impact League funding and team stipends across the ]board. It is a simple economic reality.”

He paused, his gaze meeting hers, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. “A professional athlete, particularly one whose primary income is derived from such sources, would be wise to exercise a fiscal foresight. To build a reserve. One never knows when unforeseen circumstances might necessitate a period of… reduced earnings.”

Ginny was speechless.

This wasn’t a threat.

It wasn't a personal attack.

It was… practical advice. Delivered with his usual detachment, but advice nonetheless.

He was paying for breakfast, and framing it as a pragmatic suggestion for her financial well-being in light of the known, impending cuts.

It was bizarre. Unexpected. And yet… there was a strange, almost twisted kind of logic to it, from his perspective.

He wasn't being kind, not in the conventional sense.

Ensuring a potentially disruptive variable (a financially desperate Ginny Weasley) remained somewhat stable, perhaps.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the closest he could come to a gesture that wasn't overtly hostile or manipulative, given the circumstances.

“So, you’re paying for my breakfast,” Ginny said slowly, trying to process the sheer unexpectedness of it, “because of the Ministry budget cuts? You’re giving me financial planning advice?”

“Think of it as acknowledging an economic reality, Miss Weasley. And ensuring essential assets,” – his gaze flickered briefly towards her, then away – “remain operational. Save your sickles. You may find them more useful than you currently anticipate.”

“Right,” Ginny said, shaking her head, a wry, almost disbelieving smile playing on her own lips. “Acknowledging economic reality. Of course. How very practical of you.”

She didn't argue further. She didn't refuse the money.

Partly because she knew it would be pointless; he would simply leave it there.

Partly because, on some level, his assessment of her financial future, given the looming, Ministry-wide cuts, was probably accurate. She, like every other player, would need to be careful.

And partly because the sheer, bizarre unexpectedness of the gesture had, once again, thrown her completely off balance.

It wasn't the act of a vindictive enemy trying to rub her nose in his power over her team's finances; it was something far more… him.

Complex. Unreadable.

“Well, Mr. Riddle,” she said, her voice laced with a dry irony that he probably wouldn’t even register as such, “thank you for the… economic foresight. I’ll be sure to invest it wisely. Perhaps in a lifetime supply of very plain toast.”

He inclined his head, “Prudence is never a wasted investment.”

With that, he turned and walked towards the exit of The Daily Crust. He didn’t look back.

Ginny watched him go, a strange mixture of relief, exasperation, and something settling in her stomach.

The “something” was unidentifiable, unsettling.

A sense that this wasn’t an ending, but a shift. A recalibration of their strange, unwilling entanglement.

She looked down at the Galleons gleaming on the table. Enough for dozens of breakfasts. Enough, perhaps, to tide her over for a week or two if the Harpies’ stipends really did dry up due to the Ministry-wide cuts.

She scooped up the Galleons, the metal cool against her palm, feeling a strange mixture of resentment and grudging acceptance.

The rules of their engagement were constantly shifting, constantly being rewritten by him.

She had apologized. She had been reinstated, conditionally.

The immediate crisis, for her and for the Harpies, seemed to have been averted, or at least, deferred.

But Tom Riddle was still Tom Riddle.

His actions, even when seemingly helpful, were filtered through his own unsettling logic.

And she, Ginny Weasley, was still… Ginny Weasley.

Still trying to understand him, still caught in his orbit, still struggling to navigate the consequences of her own past actions and his complex reactions.

Their paths had crossed, spectacularly, dangerously.

And now, though they were retreating to their respective corners, to their different worlds, something had irrevocably changed.

A mutual awareness. A grudging, almost imperceptible respect for the other’s capabilities, however different, however opposed.

And now, apparently, a shared breakfast receipt, paid for with a bizarre lecture on financial prudence.

She picked up the rune-embossed book from the table.

He hadn't taken it back.

It felt like a challenge, still. An unanswered question.

With a sigh that was part exhaustion, part trepidation, and now, part utter bewilderment, Ginny Weasley left enough sickles on the table to cover her own breakfast (she wouldn't let him actually pay for her bacon, regardless of his reasoning), pocketed Riddle’s unsettling Galleons, tucked the ancient book back into her satchel, and stepped out of The Daily Crust, back into the bright and noisy Diagon Alley.

Chapter Text

The biting December wind howled through the Ministry’s upper corridors, its mournful echoes seeping through the cracks of Tom Riddle’s office door.

Outside - far above ground - snow fell thick and wet over London, muffling the city’s cacophony, but here, deep underground, the only sound was the deliberate scrape of a quill on parchment.

The office was a vault of silence, illuminated solely by the glow of his desk lamp and the faint, pulsating hum of enchantments woven into the dark wood paneling. The walls, charmed to mimic the hour, flickered with the ghostly blue of a winter twilight, though no natural light could penetrate the Ministry’s depths.

Riddle was engrossed in a personnel review. Not a routine departmental audit, but a more discreet assessment.

He was evaluating candidates for several newly created, strategically significant liaison positions within the restructured Inter-Departmental Oversight Committee for Magical Artifact Security – the very committee he had subtly guided into existence.

These roles required individuals with demonstrable loyalty to certain forward-thinking policy initiatives, a keen understanding of how Ministry regulations could be interpreted to facilitate strategic objectives, and, crucially, a network of influence within their respective spheres.

Competence was essential, but ideological alignment and strategic utility were foremmost.

His quill moved with swift precision across the confidential personnel files spread before him – Aurors whose commendations hinted at a willingness to operate beyond standard protocols when "necessary," junior administrators from influential pure-blood families who had demonstrated an aptitude for navigating bureaucratic complexities, even a few older, seemingly unremarkable clerks from the Archives who possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of forgotten Ministry procedures and, more importantly, an ambition that could be cultivated.

He paused, his gaze settling on a file near the bottom of the stack.

Weasley, Percy Ignatius.

Junior Assistant Secretary, Department of International Magical Cooperation.

Attached was a recent photograph – the familiar pinched, earnest face, the neatly combed hair, the slightly too-tight Ministry robes.

Riddle’s eyes scanned the pertinent details:

Hogwarts record (Prefect, Head Boy, impeccable NEWT scores in Transfiguration and Charms), employment history (a steady, if uninspired, climb through the lower echelons of International Cooperation, notable primarily for its lack of any significant missteps), performance reviews (consistently rated “Diligent,” “Conscientious,” “Adept at adherence to protocol,” with occasional notes on “Limited independent strategic thinking” or “Excessive rigidity in interpretation of regulations when faced with novel situations”).

Then, under Personal Information, a line item: Date of Birth – 22 August.

“…never once offered to buy him so much as a Cauldron Cake, not even on his birthday.”

Ginny Weasley’s voice, dry and exasperated, from that bizarre breakfast at The Daily Crust.

A throwaway comment, a piece of irrelevant sibling banter. He hadn’t even consciously registered it at the time, not as significant data.

Yet, here it was, resurfacing unbidden, triggered by the sight of Percy Weasley’s birthdate on an official Ministry document.

An involuntary, almost imperceptible scoff escaped him, so quiet it was barely a breath. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards, the faintest ghost of a smile, quickly suppressed.

He blinked, his focus returning sharply to the personnel file.

Annoyance, sharp and immediate, pricked at him.

A distraction.

His own internal filing system for information relating to G. Weasley, which was already far more extensive than it had any right to be, had clearly malfunctioned, cross-referencing irrelevant data.

He made a swift, decisive annotation on Percy Weasley’s file – “Potentially useful for meticulous implementation of established directives. Lacks innovative capacity. Requires clear, unambiguous instruction and careful oversight to prevent deviation. Susceptible to flattery and appeals to authority.” – then set it aside, deliberately pushing the lingering echo of Ginny Weasley’s voice from his mind. 

He returned his attention to the remaining files, his focus narrowing once more, the brief, unwelcome intrusion dismissed.

There were more important matters to consider, candidates with greater potential for strategic utility, individuals whose ambition and lineage aligned more closely with his own long-term objectives.

The rhythmic scratch of his quill resumed, the only sound in the otherwise silent office.

An hour later, Pringle entered, bearing a fresh pot of tea and a slim folder of urgent inter-departmental memos requiring Riddle’s immediate signature. Pringle also provided a verbal summary of the morning’s less critical communications.

“…and a rather agitated query from the Department of Magical Transportation, sir,” Pringle recited, his voice carefully neutral, betraying none of the exasperation he felt at the Department's persistent obtuseness. “Regarding the proposed revisions to the Apparition Test licensing standards. They express concern that the increased stringency for long-distance side-along Apparition, particularly the new mandatory ward-penetration simulation, might… disproportionately affect their operational efficiency metrics for certain rural delivery routes.”

Riddle didn’t look up from the document he was signing – a directive authorizing enhanced security protocols for the transport of restricted artifacts between Ministry departments.

“The current standards, Pringle, are a witness to complacent mediocrity. They prioritize convenience over security, resulting in an unacceptable number of splinching incidents and breaches of the Statute of Secrecy when underqualified individuals attempt complex maneuvers. The revisions are designed to elevate standards, ensure operational integrity, and subtly discourage casual inter-regional travel by those lacking demonstrable skill. Inform Transportation their concerns regarding ‘efficiency metrics’ are noted, but security and control are paramount. The revisions will proceed as drafted. They will adapt.”

“Very good, sir,” Pringle murmured, making a neat note on his own pad. “Also, a follow-up from the Goblin Liaison Office regarding the Gringotts warding upgrades. They are… reiterating their request for further clarification on Clause 7, sub-section B, pertaining to Ministry override access to primary vault clusters in declared times of national magical emergency. They cite ancient treaties and sovereign immunity.”

Riddle’s quill paused. “The goblins, as always, are masters of obfuscation and selective interpretation of historical precedent. Clause 7, sub-section B, is unequivocal. Ministry authority, in matters of overarching magical security that transcend financial sovereignty, is absolute. Their ‘request for clarification’ is a well-worn tactic to negotiate from a position of feigned grievance. Inform them the clause stands. And convey my appreciation for their continued diligence in safeguarding the wizarding world’s financial assets, a diligence best demonstrated through transparent cooperation with Ministry oversight.”

“Yes, Mr. Riddle.” Pringle hesitated for a fraction of a second. “And… one final item, sir. It was delivered by hand, by a junior clerk from the Player Registration Office. It appears Miss Ginny Weasley left it with him this morning, with instructions for it to be passed directly to your office.”

Riddle’s hand, which had been reaching for the next document, stilled. He slowly lifted his gaze, his dark eyes fixing on Pringle with an unnerving intensity.

“Miss Weasley?” he repeated.

“The clerk reported that Miss Weasley stated it was a… personal matter, sir,” Pringle said, his voice carefully neutral, though a flicker of apprehension crossed his features. “And that she wished to… return something. That was the extent of his information.”

Return something?

Riddle’s mind flickered briefly to the rune-embossed book. He had, admittedly, almost forgotten about it in the press of more significant matters.

Had she actually attempted to decipher its contents?

Unlikely.

He placed the envelope on his desk, beside the stack of personnel files.

He would deal with it later. Or perhaps not at all.

Her personal matters, her attempts at intellectual engagement, were of no real consequence to him.

“That will be all. Thank you, Pringle,” he said, his tone dismissing both the assistant and the envelope. 

Pringle, recognizing the finality in his superior’s voice, bowed slightly and retreated from the office, leaving Riddle once more to the silence and his work.

Riddle returned his attention to the personnel files, but the small, unassuming envelope on the edge of his desk seemed to exert a faint, distracting pull, an unwelcome anomaly.

Later that evening, the snow had intensified, swirling in thick, hypnotic patterns against the darkened windows of the private room above The White Wyvern, an old, discreet wizarding tavern nestled in a labyrinthine alley off Knockturn Alley.

The air in the room was thick with pipe smoke – Malfoy’s preferred blend of expensive, imported tobacco – and the low murmur of hushed, serious conversation. A single, heavily shaded lamp cast pools of yellow light onto the rough-hewn wooden table, leaving the corners of the room in deep shadow.

Riddle sat at the head of the table, a glass of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky – neat, untouched – before him. His dark robes seemed to absorb the meager light, his face partially obscured by shadow.

Across from him sat: Abraxas Malfoy, Theodore Nott Sr., Evan Rosier, and Antonin Dolohov.

Powerful, ambitious pure-bloods in their own right, their families possessing generations of wealth, influence, and a shared disdain for the Ministry’s current trajectory under Fudge’s incompetent leadership and Dumbledore’s Muggle-loving sentimentality.

They were drawn to Riddle not just by his intellect and ruthlessness, but by his vision of a restored wizarding order, one where pure-blood authority was utmost, where magical traditions were upheld, and where the inconvenient interference of lesser beings was minimized.

Their reverence for Riddle was born of his undeniable capabilities, but it was also intertwined with their own self-interest, their desire for power and position in the world he was shaping.

Tonight, the mood was tense.

Riddle had summoned them for an urgent, unscheduled consultation.

His demeanor was colder, sharper than usual. His replies, when he deigned to offer them, were clipped, precise, devoid of any unnecessary pleasantry.

“The draft of the revised Magical Artifact Security Act,” Malfoy was saying, his voice carefully modulated, though a hint of frustration flickered in his pale eyes, “is facing unexpected resistance in the Wizengamot Sub-Committee on Ancient Charms and Curses. Old Elmsworth, bolstered by that mudblood activist Griselda Marchbanks, is raising concerns about the expanded definition of ‘restricted items’ and the proposed increase in Ministry seizure powers. He’s rallying support amongst the more traditionalist members, those fools who still cling to notions of sentimental ownership over strategic magical control.”

Riddle listened, his expression unreadable. He tapped a long finger slowly on the rim of his untouched whisky glass.

“Elmsworth,” he said finally, his voice carrying an unmistakable edge of steel, “is a relic, a sentimental fool clinging to outdated notions of individual liberty that jeopardize collective magical security. Marchbanks is a predictable obstructionist. Their ‘concerns’ are merely noise, designed to impede progress.”

“Perhaps,” Nott interjected, his voice a low rumble, his heavy-set features set in a frown of pragmatic concern. “But Elmsworth commands respect amongst certain elder families. His family’s coffers are deep, their influence subtle but pervasive. A direct confrontation could prove… messy, alienate potential allies whose support we might require for other… initiatives.”

Nott, whose own family’s wealth was considerable, understood the power of old gold and established lineage.

“A direct confrontation is rarely the most efficient path,” Riddle cut him off, his gaze flicking towards Nott with a coldness that made the larger man shift uncomfortably. “Elmsworth, for all his bluster about tradition, has vulnerabilities. Financial indiscretions, I believe, from his younger, more reckless days. Certain gambling debts to less reputable goblin establishments, debts that have accrued considerable interest. Ensure that information, along with carefully selected details of Marchbanks’ more radical policy proposals from her time at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, reaches the appropriate ears within the Sub-Committee. Discreetly, of course. Let his own ‘traditionalist’ colleagues ponder the wisdom of aligning themselves with a man whose personal affairs are so disordered, and whose primary ally champions policies that threaten their own ancestral artifact collections.”

Malfoy nodded slowly, “A most… persuasive strategy. Undermining his credibility from within. Elegant.”

Malfoy, connoisseur of political maneuvering, appreciated the subtlety.

Riddle acknowledged this with a slight inclination of his head. He turned his attention to Rosier, whose lean, hawkish features were set in an expression of eager anticipation. “The matter of the unauthorized ley-line tapping near the Welsh dragon reserve. Your preliminary investigation into this rogue magical collective?”

Rosier leaned forward, his voice sharp. “Confirmed. A small, surprisingly well-organized group. They appear to be siphoning raw magical energy for unregulated enchanting, potentially for the creation of unlicensed magical weaponry or dangerously unstable artifacts. Their wards are sophisticated, layered with some rather archaic, almost forgotten, protective enchantments. Likely sourced from some obscure, privately held grimoire.”

Rosier, whose own family possessed a notable collection of such grimoires, recognized the hallmarks.

“Unregulated enchanting,” Riddle mused, his eyes narrowing. “Potentially destabilizing. And a blatant disregard for Ministry oversight and the established order of magical practice.”

He paused. “Their wards may be sophisticated, Rosier, but are they impenetrable? Or merely an intellectual challenge requiring a more nuanced approach than brute force?”

“An intellectual challenge,” Rosier replied quickly, a hint of pride in his voice. “Their warding scheme has certain… predictable patterns, exploitable weaknesses if one understands the underlying principles of archaic resonance. With the correct application of... counter-harmonic frequencies, they can be nullified. Quietly.”

“Then see that they are,” Riddle commanded, his voice leaving no room for debate. “Dismantle their operation. Seize their research, their grimoires. The knowledge they possess could be valuable, if properly analyzed and controlled. And ensure the individuals involved understand, unequivocally, the consequences of operating outside established Ministry protocols and the inherent dangers of meddling with forces beyond their comprehension. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures will require a full report, naturally. Ensure it emphasizes the potential threat to magical stability, the reckless endangerment of protected magical creatures, and the absolute necessity for enhanced Ministry oversight of all independent magical research and enchanting endeavors.”

Dolohov, who had remained silent until now, his scarred face impassive, his powerful frame radiating a barely contained brutality, finally spoke, his voice a harsh rasp. “There are talks from my contacts within the Auror Office. Not just routine patrols. Increased, targeted surveillance around certain… historically significant locations. Unofficial inquiries into cold cases, matters long thought settled. Nothing concrete enough to act upon, but a definite shift in atmosphere. Amelia Bones is becoming… more proactive, less predictable. She’s digging.”

Riddle’s gaze sharpened.

Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

A formidable woman, incorruptible, fiercely intelligent, and dangerously competent. Her increased proactivity, her willingness to revisit settled matters, was noted. And potentially problematic.

“Specific locations, Antonin?” Riddle inquired, betraying no outward concern.

“The old Gaunt property near Little Hangleton was mentioned specifically,” Dolohov rumbled. “And some renewed, albeit discreet, interest in the circumstances surrounding the acquisition of certain items from the estate of Hepzibah Smith. Decades old, yes, but Bones has a reputation for tenacity, for worrying at old bones until they yield new truths.”

Dolohov, whose own past contained activities that would not bear Auror scrutiny, understood the danger Bones represented.

Riddle’s expression remained impassive, but a flicker of something cold and hard stirred deep within his eyes.

The Gaunt shack.

Hepzibah Smith.

Relics of a past he had thought meticulously erased, stepping stones on his path to power, now potentially subject to unwelcome re-examination.

Weasley’s ill-advised 'historical inquiries' had been amateurish, easily dismissed. But Amelia Bones… she was a different caliber of threat, one who operated with the full authority of the Ministry, one who could not be so easily manipulated or intimidated.

“Interesting,” Riddle murmured, his fingers drumming softly on the table. “Vigilance is always commendable, even when potentially misdirected by incomplete information or fueled by unfounded suspicion.”

He looked at Dolohov. “Ensure your contacts remain forthcoming. Any deviation from standard Auror procedure, any unauthorized lines of inquiry, any specific interest in individuals or artifacts connected to those historical matters are to be reported to me immediately. Forewarned is forearmed, Antonin.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the faces of his inner circle.

The room was thick with unspoken tension, aura of his displeasure, and shared understanding of the high-stakes game they were all playing.

“The Ministry,” he said finally, “is an instrument. A tool for shaping a more ordered, more powerful wizarding world, a world where true magical potential is not shackled by sentimentality or incompetence. But tools must be kept sharp. Inefficiencies purged. Obstructions removed. Whether they be sentimental old fools in the Wizengamot, reckless amateurs meddling with ley-lines, or overzealous Aurors exceeding their mandate and dredging up matters best left undisturbed.”

“See that these obstructions are dealt with. And with the utmost discretion.”

He didn’t need to elaborate.

The unspoken threat.

The expectation of absolute compliance.

Dolohov’s report regarding Amelia Bones’s renewed interest in historicalmatters was a complication. Not an immediate threat, perhaps, but a loose thread that, if pulled with sufficient tenacity, could unravel carefully constructed narratives.

He set the glass down, the faint clink echoing in the sudden silence.

Nott, Rosier, Dolohov – they watched him, their expressions carefully neutral, awaiting his next directive. 

“Amelia Bones,” Riddle mused, commanding the room’s full attention, “is a competent Auror. Dedicated. Incorruptible, by conventional means.” He paused, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. “Such qualities, while admirable in a subordinate, can become inconvenient when misapplied.”

He looked at Dolohov. “Your contacts within the Auror Office, Antonin. Are they merely observers? Or are they capable of more proactive measures, should the need arise? The misdirection of resources, the ‘accidental’ misfiling of crucial evidence, the subtle dissemination of misinformation to discredit certain lines of inquiry, these are often more effective than overt confrontation.”

Dolohov’s scarred face remained impassive, but a flicker of understanding glinted in his eyes. “There are those who recognize the inefficiencies of Director Bones’s more nostalgic pursuits. Those who understand that some historical matters are best left undisturbed, for the sake of present stability. They might be persuaded to… facilitate a more focused allocation of Auror resources towards genuine, contemporary threats, rather than chasing phantoms from the past.”

“See that they are so persuaded,” Riddle said, his voice quiet but absolute. “And ensure that any anomalies in Bones’s investigations are brought to my attention immediately. Her tenacity is a known quantity. Her discretion, however, particularly when she believes she is pursuing a righteous cause, can be variable.”

The biting Welsh wind, a relentless harbinger of the deep December chill, howled across the Holyhead Harpies’ training pitch with a mournful sound. It carried the sharp, briny tang of the Irish Sea, a scent usually invigorating to Ginny, but today it felt oppressive, mirroring the unforgiving grey of the sky.

The third week of December was drawing to a close, and the festive cheer that should have been building towards Yule felt unnervingly absent from the atmosphere surrounding the team.

Ordinarily, even with the Yuletide break looming, the Harpies should have been in the air for a good hour by now.

Gwenog Jones’s booming voice, a force of nature in itself, should be cutting through the wind’s shriek, her commands sharp and uncompromising, pushing them through drills designed to maintain peak conditioning despite the encroaching holiday season.

The rhythmic thud of Bludgers against practice dummies, the crisp snap of Quaffle passes, the synchronized whir of twenty-eight broomsticks cutting through the icy air – these were the familiar, reassuring sounds that usually defined a Harpy practice session, a proof to their discipline and Gwenog’s unwavering leadership.

But today, an unnatural, heavy quiet hung over the pitch.

It was broken only by the wind’s lament and the low murmurs of the assembled players, their breath pluming like distressed ghosts in the frigid air.

They hovered in a loose, uneasy formation near the centre circle, their faces etched with a confusion that was rapidly solidifying into unease.

Gwenog Jones was absent.

Ginny, perched on her Comet Two Ninety, her fingers already numb despite her thick Quidditch gloves, felt the captain’s absence like a physical void.

It was a constant, nagging awareness that something was fundamentally wrong.

Gwenog was the heart of the Harpies, their unyielding captain, the very bedrock of their legendary discipline. She didn’t do unexplained absences.

Blizzards that grounded even the mail owls, outbreaks of Dragon Pox that sent lesser teams into quarantine, even the potent lure of a Yule sherry savored by a roaring fire – Gwenog would be there, on the pitch, barking orders, demanding nothing less than perfection.

Ginny had received an owl from her captain the previous evening, its arrival punctual as always, its message terse and standard: “0700 sharp. Full contact drills. Focus: Pre-Yule break conditioning. No slacking. Don’t be late, Weasley.”

There had been nothing out of the ordinary, no hint of personal crisis, no mention of impending doom.

Just Gwenog, being Gwenog.

Which made her absence today all the more jarring.

She scanned the faces of her teammates, seeking reassurance, finding only mirrored anxiety.

Valmai Morgan, renowned for her nerves of steel even when chasing a Snitch through a hailstorm of Bludgers, was chewing nervously on the inside of her lip, her sharp eyes constantly darting towards the empty space where Gwenog usually stood.

Rhiannon Griffiths and Megan Lloyd, Ginny’s fellow Chasers, her partners in countless aerial battles, huddled together for warmth and perhaps courage, their whispered anxieties lost to the wind, their breath misting in the cold air.

Even Carys Pritchard, Gwenog’s second-in-command, the team’s other Beater, a woman whose composure rivaled the ancient standing stones that dotted the Welsh landscape, looked uncharacteristically unsettled. Her brow was furrowed in a deep, worried line, her gaze repeatedly sweeping the empty changing room entrance as if expecting Gwenog to materialize at any moment, bellowing apologies for some unforeseen, monumental delay.

“Alright, settle down! Settle down!” Carys finally barked, her voice lacking Gwenog’s booming parade-ground authority but carrying a note of forced, brittle resolve that barely masked her own profound concern.

She kicked her own broom slightly higher, trying to project an air of command. “Captain Jones is… delayed. Unavoidably delayed, I’m sure. We have a schedule to keep. Our first match after the Yule break is against Puddlemere United, and they aren't going to gift us points just because our captain decided to start her holiday tipple a bit early, are they?”

The attempt at humor, meant to lighten the oppressive mood, fell utterly flat, swallowed by the team’s collective apprehension.

No one, not even the newest reserve player, believed for a second that Gwenog Jones was capable of taking an unscheduled early Yule holiday. And 'delayed' felt like a ridiculously inadequate euphemism for Gwenog's unprecedented, unexplained absence.

Puddlemere United, their next opponents, were notoriously tough, their defensive shell almost legendary. The Harpies couldn't afford any disruption to their preparation, any chink in their focus.

“Warm-up laps,” Carys commanded again, her voice sharper this time, trying to inject some semblance of normalcy, of routine, into the strained atmosphere. “Standard formation. Let’s move! Before we all turn into ice sculptures and give the Prophet a truly sensationalist headline.”

The team kicked off, their movements sluggish, almost reluctant. Their usually sharp, synchronized formations were ragged, uncertain, reflecting the unease that gripped them.

Ginny fell into place beside Rhiannon, the wind whipping at her face with stinging ferocity, but the familiar thrill of flight, the sheer joy of being airborne, was absent today. It was replaced by a cold, hard knot of dread tightening in her stomach, a premonition that this was no ordinary Tuesday morning.

Gwenog Jones never missed practice.

Not unless she was physically incapable of mounting a broom, perhaps confined to St. Mungo’s with multiple compound fractures and a severe concussion. And even then, Ginny suspected, Gwenog would find a way to direct drills from a magically conjured, heated armchair, possibly while sipping a restorative potion and simultaneously delivering a scathing critique of anyone who dared to drop a Quaffle.

Something’s wrong, Ginny thought, the words echoing the unspoken fear that had settled over the entire team, as cold and persistent as the December wind. Really, fundamentally wrong.

They were halfway through their third warm-up lap, the wind buffeting them relentlessly, threatening to numb exposed fingers and ears despite charmed gloves and warming spells, when the first sharp, whip-crack CRACK echoed across the pitch.

It wasn’t the familiar, slightly muffled sound of a teammate Apparating to the designated arrival point just outside the changing rooms. This was louder, sharper, closer, carrying a distinct, almost aggressive edge.

Then another CRACK.

And another.

And another.

A dozen of them, perhaps more, in rapid, almost military succession, ringing the entire perimeter of the training ground.

Ginny instinctively pulled up, her Comet Two Ninety shuddering beneath her as she yanked back on the handle, her head snapping around, scanning the edges of the pitch.

Her teammates did the same, their uneasy formation dissolving instantly into a confused, alarmed cluster, their breath catching in the icy air, their eyes wide with sudden apprehension.

Then they appeared.

Dark figures, materializing from the misty, sleet-laced air as if coalescing from the very shadows, positioned just beyond the Harpies’ existing ward lines.

Dozens of them, Ginny counted, clad in the severe, official-looking dark robes of Ministry Aurors, their faces grim, unsmiling, their wands already drawn, moving with a chilling, practiced efficiency that spoke of serious, unwelcome intent.

Ginny’s heart lurched into her throat, a cold fist of dread clenching around it.

Aurors?

Here?

At their private training ground?

Now, just days before Yule?

This couldn’t be good. This couldn’t be routine.

Before anyone could react, before a single bewildered question could be voiced, the Aurors began to cast in unison.

Not offensive spells, not directly at the players, not yet. But powerful, shimmering lines of intense magical light shot upwards from their extended wands, weaving together with terrifying speed to form a vast, transparent, almost crystalline dome over the entire training ground.

The existing Harpy wards, designed primarily to deter stray Bludgers and the occasional over-enthusiastic local fan trying to sneak a peek, flickered violently, a desperate, visible struggle against a superior force, then sputtered and died with a faint, defeated whine as the stronger, more complex Ministry enchantments overwhelmed them.

Anti-Apparition.

Anti-Portkey.

A full, inescapable containment field.

They were trapped. Sealed in.

“What in the name of Merlin— What’s going on?” Valmai Morgan cried out, her voice thin and sharp with alarm, as she hovered nearest to the newly erected magical barrier, its shimmering surface pulsing with contained power. Her usual Seeker’s calm, her ability to remain focused even amidst the chaos of a Bludger barrage, had completely shattered.

One of the Aurors, a grim-faced woman whose features were dominated by a jagged, livid scar that stretched from her temple to her jawline, turned towards Valmai, her wand leveled with unnerving steadiness.

“Ministry of Magic, Auror Office!” she barked, her voice amplified by a subtle Sonorus Charm, cutting through the wind like a shard of razor-sharp ice. “This facility is now under full Ministry control! All players will dismount and ground their brooms immediately! Form a single line in the centre of the pitch! No sudden movements! No attempts to leave these grounds!”

Her cold, assessing gaze swept over the stunned, hovering players, devoid of any reassurance, any explanation.

The command to dismount, to abandon their brooms – their primary means of mobility and, in a Quidditch context, their only real tools – was a clear assertion of dominance, rendering them even more vulnerable.

Panic, raw and infectious, began to ripple through the Harpies.

Their faces, already pale from the cold, blanched further. They looked at each other, then back at the ring of implacable Aurors, their eyes wide with a mixture of terror and disbelief.

Their wands. As per strict League training regulations, designed to prevent accidental magical discharges during the often-violent physicality of practice, all their wands were safely stowed, locked away in their individual lockers in the changing rooms on the far side of the pitch.

They were wandless. Defenseless.

Trapped under a shimmering dome of high-level Ministry magic, surrounded by at least a dozen grim-faced Aurors with drawn wands, and now ordered to ground themselves, making them easy targets on a bleak December morning that had just escalated from unsettling to utterly terrifying.

Megan Lloyd, never one to back down from a perceived injustice, her temper flaring even without the comforting weight of her wand in her hand, shouted defiantly, even as she reluctantly began to descend, “You can’t just barge in here! This is private Holyhead Harpies property! What right do you possibly have to—”

She made a slight, instinctive movement on her broom as she neared the ground, perhaps intending to land with more defiance than requested, to confront the scarred Auror, to demand answers.

It was a gesture of frustration, not aggression.

The scarred Auror didn’t hesitate. Her wand flicked, almost casually, with a chilling economy of motion, even as Megan’s feet were about to touch the turf. “Petrificus Totalus!”

A jet of intense blue light shot out, striking Megan squarely in the chest before she could even fully dismount.

Megan froze instantly, her eyes widening in shock and sudden, uncomprehending terror, her body stiffening into a rigid, unnatural posture. Her broom clattered uselessly to the ground beside her.

For a horrifying, suspended moment, she stood there, perfectly petrified, silhouetted against the grey sky, then she toppled sideways like a felled statue, crashing heavily onto the damp, near-frozen turf with a sickening, bone-jarring thud, her limbs locked, her face a mask of frozen, silent fear.

“Megan!” Ginny screamed, the sound raw, torn from her throat, a potent cocktail of fury and fear surging through her, momentarily eclipsing the biting cold and the overwhelming sense of dread.

She was already dismounting, her own broom nearly forgotten as it hit the grass, and she lunged towards her fallen teammate, ignoring the sharp, warning shouts of the Aurors, ignoring Carys Pritchard’s desperate, frantic cry of “Weasley, no! Stay back! Don’t be a fool!”

She reached Megan’s side in seconds, oblivious to the thick mud and damp grass that soaked instantly into her practice robes, her knees jarring painfully as she landed.

Megan lay stiff and unblinking, her eyes wide with unshed tears, her breathing shallow and ragged through clenched teeth. A trickle of dark blood oozed from a fresh cut on her forehead where she’d impacted the hard ground, already starting to freeze into crimson beads in the frigid air.

Rage, hot and blinding, consumed Ginny.

How dared they?

How dared they treat her teammate, her friend, like this, for simply speaking out, for a minor show of defiance?

She spun around, her own eyes blazing, ready to unleash a torrent of unfiltered fury at the nearest Auror, but a tall, imposing figure stepped directly into her path, blocking her way.

He was broad-shouldered, his face set in lines of cold, hard authority, his wand leveled unwaveringly at her chest, its tip glowing faintly with contained magic.

“I wouldn’t advise it, Weasley,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that seemed to vibrate in the icy air.

He knew her name.

Of course he knew her name.

After her "recent events", her face was probably plastered on every Ministry noticeboard detailing problematic, insubordinate Quidditch players.

“This is an official Ministry investigation. You will rejoin your teammates in the centre of the pitch. Now. Any further interference, any attempt to approach the victim or obstruct Auror personnel, will be met with immediate and decisive action. Do I make myself exceptionally clear?”

The threat was less direct than a curse, but the menace in his voice, the absolute conviction in his eyes, the way his wand remained steadily aimed at her, was unmistakable.

He wouldn't hesitate to incapacitate her, just as his colleague had incapacitated Megan. He didn't need to cast a spell yet; the implication of overwhelming force was enough.

Ginny was defenseless, but the fury still burned within her, “She’s injured! You can’t just curse unarmed people! She wasn’t doing anything! She was just asking a question! She was already on the ground!”

“She was obstructing a Ministry operation by failing to comply with a direct order in a timely and respectful manner,” the scarred Auror interjected, her voice like flint as she strode closer, her own wand still trained on the other Harpies, who were now scrambling to dismount, their faces pale and drawn in the grey morning light, their brooms clattering haphazardly onto the muddy pitch. “And so are you, Weasley, by continuing to argue and delay. Your teammate will receive appropriate attention once the primary objective of this operation is secure. Until then, you will stand down. You will join the others. Or you will be made to.”

The unspoken ‘made to’ hung heavy in the air, a promise of swift, uncompromising magical force.

Before Ginny could retort, before her temper could fully erupt into another disastrous, career-ending confrontation, a sharp, almost invisible jet of light shot from an Auror positioned slightly behind her.

She felt a sudden, intensely constricting pressure around her arms, her legs, as if invisible ropes were binding her, biting into her flesh. She stumbled, caught off balance, unable to move freely, her muscles screaming in protest against the magical bonds.

Not Petrificus Totalus, but something equally effective, pinning her in place, the magical bonds feeling like biting frost against her skin.

“That’s enough!” A new voice, sharper, more authoritative than the others, cut through the tense standoff, silencing the wind itself for a moment.

A wizard in more senior-looking, impeccably tailored Auror robes, his grey hair neatly combed back from a severe, unyielding face, his expression stern and lined with impatience, stepped forward from the group of surrounding Aurors.

This was Senior Auror Corban Dawlish, Ginny recognized him from numerous stern-faced photographs in the Daily Prophet, often accompanying articles detailing crackdowns on dark artifact smuggling or Ministry pronouncements on internal security.

He surveyed the scene – the fallen, petrified Megan, the bound and struggling Ginny, the terrified, now-grounded Harpies forming a ragged, shivering line in the centre of the muddy pitch, their discarded brooms lying around them – with a distinct lack of sympathy, his breath misting in the frigid air like dragon smoke.

“This facility, and all personnel within it,” Dawlish's voice amplified by a powerful Sonorus Charm, echoed across the suddenly quiet pitch, each word a frozen shard. “are now under the full and direct control of the Auror Office. We are conducting a priority investigation into a serious, capital crime.”

His cold grey eyes swept over the assembled, shivering players, lingering for a moment on Ginny’s bound form with a flicker of something that might have been recognition of her previous altercations, or perhaps just a profound disdain for her continued presence as a persistent source of Ministry trouble.

“We are looking for one Gwendolyn Morgana Jones,” Dawlish announced, his voice ringing with the full weight of official pronouncement, the words seeming to freeze in the icy air. “Captain of the Holyhead Harpies Quidditch team. Is she present on these grounds?”

A collective gasp, sharp and fearful, went through the remaining Harpies, their breath catching in their throats.

Gwenog?

What could Gwenog possibly have done to warrant a full Auror raid, a magical containment field, players being cursed and bound, on a bleak December morning just days before the Yule celebrations were due to begin?

Carys Pritchard, her face pale as the driven snow but her voice surprisingly steady despite the terrifying circumstances, stepped forward from the shivering line of grounded players.

“Senior Auror Dawlish,” she began, her tone respectful but infused with a steely firmness that belied her fear. “Captain Jones… she’s not here today. We… we don’t know where she is. She didn’t arrive for practice this morning as scheduled.”

Dawlish’s eyes narrowed, his severe expression hardening into one of profound skepticism.

“‘Didn’t arrive’?” he repeated, his voice laced with heavy, incredulous disbelief, as if the very concept of Gwenog Jones missing a practice was an affront to Ministry intelligence. “How remarkably… convenient. Especially at this precise juncture. We have substantial reason to believe, backed by credible intelligence, that Captain Jones is actively evading arrest in connection with a capital crime.”

Evading arrest?

Gwenog?

For a capital crime?

Ginny stared, her mind reeling, disbelief and terror churning within her. The invisible, ice-cold bonds cut cruelly into her wrists as she unconsciously struggled against them, her muscles burning.

This was insane.

It had to be a mistake.

A terrible, monstrous, bureaucratic mistake.

The wind, which had seemed to hold its breath during Dawlish’s pronouncement, now returned with renewed ferocity, whipping sleet and ice pellets across the exposed training pitch, stinging any exposed skin.

The shimmering dome of the Auror containment ward pulsed faintly overhead, a constant, oppressive reminder of their entrapment.

Carys Pritchard, despite the biting cold and the Senior Auror’s intimidating presence, stood her ground. Her face was a mask of disbelief, her usually steady hands trembling slightly.

“Evading arrest?” she repeated, her voice barely audible above the wind’s howl, yet carrying a note of incredulous defiance. “Senior Auror, with all due respect, that’s… that’s simply not Gwenog. She is many things – tough, demanding, fiercely competitive, stubborn as a cursed Niffler – but she is not a coward. She wouldn’t run from anything, especially not Ministry officials. There has to be some other explanation for her absence.”

“Your loyalty to Miss Gwendolyn Jones is noted, Miss Pritchard,” Dawlish said, his tone unmoved, glacial.

He seemed to derive a certain satisfaction from the team’s distress, as if their faith in their captain was a personal affront to his authority. “But loyalty, however commendable, does not alter facts. And the facts, as currently understood by the Auror Office through diligent investigation and corroborated intelligence, strongly suggest Gwendolyn Jones has compelling reasons to avoid official scrutiny at this time.”

He took a deliberate step closer to the huddled line of Harpies, his polished dragon-hide boots crunching on the thin layer of sleet that was beginning to coat the muddy turf. His gaze, cold and assessing, swept over their pale, anxious faces, lingering for a moment on each one, as if committing their features to memory, cataloging their fear.

He seemed to relish the uncertainty he was sowing, the way the wind whipped their practice robes around their shivering forms, emphasizing their vulnerability.

“A serious incident,” Dawlish began, his voice dropping slightly, taking on a grim, almost theatrical solemnity that was clearly intended to impress upon them the gravity of the situation, “occurred late last night. In a location… known to be frequented by individuals operating outside the usual bounds of respectable wizarding society.”

He didn’t name Knockturn Alley directly, not yet.

He let the implication hang in the frigid air, a dark, unspoken stain.

He wanted them to imagine the worst, to fill in the blanks with their own fears.

“A Ministry-licensed individual,” he continued, his voice precise, each word carefully chosen, “was found deceased at his place of business. The circumstances surrounding his demise are… highly suspicious. Preliminary forensic analysis indicates a violent magical confrontation. Defensive wards shattered. Offensive spellwork deployed with considerable force. A scene, I assure you, not for the faint of heart.”

Ginny felt a chill that had nothing to do with the biting wind.

A violent magical confrontation?

Defensive wards shattered?

This sounded far more serious than a simple bar brawl or a dodgy deal gone wrong.

“Evidence recovered from the scene of this unfortunate incident,” Dawlish went on, his eyes flicking briefly, pointedly, towards Ginny, as if daring her to interrupt again, to offer another ill-advised defense of her captain, “indicates the undeniable presence of Gwendolyn Jones at the premises around the estimated time the fatal altercation is believed to have occurred.”

He paused, letting that sink in, letting the players absorb the implication of Gwenog being placed directly at the scene of a violent death.

“Furthermore,” he added, his voice hardening, “her magical signature – unique and identifiable, as you know – has been… provisionally identified… in connection with certain defensive and offensive spellwork deployed at the location. Spellwork consistent with a high-energy magical duel.”

He wasn't accusing Gwenog of murder outright, not yet. But he was meticulously constructing a narrative, brick by damning brick.

Suspicious presence.

Involvement in violent magic.

Potential culpability.

He was painting a picture of Gwenog not as a victim, but as a participant, possibly an aggressor.

“Moreover,” Dawlish continued, his tone becoming even more severe, “preliminary inquiries conducted by my office this morning suggest Gwendolyn Jones may possess information vital to this ongoing, priority investigation. Information she has, thus far, failed to volunteer to the Auror Office. Information that might shed considerable light on the events leading up to this tragic death.”

The implication was clear, hanging heavy in the icy air: Gwenog knew something, something crucial. And her silence, her failure to come forward, combined with her unexplained absence from practice this morning, was, in Dawlish’s eyes, deeply incriminating.

“This is ridiculous!” Rhiannon Griffiths burst out, her voice trembling with a mixture of indignation and fear. She took an instinctive step forward from the shivering line, despite Megan Lloyd (still petrified on the ground, a silent, frozen testament to Auror efficiency) seeming to try and silently warn her off with a flicker of her wide, terrified eyes. “Gwenog wouldn’t… she wouldn’t be involved in anything like that! She wouldn’t be in… that sort of place! There has to be a mistake! Some other perfectly reasonable explanation! She’s probably just… her owl got lost! Or her Floo connection is down! Or she’s tending to a sick Kneazle!”

The desperate, increasingly implausible excuses trailed off as Rhiannon met Dawlish’s cold gaze.

Dawlish turned his full attention to Rhiannon, his expression one of weary disdain, as if her naive outburst was merely another tedious example of misplaced loyalty he had to endure.

“Miss Griffiths, is it?” he inquired, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Your faith in Gwendolyn Jones’s impeccable character and her commitment to feline welfare is… touching. Truly. But the Auror Office, I regret to inform you, deals in evidence, patterns of behavior, and the logical inferences drawn therefrom. Not in sentimental attachments or wishful thinking about lost owls.”

He made a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture with his free hand.

Two of the junior Aurors, who had been standing impassively at the perimeter, detached themselves from the line and moved with brisk, almost practiced efficiency towards the petrified form of Megan Lloyd.

One of them produced a small, crystal vial from a pouch at his belt, uncorked it with a practiced thumb, and carefully, almost clinically, administered a few drops of a shimmering, viscous purple liquid into Megan’s slightly parted, frozen lips.

The other began chanting a soft, barely audible counter-curse, his wand tracing intricate patterns in the frigid air above Megan’s stiff form.

“If Gwendolyn Jones is innocent of any wrongdoing,” Dawlish continued, his attention returning to the terrified team, his voice regaining its hard edge, “if she possesses a perfectly reasonable explanation for her presence at the scene of this violent incident, or for her subsequent, and rather conspicuous, unavailability this morning, then the most prudent, the most logical, indeed the only sensible course of action would be for her to present herself to the Auror Office immediately and cooperate fully and unreservedly with our ongoing inquiries.”

He let that statement hang in the air, a subtle invitation, or perhaps more accurately, a veiled threat wrapped in the language of bureaucratic procedure.

Cooperate, or be officially deemed uncooperative, obstructive, and therefore, more suspect.

“Until such time as she chooses to do so,” he went on, his voice rising slightly, taking on the full, uncompromising authority of his office, “until she deigns to provide the Ministry with the information she clearly possesses, Gwendolyn Jones will be considered a person of significant interest in a major criminal investigation. A person whose immediate location and apprehension are a matter of absolute priority for this department. A person who, it appears, may have chosen the path of a fugitive.”

His gaze swept over them again, lingering on each pale, anxious face, each player now looking utterly defeated, the last vestiges of fight draining out of them in the face of his implacable certainty, his carefully constructed, damning insinuations.

The wind seemed to howl louder, carrying his words across the desolate pitch.

“Therefore,” Dawlish announced, his voice ringing with a chilling finality that seemed to freeze the very air around them, “pending further developments in this active, ongoing, and highly sensitive investigation, and due to the… considerable potential for Gwendolyn Jones’s current fugitive status and the serious allegations surrounding her to create significant disruption, to undermine public confidence, and to bring the integrity and reputation of the British and Irish Quidditch League into disrepute…”

He took a deliberate, theatrical breath, his expression grim, as if the words he was about to utter pained him greatly, though Ginny suspected he was relishing every moment of this public display of Ministry power.

“…the Department of Magical Games and Sports, in full and urgent consultation with the Auror Office, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and indeed, the Office of the Minister for Magic himself, has issued an immediate, temporary, and comprehensive suspension of all British and Irish Quidditch League matches, all team training activities, all associated player appearances, and all other League-sanctioned public events. Effective immediately. This suspension will remain in place until further notice.”

The words hit the assembled Harpies like a coordinated Bludger attack, each syllable a brutal, concussive blow.

Suspension.

Of the entire League.

Not just their upcoming match.

Not just their team’s participation.

Everything.

Every team.

Every player.

Every fan.

Grounded.

The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the mournful howl of the wind and, now, Megan Lloyd’s ragged, choked, sobbing gasps as the last vestiges of the Petrificus Totalus finally released their cruel hold.

She slumped, trembling and disoriented, against the two now-silent, stern-faced Aurors who had revived her, her face streaked with frozen tears and the blood from her forehead.

Ginny stared at Dawlish, her mind numb, a roaring in her ears that drowned out even the wind.

The Quidditch League. Suspended. Indefinitely.

Because of Gwenog.

Or rather, because of an accusation against Gwenog, because of evidence she hadn’t seen, a story she couldn’t begin to comprehend.

Her own suspension, her own carefully negotiated probation, the agonizing public apology, the fight to get back onto the pitch – it all suddenly seemed like a trivial, insignificant personal drama compared to this.

This was catastrophic.

This affected everyone involved in the sport she loved.

The players, the coaches, the groundskeepers, the physios, the fans whose lives revolved around the weekly rhythm of the matches.

Their livelihoods, their passions, their routines – all brought to a screeching, arbitrary halt.

The implications were staggering, almost too wide to grasp in that frozen, terrifying moment.

This… this was a sledgehammer blow, aimed at the very heart of the wizarding sporting world, designed to cripple.

“You… you can’t be serious,” Carys Pritchard whispered, her voice hoarse with disbelief, her usual stoic composure finally cracking. “Suspend the entire League? Because Gwenog is… merely a ‘person of interest’? Before she’s even been questioned? Before any formal charges have even been laid against her? This is… disproportionate! It’s unjust!”

“The decision, Miss Pritchard,” Dawlish stated, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument or appeal, “has been made at the highest levels of the Ministry. The integrity of the League, the public’s unwavering confidence in the Ministry’s ability to manage situations of this profound gravity, and, above all, the unimpeded progress of a major criminal investigation involving a prominent public figure, are deemed paramount. This is a necessary, albeit regrettable, precautionary measure.”

He paused, letting his gaze sweep over their devastated faces, a faint, almost imperceptible tightening at the corners of his mouth that might have been satisfaction. “The duration of this League-wide suspension will, of course, be entirely contingent upon Gwendolyn Jones’s prompt cooperation with the Auror Office and the swift, satisfactory resolution of this unfortunate matter.”

The implied threat, the cruel leverage, was unmistakable.

The sooner Gwenog Jones turned herself in, or was apprehended, the sooner the beloved sport of Quidditch might resume.

He was holding the entire League hostage, using the passion of thousands of fans, the careers of hundreds of players, as a tool to force Gwenog out of hiding.

Dawlish made a sharp, almost impatient gesture to his subordinates. “Secure the changing rooms immediately. Conduct a thorough, meticulous search of Gwendolyn Jones’s personal effects – her locker, her office, any private storage areas. We are looking for anything that might indicate her current whereabouts, any correspondence, any travel plans, any contacts, anything at all that might shed light on her recent activities or her intentions.”

His gaze swept over the remaining, shivering Harpies, who were now being nudged none-too-gently by other Aurors towards the changing room entrance. “The rest of you will be escorted from these premises shortly. You are to make yourselves available for questioning by Auror investigators as and when required. Any attempt to contact Gwendolyn Jones directly, or to provide her with any form of assistance that might impede her apprehension or obstruct the course of this investigation, will be considered a serious criminal offense – obstruction of justice – and will be dealt with to the fullest extent of Ministry law.”

He turned his gaze back to the Auror who had first addressed them. “Wilkes, see to it. Organize the search teams. And arrange for immediate transportation for Miss Lloyd back to Holyhead. She appears… somewhat distressed. Perhaps a Calming Draught would be advisable before she is questioned further.”

Distressed?

Megan was probably traumatized, and likely heading for a full-blown panic attack.

And Ginny, still bound by the invisible, magical ropes, felt her own mind reeling with the sheer, overwhelming implications of Dawlish’s announcements.

As the other Aurors began to herd the dazed, shivering Harpies towards the changing rooms, their movements clumsy, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and disbelief, Senior Auror Dawlish walked slowly, deliberately, over to Ginny.

He stopped directly in front of her, his expression appraising, almost contemptuous.

“Miss Weasley,” he said, his voice low, pitched for her ears only, though it carried an unmistakable weight of authority. “Your unfortunate penchant for… dramatic interventions… for inserting yourself into matters that do not concern you, and for challenging Ministry authority, is well documented. I trust, given the seriousness of this current situation, and your own rather precarious probationary status within the League, that you will demonstrate a newfound, and frankly long overdue, commitment to quiet compliance and full cooperation with the Auror Office.”

He leaned closer, his breath misting in the frigid air, his eyes like chips of ice. “Gwendolyn Jones, your captain, your friend, is embroiled in a very grave matter indeed. Associating yourself too closely with her at this juncture, attempting to obstruct this investigation in any conceivable way… it would be catastrophically unwise. For you. And for anyone else foolish enough to get involved with a fugitive from Ministry justice. If you, or any of your teammates, possess any information, however trivial it may seem, regarding Gwendolyn Jones’s current location, her recent contacts, or her activities leading up to last night’s tragic incident, you have a civic, moral, and indeed, legal duty to come forward with that information. Immediately. Without reservation.”

The threat was clear, unmistakable.

Stay away from Gwenog.

Stay quiet.

Cooperate fully.

Or you’ll be next.

He was making it abundantly clear that her previous transgressions had not been forgotten, and that any further misstep would have dire consequences.

He then gestured dismissively to the Auror who had originally bound her. “Release her. She’s clearly no significant threat without her broomstick or her notoriously volatile temper.”

A final, condescending insult, designed to remind her of her powerlessness in this situation.

The magical bonds vanished abruptly, leaving Ginny’s limbs aching, her skin raw and chilled where they had cruelly constricted her.

She stumbled slightly, catching herself, her gaze fixed on Dawlish’s retreating back as he strode purposefully towards the changing rooms to personally oversee the search of Gwenog’s belongings.

She was free, physically. But the weight of what had just happened, the horrifying implications for Gwenog, for her team, for the entire Quidditch League, pressed down on her, heavier, more suffocating than any magical restraint.

Gwenog.

A person of significant interest in a major criminal investigation.

A fugitive.

Missing.

It was impossible. Unthinkable. Beyond comprehension.

Yet, the grim-faced Aurors were here, tearing apart their sanctuary.

The League was suspended, its future hanging by a thread.

The evidence, Dawlish had claimed with such certainty, pointed directly to Gwenog’s involvement in a violent death.

Ginny’s mind raced, a chaotic, terrifying jumble of fear, disbelief, and a growing, desperate, righteous anger.

Gwenog Jones never, ever missed practice.

Not unless something truly monumental, something utterly catastrophic, had prevented her from being there.

And now, the Auror Office, the entire Ministry, was implying she was a common criminal, a murderer on the run, hiding from justice like some cowardly dark wizard.

No.

Something was terribly, grotesquely wrong with this entire picture.

Gwenog Jones was no killer.

She was tough, yes, almost brutally so at times. She was fierce, demanding, and could be utterly terrifying on the pitch when roused. But she lived by a strict, unwavering code of honor, a fierce, almost fanatical loyalty to her team, to the spirit of fair play, to the integrity of the game she loved.

Knockturn Alley?

A violent magical altercation resulting in death?

It didn’t fit. It didn’t compute.

Unless… unless she had been forced there, lured into a trap.

Unless she was protecting someone, taking the fall for someone else’s crime.

Unless the 'evidence' Dawlish spoke of was not what it seemed, or had been deliberately planted, deliberately misleading, designed to point the finger squarely at the most convenient, or perhaps the most vulnerable, target.

The thought, once it took root, blossomed with terrifying speed in Ginny’s mind.

This wasn’t just a tragic accident or a deal gone wrong.

This felt… orchestrated.

Too neat.

Too convenient.

And Gwenog, with her fierce loyalty and her stubborn refusal to back down from a fight, might just be the perfect scapegoat.

Auror Wilkes, a wiry, sharp-featured wizard whose eyes seemed to miss nothing, gestured curtly with his wand towards the changing room entrance. “Alright, you lot! Inside! Single file! No talking! And no touching anything until we’ve had a look around!”

His voice was devoid of any sympathy, carrying the impersonal authority of someone simply executing a distasteful but necessary task.

This initial herding felt less like a formal prelude to questioning and more like securing potential witnesses – or suspects – at a fresh crime scene, even if that scene was their own training ground.

The Harpies, still dazed, shivering, and now effectively leaderless, stumbled towards the tunnel, their earlier defiance extinguished by the sheer, overwhelming force of the Ministry’s intervention.

Megan Lloyd, revived but still shaky, leaned heavily on Rhiannon Griffiths, her face pale and streaked with dirt where she’d fallen.

Valmai Morgan, her Seeker’s instincts clearly screaming danger, kept casting nervous glances back at the shimmering containment ward, as if expecting it to collapse inwards at any moment.

Ginny, her limbs aching from the magical binding, her mind still reeling from Dawlish’s pronouncements and the sheer, unbelievable reality of the League-wide suspension, found herself swept along with the others, a numb disbelief settling over her.

Gwenog. A fugitive. Wanted in connection with a murder.

It was a nightmare.

The changing room, usually a sanctuary of pre-match ritual and post-match camaraderie, a place filled with the familiar scents of liniment, broom polish, and nervous sweat, felt alien, violated.

Aurors were already inside, their dark robes stark against the familiar green and gold of the Harpies’ team colours. They moved with a grim, methodical efficiency, their wands out, casting subtle detection charms, their expressions impassive.

This wasn't a polite search; it was an evidence sweep.

One Auror was meticulously examining the contents of Gwenog’s locker which had clearly been forced open with a powerful unlocking charm, its door hanging slightly askew. He handled her spare practice robes, her battered Quidditch gloves, her worn copy of “Advanced Beater Tactics” with an impersonal detachment that felt like a desecration.

He wasn't just looking; he was bagging items, small evidence pouches appearing from his robes.

Another was sifting through the papers on Gwenog’s small, cluttered office desk in the corner – training schedules, tactical diagrams, scouting reports on upcoming opponents – his gaze sharp, searching for any clue, any hint of her whereabouts or intentions.

He too was collecting items, not just reading them.

The players were herded into the centre of the room, forced to stand in a tight group, watched over by two stern-faced Aurors who seemed to regard them with a mixture of suspicion and disdain.

The atmosphere was thick with unspoken fear, with the metallic tang of magic, with the chilling realization that their world had just been irrevocably altered.

“Right,” Wilkes said, his voice sharp, cutting through the tense silence. “We’ll be conducting preliminary inquiries here. To ascertain immediate facts and potential witness statements relevant to Gwendolyn Jones’s unexpected absence and the ongoing urgent matter in Knockturn Alley. One at a time. The rest of you will wait. Quietly. Any attempt to communicate, to confer, to collude in any way, will be noted and will have… consequences.”

He gestured towards a small, windowless physio room adjacent to the main changing area, its door now standing slightly ajar. His gaze swept over the players, searching for a point of authority. “Who is the designated vice-captain of this team? Or the most senior player present in Gwendolyn Jones’s absence?”

A moment of hesitant silence.

The players exchanged uneasy glances.

The official vice-captain position was often informal in Quidditch, more about seniority and respect than a defined title.

Finally, Carys Pritchard, her face pale but her jaw set stubbornly, straightened her shoulders. “I am, Auror. Carys Pritchard. Senior Beater.” Her voice was steady, despite the fear that undoubtedly gripped her.

Wilkes nodded curtly. “Pritchard. You’re first. Come with me.”

He wasn’t interested in pleasantries, only in establishing a chain of command for information. He gestured her towards the physio room.

Carys Pritchard, her expression grim but resolute, walked towards the physio room without a word. An Auror followed her in, closing the door behind them.

The other players noted that the recording quill wasn't activated for these initial 'inquiries.' It was more about immediate information gathering, perhaps to guide the search or to identify key individuals for more formal questioning later.

The wait was agonizing.

The remaining players stood in silence, avoiding each other’s eyes, the only sounds the rustling of parchment and the occasional clink of confiscated items as the Aurors continued their meticulous search, the occasional low murmur from the closed physio room, and the relentless howl of the wind outside.

Ginny found herself staring at Gwenog’s empty locker, at the haphazard way her belongings had been rifled through. It felt like a violation, a desecration of something private.

She thought of Gwenog’s fierce pride, her loyalty.

The idea of her being involved in a sordid Knockturn Alley murder… it was an obscenity.

There had to be more to this.

Gwenog was tough, yes. But she wasn’t a killer. And she certainly wasn’t a coward. If she was missing, it was because she was protecting someone, or because she knew something that put her in danger, or because she was being framed.

The minutes crawled by.

Finally, the door to the physio room opened. Carys Pritchard emerged, her face even paler than before, her expression grim, unreadable. She didn’t look at anyone, simply walked to a corner of the changing room and leaned against the wall, her arms crossed, staring blankly ahead.

“Morgan, Valmai,” Wilkes called out next, clearly working through a mental list of senior or key players. “Your turn.”

Valmai, her usual Seeker’s composure completely gone, jumped nervously and practically scurried into the physio room.

And so it continued. One by one, the Harpies were summoned for these preliminary inquiries.

The questions, as Ginny later pieced together from hushed, fearful whispers amongst her teammates, were focused: When did you last see Gwendolyn Jones? Did she say anything unusual? Does Gwendolyn Jones have known associates in Knockturn Alley? Does Gwendolyn Jones have enemies? Any sudden unexplained wealth or debts?

These weren't deep, probing interrogations designed to extract confessions or complex timelines. They were more like rapid-fire screening questions, designed to quickly identify anyone who might have immediate, pertinent information about Gwendolyn Jones’s current state of mind or whereabouts.

The Aurors were assessing who knew what, who might be lying, and who would need to be brought in for a more formal, recorded interview at the Ministry.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Wilkes’s sharp gaze landed on Ginny.

“Weasley. You’re up.”

Ginny’s heart hammered against her ribs, but she pushed down the fear, straightened her shoulders, and walked towards the physio room, her expression carefully neutral.

The physio room was small, cramped, smelling faintly of old liniment and stale sweat. A single, bare lumen charm cast a harsh, unflattering light over the scene.

The scarred Auror from the pitch, Wilkes’s colleague, sat behind Bronwyn Davies’s usual treatment bench. Dawlish stood in the corner, arms crossed, his expression stern, observing. He hadn’t delegated this particular "inquiry" either.

A standard, non-magical notepad and self-inking quill were on the bench, rather than an official recording quill.

This still felt like a field interview, not a formal deposition.

“Sit, Miss Weasley,” the scarred Auror said, her voice flat. She gestured towards a hard wooden stool.

Ginny sat.

“Full name, for this preliminary record,” the Auror began.

“Ginevra Molly Weasley.”

“Occupation?”

“Chaser, Holyhead Harpies Quidditch team.” Ginny paused, then added, with a touch of defiance, “Currently on conditional reinstatement, as Senior Auror Dawlish is aware.”

The scarred Auror’s lips thinned. Dawlish made a small, impatient sound.

“We are aware of your… status, Miss Weasley,” the scarred Auror said. “Let us focus on the matter at hand. Your captain, Gwendolyn Jones. When did you last have contact?”

“Yesterday evening,” Ginny replied. “Owl. Confirming today’s practice.”

“And before that? Any unusual interactions? Anything to suggest Gwendolyn Jones was distressed, or planning to deviate from her routine?”

Ginny thought. Nothing. “No. She was focused on practice.”

“Focused,” the Auror echoed skeptically. “Yet Gwendolyn Jones is not here. And a Ministry-licensed artifacts dealer, Cormac McLeod, is dead. Evidence places Gwendolyn Jones at the scene. How do you reconcile these facts?”

“I can’t,” Ginny said. “It doesn’t make sense. Gwenog wouldn’t be involved in something like that.”

“Ah, yes,” Dawlish interjected from the corner. “The ‘character witness’ defense. Touching, but rarely sways an investigation based on tangible evidence, Miss Weasley.”

The scarred Auror continued, her questions sharp, direct, but still feeling like a screening process rather than a deep dive.

“Did Gwendolyn Jones ever mention Cormac McLeod? Or any dealings in Knockturn Alley?”

“No. Never.”

“Did Gwendolyn Jones seem unusually stressed, secretive, perhaps in possession of unexplained sums of money, or conversely, experiencing financial difficulties?”

“No. She was worried about team funding, due to… recent Ministry reviews. But not personally distressed in the way you’re implying.”

“Recent Ministry reviews, Miss Weasley?” Dawlish’s voice cut in. “Are you suggesting external pressures may have influenced Gwendolyn Jones’s actions?”

He was trying to lead her, perhaps to see if she would inadvertently offer a motive.

“I’m stating a fact, Senior Auror,” Ginny said coolly. “The entire League is aware of the financial uncertainties. It’s a common topic of discussion.”

The scarred Auror pressed on. “Did Gwendolyn Jones possess any known enemies, Miss Weasley? Anyone who might wish her harm?”

“Rivals on the pitch, yes. Enemies who’d want her dead? No.”

“Her role as a Beater requires aggression. Could that aggression extend beyond the pitch?”

“Playing Beater is about controlled force within the rules. Gwenog is disciplined.”

“Discipline can falter, Miss Weasley,” Dawlish murmured.

The "inquiry" continued for perhaps twenty minutes.

The questions were less about building a case against Ginny and more about gleaning any immediate, actionable intelligence about Gwendolyn Jones.

They were trying to determine if Ginny was a close confidante, if she knew where Gwenog might go, who she might turn to.

Finally, the scarred Auror leaned back, exchanging a look with Dawlish. He gave a curt nod.

Dawlish stepped forward. “Miss Weasley,” he said, his voice carrying a note of finality. “Should you recall any information, however trivial, regarding her current whereabouts or her activities last night, you are legally obligated to report it to the Auror Office without delay. Failure to do so constitutes obstruction of justice.”

He paused, his gaze sharp. “You and your teammates will be required to provide formal, recorded statements at the Ministry in the coming days. You will be notified of the specific time and location. Until then, you are free to return to your residences. However, you are not to leave the immediate vicinity of Holyhead or London without prior notification and approval from this office. Your movements may be subject to observation.”

This was it.

The shift.

The on-site "inquiries" were over.

Formal, recorded interrogations at the Ministry were next. That was where the real legal pressure would begin.

“I understand, Senior Auror,” Ginny said, her voice carefully neutral.

“See that you do,” Dawlish said curtly. He gestured to the scarred Auror. “Wilkes, escort Miss Weasley out. The preliminary assessment of this location is complete. Secure all confiscated items for transport to evidence lock-up. The team is to be dispersed.”

Wilkes nodded. “This way, Weasley.”

Ginny stood up, her legs stiff. She walked out of the physio room, back into the main changing area.

The search of Gwendolyn Jones’s belongings was complete. Her locker stood open, violated. Her small office desk was bare. Several evidence bags lay on a bench, filled with Gwenog’s personal effects, training notes, even a couple of well-worn Quidditch magazines.

The other Harpies were being ushered towards the exit by the remaining Aurors.

“Alright, you lot!” Wilkes barked. “You heard the Senior Auror. You’ll be contacted for formal interviews. Until then, go home. Stay out of trouble. And don’t even think about playing Galahad and trying to find your captain. It won’t end well for any of you.”

The Harpies stumbled out of their desecrated changing room, out of their sealed training ground, blinking in the watery, late morning sunlight. The shimmering containment ward was still in place.

They were escorted to the Apparition point just outside the main gates by two impassive Aurors, who watched them until the last player had Disapparated with a sharp crack.

Ginny Apparated directly back to her small London flat.

She sank onto her sofa, trembling.

The "preliminary inquiries" were a prelude.

The formal, recorded interrogations at the Ministry, under the full weight of Auror authority, would be far more intense.

Gwenog. Accused. A fugitive.

The League. Suspended.

The team. Devastated. And now, effectively under house arrest, their movements monitored.

This wasn’t just a storm; it was a magical hurricane, and Ginny felt like she was standing right in its terrifying, destructive eye. And the worst was yet to come.

Chapter Text

The thud of the Daily Prophet on Ginny’s doormat the next morning felt less like the arrival of news and more like a physical blow.

She’d barely slept, her mind replaying the terrifying efficiency of the Auror raid, Dawlish’s announcements, the shimmering containment ward that had sealed them in like specimens in a jar.

With trembling hands, she unfolded the Prophet.

The headline screamed across the front page in bold lettering that seemed to vibrate with barely suppressed sensationalism:

LEAGUE IN LOCKDOWN! HARPY CAPTAIN VANISHES AS AURORS PROBE KNOCKTURN ALLEY MURDER!

Beneath it, a large, grim photograph dominated the space.

It wasn't of Gwenog, or even the Harpies’ training ground. It was Senior Auror Corban Dawlish, his face a mask of stern authority, addressing a chaotic throng of wizarding correspondents outside the Ministry entrance, their Quick-Quotes Quills a frantic, scribbling cloud above their heads.

The message was clear: the Ministry was in control, dispensing information, shaping the narrative.

A smaller, inset photograph, clearly taken with a long-lens charm, showed a distant, blurry image of the Harpies’ pitch under the eerie, magical glow of the Auror containment ward, a visual confirmation of the unprecedented lockdown.

The lead article, penned by Barnaby Cuffe – his usual jovial Quidditch commentary replaced by a tone of shocked, almost reluctant gravity – outlined the bare, brutal facts.

The indefinite suspension of all British and Irish Quidditch League activities.

The pre-dawn Auror raid on the Holyhead Harpies’ private training facility.

The official confirmation that Gwendolyn Jones, decorated Beater and revered Captain of the Harpies, was now a “person of significant interest” in connection with the violent death of Cormac McLeod, a Ministry-licensed (though notoriously shady) artifacts dealer, in his Knockturn Alley premises.

Cuffe’s report dutifully quoted Dawlish’s official statements: Gwenog Jones’s magical signature had been “provisionally identified” at the scene of the altercation. She had, thus far, “failed to make herself available for questioning” and her current whereabouts were “unknown,” leading the Auror Office to consider her as “actively evading Ministry contact.”

The article was carefully worded, filled with official jargon and legalistic qualifiers – “preliminary forensic analysis,” “provisional identification,” “person of significant interest.”

But the underlying implication was devastatingly clear: Gwenog Jones was being painted as a fugitive, potentially implicated in a brutal murder.

The sports pages, usually a riot of match reports, league tables, and transfer speculations, were a wasteland of despair.

One headline asked: JONES: LEGEND OR LIAR? HARPY NATION IN SHOCK.

Another, more pragmatic, lamented: LEAGUE ON ICE: FANS AND FINANCES FACE FREEZE.

The letters section was already a maelstrom.

Furious missives from team owners decrying the financial catastrophe of a League-wide suspension.

Bewildered pleas from season ticket holders demanding refunds and answers.

And a torrent of polarized opinions about Gwenog herself – some expressing staunch, unshakeable belief in her innocence, others already condemning her based on the Ministry’s carefully worded pronouncements.

Ginny’s stomach churned as she read, the cheap newsprint feeling like sandpaper against her fingers.

The Ministry, through Dawlish, was controlling the narrative. They weren’t overtly accusing Gwenog of murder, not yet. But they were constructing a compelling case for her guilt by association, her flight as an admission of culpability.

Then came the other owls, a flurry of them throughout the morning, each delivery bringing a fresh wave of public reaction.

The Quibbler, true to form, arrived via a rather bedraggled owl that looked as if it had personally wrestled a Nargle for possession of the rolled-up parchment. Xenophilius Lovegood’s headline, scrawled in his signature swirling, slightly lopsided script, proclaimed: GRIFFIN-HEARTED GWENOG GONE! MINISTRY MISLED BY MISCHIEVOUS MOONCALVES AND MALIGNANT MIASMA FROM KNOCKTURN KNAVES!

The article itself was a fantastical tapestry of conspiracy theories, suggesting Gwenog had been abducted by rogue Gringotts goblins seeking to reclaim a cursed Beater’s bat, or perhaps had heroically intervened to prevent a cabal of Heliopaths from unleashing a plague of dancing Dirigible Plums upon an unsuspecting wizarding populace.

It was utterly bizarre, completely unhinged, and yet, in its unwavering, almost childlike belief in Gwenog’s inherent goodness, it offered a tiny, absurd flicker of comfort.

Luna’s father, at least, wasn’t buying the Ministry’s carefully constructed narrative.

The inevitable follow-up piece in the Daily Prophet, which arrived with the grim punctuality. Rita Skeeter, predictably, had seized upon the story with undisguised glee, her byline practically vibrating with malicious energy beneath a lurid, all-caps headline:

HARPY’S DARK TALONS: DID QUIDDITCH QUEEN TURN KNOCKTURN KILLER? SECRET LIFE OF GWENOG JONES REVEALED!

Skeeter’s article was a masterpiece of insinuation, conjecture, and outright fabrication, woven together with her usual venomous skill.

She hinted at Gwenog’s “notoriously fierce temper” on the pitch translating into “uncontrolled aggression” in her private life. She quoted unnamed “sources close to the investigation” (likely conjured from thin air) suggesting McLeod was known to possess certain “compromising items” that a prominent public figure might wish to suppress.

She even managed to drag Ginny into it, referencing her own “recent public altercation with a Senior Ministry official” and her subsequent suspension as evidence of a “pattern of volatile behavior within the Harpies’ organization,” subtly implying a culture of violence and insubordination.

The article was accompanied by a grainy, unflattering photograph of Gwenog from years ago, mid-shout during a particularly contentious match, her face contorted in a snarl that Skeeter undoubtedly hoped would be interpreted as murderous rage rather than competitive intensity.

Ginny felt physically ill reading it.

This was character assassination, pure and simple, designed to prejudice public opinion before any real evidence was presented, before Gwenog even had a chance to speak.

And then there was Witch Weekly.

Their approach, as Ginny had anticipated, was less overtly malicious than Skeeter’s, but no less damaging in its own way. The cover, when it arrived via a sleek, perfumed owl, featured a dramatic, artfully shadowed photograph of a lone, discarded Quidditch broom lying on a muddy pitch.

The headline, in elegant, mournful script, read: THE SILENCED GAME: GWENOG JONES AND THE SHATTERED DREAMS OF A LEAGUE.

Inside, the article lamented the “shocking fall from grace” of a Quidditch icon, interspersed with interviews with tearful young fans who had idolized Gwenog.

There were think-pieces on “The Burden of Fame: When Heroes Falter” and “Coping with Quidditch Withdrawal: Enchanting New Hobbies for the Bereaved Fan!” (knitting enchanted scarves in team colours was apparently trending).

A particularly galling sidebar offered a critique of Senior Auror Dawlish’s choice of outerwear during his press conference (“While the severity of the situation is undeniable, one questions the wisdom of such a relentlessly grim charcoal robe. A subtle pinstripe, perhaps, might have conveyed authority without sacrificing sartorial flair?”).

The message from the mainstream wizarding press, with the notable exception of The Quibbler, was depressingly uniform, amplified by the Ministry’s carefully controlled pronouncements: Gwenog Jones was, at best, deeply compromised, her disappearance a tacit admission of guilt. At worst, she was a violent criminal on the run. The Quidditch League was in chaos, its future uncertain, and the blame, directly or indirectly, was being laid squarely at Gwenog’s feet.

Ginny crumpled the Daily Prophet in her fist, Skeeter’s poisonous words burning like acid. She felt a wave of nauseating helplessness, a suffocating anger.

She was gagged by her probation, unable to publicly defend Gwenog, unable to challenge the official narrative, unable to scream out the injustice of it all.

She could only watch, powerlessly, as her captain’s reputation was systematically dismantled, as the sport she loved was brought to its knees, all orchestrated by unseen hands, fueled by whispers and carefully leaked “evidence.”

The Ministry wasn't just investigating a crime; they were waging a war of public perception. And Gwenog Jones, absent and unable to defend herself, was losing badly.

This wasn’t just about finding a missing person or solving a murder. This was about control. About power. About sending a message.

The days following the League suspension stretched into a bleak, suffocating eternity.

Ginny’s small London flat, usually a haven of independence, began to feel like a prison cell.

The silence, broken only by the relentless ticking of her cheap alarm clock and the occasional mournful hoot of a passing owl, was a constant reminder of the silenced Quidditch pitches, the grounded brooms, the stolen rhythm of her life.

Her usual coping mechanisms – physical exertion, the camaraderie of her teammates, the straightforward release of a well-played Quidditch match – were all gone, stripped away by Ministry decree.

She couldn’t fly on the Harpies’ pitch; it was sealed, likely still crawling with Aurors sifting through every blade of grass for clues. She couldn’t even lose herself in solitary drills on some secluded common; her movements were restricted, potentially monitored.

Dawlish’s parting warning – “Your movements may be subject to observation” – echoed in her mind.

The enforced inactivity was a torment.

Ginny Weasley was not built for quiet contemplation or passive waiting. She was a creature of action, of impulse, of fierce, protective loyalty. And right now, every instinct screamed at her to do something.

To find Gwenog.

To clear her name.

To expose the lies and manipulations that were clearly at play.

The official narrative being pushed by the Ministry, by Dawlish, by the Prophet – it stank.

Gwenog Jones, Knockturn Alley murderer?

It was preposterous. There had to be more to Cormac McLeod’s death than met the eye.

Gwenog wasn’t a fool. She wouldn’t just wander into a shady Knockturn Alley establishment and get caught up in a fatal magical brawl unless there was a compelling reason, or unless she’d been lured into a trap.

Ginny’s mind raced, sifting through the meagre facts, the endless speculation.

Who was Cormac McLeod?

The Prophet described him as a “Ministry-licensed artifacts dealer,” but the implication was clear – he dealt in items of questionable provenance, items that might attract a dangerous clientele.

What kind of “artifacts” did he specialize in?

Were they related to Quidditch?

Unlikely.

Dark Arts?

More plausible, given the Knockturn Alley connection.

What could possibly connect Gwenog Jones, respected Quidditch captain, to a shady dealer of potentially dark artifacts?

The urge to investigate, to actively seek out answers, was almost overwhelming. She imagined herself disguised, slipping through the alleyways of Knockturn, questioning informants, searching for clues, piecing together the truth like a magical detective.

But the reality of her situation, the crushing weight of her probation, the ever-present threat of Auror scrutiny, slammed down on that fantasy.

“Any attempt to contact Gwendolyn Jones directly, or to provide her with any form of assistance that might impede her apprehension or obstruct the course of this investigation, will be considered a serious criminal offense…”

Dawlish’s words. A direct, unequivocal threat.

She was gagged, grounded, her hands tied by Ministry decree.

If she so much as sneezed in the wrong direction, if she was caught asking too many questions about Cormac McLeod or Gwenog’s disappearance, she’d be hauled before the Wizengamot for obstruction of justice, her conditional reinstatement revoked, her Quidditch career permanently obliterated. And likely, her freedom along with it.

She didn’t instinctively blame Tom Riddle for this new, catastrophic turn of events. Gwenog’s disappearance, the murder, the League suspension – it felt too chaotic, too messy, too… public, to be one of his meticulously orchestrated, subtle manipulations. His style was more about quiet pressure, bureaucratic strangulation, and psychological games, not Auror raids and front-page scandals.

This felt different.

More brutal.

More desperate.

And yet… a persistent, nagging curiosity about Riddle’s perspective on the whole affair began to surface.

He was, after all, a Senior Ministry Advisor. He moved in the highest circles. He would undoubtedly be aware of the investigation, of Dawlish’s actions, of the League suspension.

What did he think?

Did he believe Gwenog was guilty?

Did he see this as an unfortunate but necessary consequence of maintaining order, or did he perceive something more complex at play?

He was undeniably brilliant, his mind capable of dissecting complex situations with unnerving precision. He saw patterns others missed.

Could he, perhaps, offer some insight, some perspective that wasn’t tainted by the Prophet’s sensationalism or Dawlish’s biased pronouncements?

The thought of approaching him again, after their last unsettling breakfast and the fragile truce they had reached, was deeply unappealing.

They weren't friends.

They weren't allies.

Their history was fraught with antagonism.

But he had, in his own strange way, listened to her before. He had engaged with her arguments, however condescendingly. He had even offered… advice. Of a sort.

Could he help Gwenog?

Unlikely.

Why would he? He had no personal loyalty to her, and interfering in a major Auror investigation would be risky, even for him, unless it directly served his own interests.

Could he help her?

Also unlikely. He had already granted her a conditional reinstatement, extracting his pound of flesh in the form of a public apology. He owed her nothing more.

But the sheer, overwhelming helplessness of her current situation, the desperate need to understand what was happening, to find some crack in the wall of official misinformation… it made her consider even the most improbable options.

Should she go to him?

But for what purpose?

To ask his opinion on a murder investigation?

To seek his counsel on how to navigate a League suspension?

It was absurd. He would likely dismiss her or worse, suspect her of trying to glean information for some ill-advised, probation-violating scheme.

And yet… the rune-embossed book still sat on her bedside table. Their last conversation, however bizarre, had touched upon things beyond Ministry politics, beyond Quidditch. It had hinted at a shared, if vastly different, curiosity.

He had invited her to discuss it further. An invitation she had, at the time, tried to deflect.

Now, with every other avenue closed, with her world in turmoil, the thought of that strange, almost academic "connection" felt… less repulsive.

Perhaps, if she approached him carefully, not as the suspended Chaser, not as the accuser, but as… her, the recipient of his unsolicited literary assignment?

Could she use the book as a pretext? A neutral ground?

A way to engage him in conversation, to observe him, to try and gauge his reaction to the current crisis, without overtly violating her probation or arousing his suspicion?

It was a flimsy pretext, a desperate gamble. But it was something.

The frustration gnawed at her, a restless, caged energy with no outlet.

She paced her small flat like a cornered Kneazle, the four walls closing in on her.

She cleaned obsessively, scrubbing imaginary dirt from the floorboards, reorganizing her meagre collection of books, polishing her Quidditch trophies until they gleamed with a mocking brilliance.

Her thoughts kept circling back to Gwenog. To the team. To the injustice of it all.

Her teammates were in a similar state of suspended animation, scattered across the country, their lives on hold.

Rhiannon owled occasionally, her letters filled with frustration, anxiety, and increasingly desperate attempts at forced cheerfulness.

Megan, still recovering from the Petrificus Totalus and the subsequent Auror questioning, sent a brief, shaky note saying she was staying with her mother in rural Wales, trying to avoid the Prophet and the constant speculation.

Valmai, according to Rhiannon, had retreated into a state of intense, silent brooding.

The Burrow felt distant. Ginny knew Molly would be frantic with worry, Arthur burdened. She couldn’t bring herself to Floo home. 

She couldn’t investigate directly.

She couldn’t contact Gwenog.

She couldn’t publicly challenge the Ministry narrative.

But she could… listen.

Observe.

Gather information.

Not like an Auror, not like an investigator. But like… a Quidditch player.

Analyzing the opposition. Looking for weaknesses in their defense. Anticipating their next move.

The Ministry, Dawlish – they were the opposition now. And they had a game plan, a strategy. She needed to understand it.

She couldn't go to Knockturn Alley. But she could go to Diagon Alley.

She could browse the bookshops, linger in the pubs, listen to the whispers, the rumors, the anxieties of the ordinary wizarding folk whose lives had also been disrupted by the League suspension.

What were people really saying, away from the Prophet’s carefully curated headlines?

What were the undercurrents of gossip and speculation that didn’t make it into Skeeter’s poisonous prose?

It wasn’t much. It was passive. It was probably pointless. But it was something.

It was a way to reclaim a tiny sliver of agency in a situation where she felt utterly powerless. It was a way to fight back, however indirectly, however subtly.

Diagon Alley, usually a vibrant artery of wizarding commerce, felt subdued. The usual cheerful cacophony was muted, replaced by hushed conversations and anxious glances.

The League suspension had cast a pall over everything.

Shops that usually did a roaring trade in team merchandise – brightly colored scarves, replica Quidditch robes, miniature broomstick models – now had their windows filled with dusty, unsold stock.

The Leaky Cauldron, usually a hub of lively debate and post-match speculation, was noticeably quieter. Patrons nursed their butterbeers with grim expressions, their conversations focused not on upcoming fixtures, but on the uncertain future of the sport itself.

Ginny, bundled in a travelling cloak, her hair tucked under a plain knitted hat, moved through the crowds like a ghost. She wasn’t looking for anything specific, just… listening. Absorbing the atmosphere.

She lingered near Flourish and Blotts, pretending to browse the window display, but her ears were tuned to the snippets of conversation drifting from within.

“…can’t believe it, Gwenog Jones! Always seemed so… straightforward. Bit rough around the edges, maybe, but a murderer?”

“…the Ministry wouldn’t suspend the whole League unless it was serious, would they? Dawlish seemed pretty certain…”

“…my lad’s heartbroken. Had tickets for the Wasps match next month. Now what am I supposed to tell him?”

“…heard McLeod was mixed up in some nasty business. Dealing in cursed artifacts, some say. Maybe Jones got in over her head…”

The whispers were a confusing mix of disbelief, fear, and a growing, reluctant acceptance of the Ministry’s narrative. People were looking for explanations, for certainty, and the official story, however damning, offered a framework.

In the Apothecary, while examining a jar of dried billywig stings, Ginny overheard two elderly witches discussing the latest Prophet article.

“…Skeeter says Jones had a secret gambling problem. Owed McLeod a fortune, apparently. That’s why she was in Knockturn Alley…”

“…gambling? Gwenog Jones? Never! She’s as tight-fisted as a Gringotts goblin when it comes to galleons. Always haggling over broomstick polish prices, old Cadwallader used to say…”

“…well, Skeeter wouldn’t print it if it wasn’t true, would she? She’s got sources…”

Ginny clenched her fists, the urge to shout, to correct the poisonous misinformation, almost overwhelming. But her probation, Dawlish’s warning, held her back. She could only listen, her anger a hard knot in her stomach.

Even in places usually devoted to frivolity - Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes - the gloom had spread. Fred and George were still serving customers, but the usual energy was tempered by an underlying concern.

“Whole League suspended, Gin,” Fred had muttered to her when she’d stopped by, to buy a bag of Ton-Tongue Toffees (a desperate attempt to inject some semblance of normalcy into her day). “Bad for business, this. No celebratory Puking Pastilles when there are no victories to celebrate. No demand for Extendable Ears to eavesdrop on opposing team strategies when there are no strategies to eavesdrop on.”

“And Dad’s in a right state,” George had added, his expression unusually grim. “Worried about Gwenog, of course – he always liked her. But also worried about… well, you know. The Ministry getting heavy-handed. He says it feels like… well, like things are getting tighter. More controlled than they used to be.”

The unspoken fear. Authoritarianism. A Ministry growing too powerful, too quick to silence dissent or inconvenient truths.

Ginny understood.

This wasn’t just about Quidditch anymore. This was about Ministry overreach, about the arbitrary exercise of power, about the ease with which reputations could be destroyed and lives disrupted.

The days crawled by, each one bringing a fresh wave of anxiety.

The promised formal, recorded interviews at the Ministry began.

Ginny received her summons via another curt Ministry owl. She attended with a solicitor, a grim-faced, tight-lipped wizard named Aberforth Stout, who seemed to view the entire Auror Office with profound suspicion.

The interrogation room was small, grey, and windowless, the air thick with the scent of stale fear and disinfectant.

Senior Auror Dawlish presided, flanked by Wilkes and a silent, imposing wizard with a stern, deeply lined face and eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He was introduced as Tiberius Ogden, a Senior Investigator from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, known for his meticulous approach and his ability to unearth buried truths, however uncomfortable.

Ogden wasn’t flashy like some Aurors, but his reputation for thoroughness was formidable.

The questions were relentless, repetitive, probing for any inconsistency, any hint of concealed knowledge.

“Miss Weasley, when did you last speak to Gwendolyn Jones prior to her disappearance?”

“Did she mention any planned meetings in Knockturn Alley?”

“Was she involved in any financial transactions with Cormac McLeod?”

“Did she express any fear, any concern for her safety?”

“Do you know of any individuals who might have a motive to harm Gwendolyn Jones, or to frame her for a crime?”

Ginny answered truthfully, carefully, sticking to the facts, her voice deliberately calm, betraying none of the turmoil within. She knew they were watching for any sign of deception, any flicker of nervousness that could be misconstrued.

Stout, her solicitor, intervened occasionally, objecting to overly leading questions or attempts to draw speculative conclusions, his voice a dry, precise counterpoint to Dawlish’s and Ogden’s relentless probing.

It was exhausting, demoralizing. Her every word, every gesture, dissected and analyzed.

She wasn’t a suspect, not officially. But she was a “person of interest” by association, her loyalty to Gwenog making her inherently suspicious in their eyes.

The other Harpies endured similar interrogations. They emerged looking pale, shaken, their initial disbelief slowly being eroded by the sheer, relentless pressure of the Ministry’s investigation.

The team, once a cohesive unit bound by shared passion, was fracturing under the strain. Whispers of doubt began to surface, fueled by the Prophet’s relentless speculation and the Aurors’ insinuations.

“Maybe… maybe Gwenog did get mixed up in something,” Megan Lloyd had whispered to Ginny one evening, her voice thin and fearful, after a particularly grueling session with Investigator Ogden. “They seemed so… certain. And the evidence… they kept talking about her magical signature…”

“Don’t listen to them, Meg,” Ginny had urged, though her own conviction was being sorely tested. “They’re trying to break us. They’re trying to make us doubt her. Gwenog wouldn’t do this.”

But the doubt, once planted, was a tenacious weed.

The Harpies, as a team, became pariahs.

Their training ground, though no longer under full containment, remained under intermittent Auror surveillance. Grim-faced wizards would Apparate silently to the perimeter, observing practices (when the demoralized remnants of the team could even bring themselves to attempt them), their presence a constant, unnerving reminder of the ongoing investigation.

Threats began to arrive.

Howlers, addressed to “The Murdering Harpies,” exploding in the team office with shrieking accusations and vile curses.

Cursed objects sent through the post – a Beater’s bat that writhed like a venomous snake, a Quaffle that oozed a foul-smelling green slime, a set of practice robes that constricted painfully around the wearer.

Mr. Cadwallader, the Harpies’ usually unflappable manager, was in a state of perpetual panic, his ruddy face pale, his flamboyant enthusiasm replaced by a hunted, desperate anxiety.

“The sponsors, Ginny, the sponsors!” he’d wailed during one of her infrequent, strained visits to the team office. “Nimbus is threatening to invoke the ‘moral turpitude’ clause in our contract! Brew’s Brilliant Brooms are demanding a full refund on their advertising hoardings! We’re ruined! Utterly ruined!”

Then came the vandalism.

One bleak December morning, the Harpies arrived at their training ground (or rather, those few who still had the heart to show up for informal, unsanctioned conditioning) to find their sanctuary desecrated.

Graffiti, scrawled in luminous, accusing green paint, defaced the walls of the changing rooms, the stands, even the goalposts.

“MURDERERS!”

“DARK HARPIES!”

“JONES THE KILLER!”

Quaffles had been slashed open, their stuffing spilling out like grotesque entrails.

Bludgers had been painted with crude, accusatory symbols.

The pristine green turf of the pitch itself was scarred with deep, angry gouges, as if attacked by some furious, invisible beast.

The message was clear, brutal, and intended to demoralize, to break them completely.

Other Quidditch teams, initially expressing cautious sympathy, began to distance themselves.

Official statements were released, expressing “shock” and “deep concern” over the allegations surrounding Gwendolyn Jones, emphasizing their own commitment to “the highest standards of sportsmanship and integrity.”

It was a subtle but unmistakable severing of ties, leaving the Harpies isolated, ostracized, the focus of suspicion and contempt.

Ginny felt a cold, helpless rage.

This wasn’t just about Gwenog anymore.

This was an attack on everything they stood for, an attempt to destroy the very soul of the Holyhead Harpies.

She wanted to fight back, to scream defiance, but she was trapped, bound by her probation, by Dawlish’s threats, by the Ministry.

A few days before Yule, when the atmosphere of dread and uncertainty seemed to have reached its peak, the Daily Prophet delivered its next devastating blow.

The headline, even larger, even more sensational than before, screamed from the front page:

JONES APPREHENDED! FORMER HARPY CAPTAIN IN AUROR CUSTODY! FLIGHT FROM JUSTICE ENDS IN REMOTE WELSH HIDEOUT!

The accompanying photograph showed Gwenog Jones, looking disheveled, exhausted, seemingly extinguished, being escorted by two grim-faced Aurors from a desolate, windswept cottage, its windows dark and unwelcoming.

Her wrists were bound with magical manacles that glowed with a faint, ominous light.

The article, penned by Skeeter with undisguised triumph, detailed Gwenog’s “capture” after a “brief but desperate struggle” at a remote, undisclosed location in the Welsh mountains.

It painted a picture of a fugitive cornered, her attempts to evade justice thwarted by the relentless efficiency of the Auror Office. It hinted at “further incriminating evidence” found at the safe house, though offered no specifics.

Gwenog Jones was being held in a secure Ministry holding cell, the article concluded, pending formal interrogation and the laying of official charges.

Ginny stared at the photograph, at Gwenog’s captured, defeated image, and her heart shattered.

This wasn’t Gwenog.

Not the Gwenog she knew.

The fierce, unyielding captain, the loyal friend, the woman who would face down a dragon with nothing but a Beater’s bat and sheer grit – she wouldn’t be caught cowering in some remote hideout, wouldn’t engage in a “desperate struggle” against Ministry Aurors unless…

Unless she had been set up.

Unless she was protecting someone.

Unless this entire narrative was a monstrous, carefully constructed lie.

Ginny was frantic.

The official story, the Ministry’s version of events, felt utterly, fundamentally wrong.

She had to do something. She had to get information, real information, not the poisoned whispers of the Prophet or Dawlish’s self-serving pronouncements.

Her first, desperate thought was Percy.

He had access, however limited. He was obsessed with rules and procedures; surely he would know something about the protocols for arresting and detaining a prominent public figure like Gwenog.

She flooed to the Ministry Atrium, ignoring the curious stares her agitated appearance drew, and practically ran to the Department of International Magical Cooperation, only to find Percy’s office empty.

A harassed-looking junior clerk informed her that Mr. Weasley was “in an urgent, unscheduled inter-departmental briefing regarding revisions to the International Floo Network Accord, and was not to be disturbed under any circumstances.”

Frustrated, Ginny scribbled a desperate note – “Percy, urgent, need to talk about Gwenog Jones, meet me Leaky Cauldron, lunchtime” – and thrust it at the clerk, practically begging him to ensure Percy received it.

She waited at the Leaky Cauldron for over an hour, nursing a lukewarm butterbeer, her anxiety mounting with every passing minute.

When Percy finally arrived, he looked pale, stressed, and distinctly unhappy to see her.

“Ginny,” he began, his voice a low, agitated hiss as he slid into the booth opposite her, casting nervous glances around the pub, “this is highly inadvisable. Me being seen with you, discussing this… this Jones business… it’s… problematic.”

“Problematic?” Ginny stared at him, incredulous. “Percy, Gwenog’s been arrested! They’re saying she’s a murderer! This isn’t about your precious career; this is about justice! About finding out what really happened!”

Percy flinched, his face tightening. “The Auror Office is handling it, Ginevra. They have evidence. Procedures are being followed. Mr. Dawlish is a highly respected Senior Auror. Investigator Ogden is renowned for his thoroughness. It is not our place to interfere, or to cast aspersions on Ministry officials.”

“Not our place?” Ginny’s voice rose, drawing a few curious glances from nearby tables. “Percy, she’s my captain! My friend! And she’s innocent! I know she is! There has to be something you can find out! What evidence do they actually have? Where are they holding her? Is she even being allowed a solicitor?”

Percy winced, lowering his voice further. “Ginny, please! Keep your voice down! You don’t understand. This is… sensitive. Highly sensitive. Any perceived interference, any suggestion of impropriety or undue influence from other departments… it would be viewed very poorly indeed.”

He fiddled nervously with his teacup. “I made some discreet inquiries, after your note. As a personal favor. But the case file is sealed. Top Auror clearance only. Dawlish and Ogden are running a very tight ship. And frankly, Ginny,” – he looked at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and pity – “the talks… they’re not good. The evidence against Jones is apparently… substantial. Her magical signature all over the crime scene. Incriminating items found at this ‘safe house’ where she was apprehended. It doesn’t look good. It really doesn’t.”

He leaned closer. “My advice, Ginny, as your brother, as someone who cares about your future… stay away from this. Far away. You’re already on thin ice with your probation. Don’t get yourself dragged down with her. Let the Ministry handle it. It’s the safest course. For everyone.”

Ginny stared at him, dread seeping into her bones.

Percy was terrified.

Terrified of being associated with the scandal.

Terrified of displeasing anyone at the Ministry.

He wasn't going to help her. He was too scared of the consequences, too invested in his own precarious Ministry career.

He believed the official narrative, or at least, he was too scared to question it.

“Safest course, Percy?” Ginny whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of fury and despair. “Is that all you care about? Your safety? Your career? What about Gwenog? What about the truth?”

Percy looked away, unable to meet her gaze. “The truth, Ginny,” he mumbled, staring into his teacup, “is often… what the Ministry decides it is.”

With that, he stood up abruptly. “I have to get back. Urgent report due on the revised Floo Network tariffs. Try not to cause any more trouble, Ginny. Please. For all our sakes.”

He turned and hurried out of the Leaky Cauldron, leaving Ginny alone with her lukewarm butterbeer and the crushing weight of his cowardly pragmatism.

Percy was a dead end.

And Gwenog Jones, was locked away in a Ministry holding cell, her fate seemingly sealed by “substantial evidence” and the unwavering conviction of Senior Auror Corban Dawlish and Senior Investigator Tiberius Ogden.

Desperation clawed at Ginny.

She had to do something.

Ginny left the Leaky Cauldron, not with despair, but with a fury crystallizing in her gut.

If the official channels, her own family, wouldn't help, then she would find someone who operated outside those channels. Or rather, someone who understood them.

The Ministry holding cells were located deep beneath the main Atrium, in a section of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement that rarely saw the light of day, literally or figuratively.

Access was severely restricted, requiring multiple levels of clearance, magical identification, and a compelling, officially sanctioned reason for visitation.

Ginny possessed none of these.

What she did possess was a desperate, reckless determination, a surprising amount of Riddle’s unsettling Galleons still tucked away in her satchel, and a fading memory of her father once mentioning a particularly flustered, easily flummoxed junior clerk in the Magical Law Enforcement records office named Perkins (no relation, she hoped, to the Perkins who had audited the Harpies).

Arthur had, years ago, helped this Perkins retrieve a misfiled collection of enchanted Muggle parking meters that had threatened to cause a minor international incident. Perkins, overwhelmed and terrified of disciplinary action, had apparently sworn eternal gratitude.

It was a long shot, a flimsy connection from years past. But it was all Ginny had.

She found Perkins – older now, balder, but still possessing that same air of perpetual, low-grade panic – buried behind a teetering mountain of parchment in a dimly lit sub-basement office.

The initial approach was disastrous.

Perkins, upon recognizing Ginny Weasley (whose face, thanks to “Slapgate” and the current Gwenog Jones scandal, was now unfortunately synonymous with Ministry disruption), nearly had a conniption.

“Miss Weasley! Good heavens! You can’t be here! This is a restricted area! Access to holding cell visitation logs is strictly… that is to say… highly regulated!” He wrung his hands, his eyes darting nervously towards the door as if expecting Senior Auror Dawlish himself to materialize.

Ginny, channeling a desperate imitation of Riddle’s cool, persuasive logic (though likely coming across as more aggressively insistent), explained her urgent, entirely unofficial need to see Gwenog Jones.

She didn’t threaten, she didn’t shout. She spoke of loyalty, of friendship, of the terrible injustice being done.

And then, when Perkins still looked ready to faint from sheer anxiety, she produced the Galleons.

Not as a bribe, not explicitly.

But as a… “contribution towards the upkeep of essential Ministry record-keeping services, in recognition of Mr. Perkins’s invaluable and often overlooked dedication to maintaining order within the archives.”

It was a ridiculous, transparent euphemism.

But Perkins, whose salary likely hadn’t seen a significant increase since the last Goblin Rebellion, stared at the gleaming gold coins with an almost hypnotic fascination. His desire for a quiet life and his terror of official reprimand warred visibly with the sudden, unexpected prospect of… financial solvency.

After a tense, whispered negotiation in the dusty confines of his office, involving much hand-wringing from Perkins and increasingly desperate (though still carefully worded) appeals from Ginny, a deal was struck.

Perkins wouldn’t grant her official access; that was impossible, beyond his authority. But he did, with a series of furtive glances and mumbled warnings about discretion, provide her with a visitor’s pass charmed to grant temporary, low-level access to the holding cell corridor for a “routine maintenance inspection of magical dampening wards.”

The pass was, he assured her, untraceable, set to expire in precisely thirty minutes. He also, with a final, terrified glance around, “accidentally” left a specific cell number – Cell Block D, Number 13 – jotted on a stray piece of parchment that Ginny “happened” to find.

The Galleons vanished discreetly into Perkins’s pocket.

Ginny felt a surge of triumph mixed with a queasy sense of self-disgust. She was using Riddle’s money, Riddle’s methods, to navigate the very system he manipulated.

The holding cell corridor was a grim, echoing tunnel of grey stone, lit by flickering, irregularly spaced lumen charms that cast long, dancing shadows. The air was cold, damp, smelling faintly of despair and old magic.

Magical dampening wards hummed almost invisibly, pressing down on her senses, making the borrowed wand in her pocket feel even more sluggish and unresponsive. The iron bars of the cell doors themselves likely carried their own unpleasant enchantments, designed to deter any physical contact or attempts to pass objects.

Cell Block D, Number 13.

The door was heavy, reinforced iron, with a small, barred observation slit.

Ginny’s heart hammered against her ribs. She took a deep breath, then peered through the slit, careful not to touch the bars themselves.

The cell was bare.

A single stone bench.

A bucket in the corner.

No window.

The only light came from a faint, magical glow emanating from the ceiling, casting everything in a sickly, greenish pallor.

And there, slumped on the bench, her back to the door, was Gwenog Jones.

She looked… smaller. Diminished.

Her usually vibrant Harpy practice robes were rumpled, stained with what looked like dried mud and something darker. Her short, dark hair was matted, falling across her face. Her shoulders, usually so broad and confident, were hunched, conveying an air of weary defeat Ginny had never seen in her captain.

She wasn’t moving. Just sitting there, staring at the opposite wall.

Ginny’s throat tightened.

This wasn’t the Gwenog Jones who faced down Bludgers with a grin, who roared defiance at biased referees, who inspired loyalty and fear in equal measure. This was… a prisoner.

“Gwenog?” Ginny whispered, her voice barely audible, directed towards the observation slit, hoping it would carry through the thick iron.

Gwenog didn’t react immediately. Then, slowly, as if the sound had taken a long time to penetrate the fog of her despair, she turned her head.

Her eyes, when they finally focused on Ginny’s face peering through the barred slit, widened slightly. Not with surprise, not with relief, but with a kind of weary resignation, and something else… a flicker of alarm.

She pushed herself slowly to her feet, her movements stiff, pained.

Ginny could see bruises on her forearms, a cut above her eyebrow that matched the one in the Daily Prophet photograph. The “brief struggle” during her apprehension had clearly been more than just rhetoric.

“Weasley,” Gwenog’s voice was rough, hoarse, as if she hadn’t spoken in days. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here. This is… dangerous for you.”

“Dangerous?” Ginny echoed, her voice rising, frustration and fear battling for dominance. She kept her face close to the slit, but didn't dare touch the metal. “They’re calling you a murderer, Gwenog! The League is suspended! The team is falling apart! Megan got Petrified! They raided the pitch! They’re treating us like criminals! What happened? Tell me what happened!”

Gwenog limped closer to the door, her face drawn, her eyes holding a deep, unreadable pain, but also that familiar, stubborn fire. “It’s nothing for you to worry about, Ginny. Go back to the team. What’s left of it. Keep them together. Pritchard will step up, she’s solid. You focus on your own probation. Don’t get yourself dragged into this.”

Her voice was flat, dismissive, the tone she used when a player was questioning her authority, when she was shutting down dissent.

Ginny felt a surge of exasperation.

“My probation is the least of my worries right now!” she snapped, her hands clenching into fists at her sides, resisting the urge to grip the bars despite her caution. “I will not ‘go back to the team’! It’s not a team without you leading it! And right now, I’m not talking to my Captain. Right now, you’re my friend! My friend who’s locked in a Ministry dungeon being framed for murder! So stop trying to protect me, stop trying to manage me, and just tell me what happened, Gwenog! Let me help!”

Gwenog stared at her, and for a moment, the hard mask of the Harpy Captain faltered. A flicker of raw emotion – gratitude, pain, perhaps even fear – crossed her bruised features. She sighed, a deep, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of the world, the fight seeming to drain out of her for a moment.

“Ginny…” she began, her voice softer now, laced with a weariness that cut Ginny to the core. “It’s… complicated. So complicated. And I can’t… I won’t… drag you into this. It’s not your fight. It’s mine.”

She turned away, her shoulders slumping again, presenting her back to Ginny, a gesture of finality, of dismissal. “Go. Please. Before they find you here. Before they decide you’re an accomplice. Just… go.”

The refusal, the stubborn insistence on facing this alone, on protecting Ginny even now, even from within a Ministry holding cell… it was so typically Gwenog. And so infuriatingly, heartbreakingly noble.

Ginny wanted to scream, to rattle the bars (though she knew better than to touch them), to somehow force the truth out of her.

But she also saw the fear in Gwenog’s eyes, not for herself, but for Ginny.

Gwenog truly believed she was protecting her by remaining silent.

And Ginny knew, with a sinking certainty, that she wouldn’t break.

Not here. Not now.

Frustration, terror, and a desperate, burning determination warred within Ginny. She couldn’t leave. Not like this.

She leaned her forehead against the damp stone wall beside the cell door, the closest she could get to a physical expression of her despair without touching the enchanted iron. 

“No, Gwenog! I’m not going! Not until you tell me something! Anything! Who is Cormac McLeod? Why were you in Knockturn Alley? Why won’t you fight this? This isn’t you! I know you wouldn’t just roll over and let the Ministry pin a murder on you!”

Gwenog remained with her back to the door, her shoulders rigid.

“The Gwenog Jones you know, Weasley,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion, “also knows when a fight is unwinnable. When the best you can do is try to limit the collateral damage. Protect the people you care about from getting caught in the crossfire.”

“Protect who, Gwenog?” Ginny pressed, her voice urgent. “Who are you protecting? Is it Rhys? Your brother? Is he in trouble again?”

At the mention of Rhys, Gwenog flinched, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, but Ginny saw it.

Rhys Jones.

Gwenog’s younger, perpetually wayward brother.

Ginny had only heard whispers about him from older Harpies – a Squib, or near enough, who had drifted into the shadier side of wizarding London, a constant source of worry and heartache for his fiercely protective older sister.

Gwenog didn’t answer, didn’t turn around. But the silence itself was an admission.

“So it is Rhys,” Ginny breathed, the pieces clicking into place with horrifying clarity. “McLeod had something on him, didn’t he? He was blackmailing you? Threatening Rhys? That’s why you went to Knockturn Alley. To confront McLeod. To protect your brother.”

Still, Gwenog said nothing.

“And something went wrong,” Ginny continued, her voice barely a whisper now, piecing together the horrifying narrative. “There was a fight. McLeod ended up dead. And you… you’re taking the fall for it, aren’t you? To protect Rhys. To keep him out of it.”

The image of Gwenog sacrificing herself for her screw-up brother… it was so tragically, infuriatingly plausible.

“It doesn’t matter, Ginny,” Gwenog said finally, her voice rough, strained. “What matters is that you stay out of it. This is my mess. My responsibility. Don’t make it worse by getting yourself involved. You have a career to think about, a future. Don’t throw it away for me.”

“My career?” Ginny laughed, a harsh, broken sound. “Gwenog, my career is already circling the drain thanks to my own stupidity! And what future am I supposed to have, knowing you’re rotting in here for something you didn’t do, or something you were forced into?”

Ginny wanted to scream, to rage, to somehow magically blast down the iron door and drag Gwenog out of this hellhole.

But she knew it was useless.

Gwenog had made her decision.

She backed away from the cell door, her gaze locked on Gwenog’s bruised but defiant face visible through the slit.

“I won’t give up, Gwenog,” she whispered, “I’ll find a way. I promise.”

Gwenog just shook her head, a faint, sad smile touching her lips. “Just look after yourself, Weasley. And keep flying. Someone has to.”

Then she turned away again, retreating to the stone bench, her shoulders once more slumped in weary resignation, leaving Ginny alone in the cold, echoing corridor, the weight of Gwenog’s sacrifice, Gwenog’s unspoken truth, pressing down on her like a physical blow.

Ginny stumbled away from the cell.

Gwenog was protecting Rhys. She was convinced of it. And she was prepared to go to Azkaban for him.

The injustice, the sheer, bloody unfairness of it all, was a raw, open wound.

She had to do something.

She couldn’t let this happen.

But what?

The Aurors were convinced of Gwenog’s guilt. Percy was useless. The Daily Prophet was baying for blood.

She felt utterly, terrifyingly alone.

And then, a name surfaced in her mind, unwelcome but persistent.

Tom Riddle.

He understood power.

He understood manipulation.

He understood how evidence could be twisted, how narratives could be shaped.

He had his own sources, his own network.

And he had, however reluctantly, however condescendingly, listened to her before. He had even, in his own bizarre way, offered… assistance.

He had told her he found the “manifest inefficiencies of the Auror Office” an “intriguing intellectual puzzle.”

Well, this was the biggest, most inefficient, most unjust Auror bungle she could imagine.

The thought was desperate, reckless, born of fear and fury and a loyalty that mirrored Gwenog’s own.

She had to try.

She had to appeal to him, not to his non-existent mercy, but to his intellect, his disdain for incompetence, his appreciation for… complex problems.

This was about a system failing. About the truth being buried. About an injustice that, if left uncorrected, would ripple outwards, affecting everyone.

She had to write that letter.

Not an apology this time. Not a plea for her own career.

But a carefully worded, almost formal request for a consultation.

The biting chill of the December wind, a familiar greeting after the sterile, magically regulated air of the International Confederation of Wizards’ headquarters in Geneva, did little to dissipate the lingering weariness that clung to Tom Riddle. The journey back had been facilitated by a series of prioritized Portkeys.

The past four days had been relentless of high-stakes negotiations. He had been dispatched by Fudge to attend an emergency ICW summit concerning revisions to the International Statute of Secrecy.

His task had been to dismantle these proposals and ensure any revised accords reinforced Ministry sovereign authority. He had succeeded.

Now, stepping into the Ministry Atrium, Riddle anticipated a mountain of accumulated paperwork. He hadn’t had access to the Daily Prophet in Geneva and was largely unaware of domestic developments beyond what could be gleaned from coded inter-departmental dispatches.

But the Atrium was… unexpectedly chaotic.

Clusters of Ministry workers huddled in hushed, agitated conversations.

Aurors escorting a figure towards the DMLE holding cells. The figure was tall, broad-shouldered, her wrists bound with magical manacles that glowed faintly.

Gwendolyn Jones. Captain of the Holyhead Harpies.

Riddle paused, a flicker of surprise, quickly masked, crossing his features.

Jones. In Auror custody.

This was a significant development, one that had clearly occurred during his absence.

The very public nature of the arrest, in the Atrium no less, implied the Quidditch League itself would face immediate, significant disruption. Suspension was the logical, almost inevitable, consequence.

As he moved towards his lift, Senior Auror Corban Dawlish, flanked by the silent, imposing figure of Investigator Tiberius Ogden, intercepted him. Dawlish, looking particularly self-important, clearly relished being the bearer of significant news.

“Riddle,” Dawlish rumbled, a smug edge to his voice. “Back from your… Continental sojourn, I see. Missed all the excitement.”

“Dawlish,” Riddle replied coolly. “The ICW summit was productively concluded. It appears the domestic front has been… eventful.”

He gestured with a subtle inclination of his head towards the lifts where Jones had disappeared. “Captain Jones of the Holyhead Harpies being escorted under rather close supervision. An unexpected development, wouldn't you say?”

Dawlish smirked. “Unexpected for some, perhaps. Captain Jones is assisting us with our inquiries into the unfortunate demise of one Cormac McLeod, a Ministry-licensed artifacts dealer found deceased in his Knockturn Alley premises. The evidence, I assure you, is… compelling. And points rather unequivocally in Captain Jones’s direction.”

Knockturn Alley. Murder. Gwendolyn Jones.

The pieces clicked into a familiar, if distasteful, pattern.

A public figure embroiled in a sordid affair.

Messy for the Ministry.

And Dawlish was clearly confident, perhaps overly so.

“Indeed,” Riddle murmured, his tone carefully neutral. “A most regrettable situation. One trusts the investigation will proceed with the utmost diligence and adherence to established Ministry protocols.”

Dawlish nodded firmly. “Naturally. Investigator Ogden is overseeing the forensic analysis personally. We anticipate formal charges will be laid shortly. A straightforward case, by all accounts.”

Ogden offered a curt, silent nod, his gaze unwavering.

“Excellent,” Riddle said smoothly. “Then I shall not detain you further from your… straightforward duties.”

He moved past them, the subtle emphasis on ‘straightforward’ a private barb Dawlish likely wouldn’t even register.

As he ascended in the lift, Riddle considered the implications.

This would mean an immediate, indefinite League suspension, as he had already surmised. Pringle would confirm the details. More significantly, it would undoubtedly impact Ginny Weasley.

How would she react to this new crisis?

With defiance, jeopardizing the fragile reinstatement he had, with considerable condescension, dangled before her?

Or had their recent, strange interactions – the unexpected breakfast, the discussion of arcane texts – instilled some sliver of caution, some rudimentary understanding of strategic engagement?

If anyone was predisposed to becoming entangled in a Knockturn Alley murder investigation through sheer, misguided loyalty or ill-timed impulsiveness, it would be Ginny Weasley, not her ostensibly more disciplined captain.

He stepped out into the quiet corridor of Level Two and proceeded towards his office suite.

The outer office, where Pringle managed his correspondence and appointments, was dimly lit. His Administrative Assistant leaped to his feet with his usual anxious alacrity as Riddle entered.

“Mr. Riddle, sir! Welcome back! Your trip… productive, I trust?” Pringle stammered, already gathering a stack of parchments from his own desk.

“Tolerably so, Pringle. Report. All significant domestic developments since my departure for Geneva.”

As Riddle moved into his private inner office and settled behind his expansive mahogany desk, Pringle followed, launching into a breathless summary from the doorway.

He began with the most pressing official matters: the stalled Dragon Containment Protocols, the Wizengamot deadlock on the Magical Artifact Security Act, the persistent Goblin Liaison queries regarding Gringotts warding upgrades, and several urgent inter-departmental memos that had accumulated in Riddle's absence. Pringle detailed these with meticulous care, his voice betraying his relief at his superior’s return to handle these issues.

It was only after these official Ministry concerns had been thoroughly outlined that Pringle, with a slight hesitation that indicated he was moving onto less procedurally significant news, added, “And… there has been some rather… disruptive news from the Department of Magical Games and Sports, sir, as you may have already surmised given the… commotion… in the Atrium earlier. The entire Quidditch League has been indefinitely suspended.”

Riddle’s quill, which had been making swift annotations on a memo regarding goblin treaty interpretations, didn’t pause. His observation in the Atrium had already led him to that conclusion. “The grounds for this suspension are presumably connected to the Gwendolyn Jones affair?”

Pringle cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable relaying information that bordered on gossip, however widespread. “Indeed, sir. It appears to be connected to an ongoing Auror investigation. Gwendolyn Jones, the captain of the Holyhead Harpies, was taken into custody this morning. She is apparently a… person of significant interest… in connection with a death in Knockturn Alley. The Prophet is, of course, having a field day.”

Pringle had thoughtfully clipped the relevant headlines and placed them on Riddle’s desk, slightly apart from the official Ministry correspondence.

Riddle absorbed this information, his expression impassive.

The Quidditch League suspension, while disruptive to public morale and certain Ministry revenue streams, was a secondary concern compared to the more fundamental issues of Ministry policy and international relations he had been dealing with.

Gwendolyn Jones’s arrest, however, did add an interesting wrinkle.

“That will be all, Pringle,” Riddle said, his tone neutral. “See to the urgent memos. I will review this accumulated correspondence in due course.”

Pringle, recognizing the dismissal, bowed slightly and retreated to his outer office, relieved to have delivered his report without incident.

Riddle leaned back in his chair, surveyed the stacks of parchments on his desk – official reports, inter-departmental memos, draft proposals. And then, his gaze fell upon a small, unassuming envelope tucked beneath a less urgent file on the far corner of his desk.

The one Pringle had given him days ago, just before his departure for Geneva.

The one Miss Weasley had left with the junior clerk, stating it was a “personal matter” and that she wished to “return something.”

At the time, preoccupied with the complexities of the ICW summit, Riddle had dismissed it as likely being the rune-embossed book he had lent her, an item he had almost forgotten about in the press of more significant matters.

He hadn’t bothered to open it then, merely placing it aside.

But now…

Now, with the dramatic arrest of Gwendolyn Jones, the indefinite suspension of the Quidditch League, and the certainty that Ginny Weasley would be in a state of profound personal and professional crisis… that forgotten letter suddenly took on a new, potentially intriguing significance.

A flicker of something akin to curiosity stirred within him.

He reached for the envelope. Its cheap parchment felt coarse beneath his fingertips. It was sealed with a simple fold.

His intuition told him that whatever Weasley had written before this latest crisis, it would now be viewed through a very different, far more interesting, lens. The clerk’s message about “returning something” could have been a misdirection, a simplification.

He broke the seal, his movements unhurried, his expression unreadable. His eyes scanned the hastily scrawled lines and familiar, slightly aggressive handwriting.

T. Riddle,

I need to speak with you.

It's not about the book you lent me.

This is urgent.

It’s about Gwenog Jones.

I know you don’t involve yourself in what you consider minor League squabbles, and I know my previous attempts to discuss things with you have been less than productive. But this is different. This isn’t just about a suspension or a misinterpreted foul. This is about my captain, and it’s serious. The Ministry – your Ministry – is making a mess of things, and I have reason to believe there’s more to this situation than is being reported.

Frankly, you’re probably the only person in this entire building who might be capable of looking at this with any degree of objective analysis, rather than just blindly following official pronouncements or getting caught up in the public hysteria.

I’m not asking you to intervene on her behalf. I’m not asking for favors. I’m asking for a conversation.

I have observations, information, that I believe you might find… relevant… about potential misjudgments currently unfolding. This whole affair is becoming an untidy spectacle, and it’s affecting a lot more than just one Quidditch team.

If you are at all interested in a discussion that involves logical assessment, then I need to see you. Soon.

G. Weasley

Riddle read the letter again.

This was Ginny Weasley.

Blunt. Direct. A touch of her usual sarcasm.

And beneath it, a desperate, surprisingly astute appeal.

She hadn’t intended to simply return the book, as Pringle had been led to believe. The clerk had clearly misunderstood or oversimplified her intent.

This letter was an attempt at engagement.

The Gwendolyn Jones affair, now culminating in a murder charge and a League-wide suspension, was indeed a messy, inconvenient disruption.

It was generating precisely the kind of public disorder and inefficient allocation of Ministry resources that Riddle found intolerable.

And Ginny Weasley, it seemed, was refusing to be passive, even before this latest, more catastrophic development. She was attempting, however clumsily, to fight back with strategic appeal to his specific known dislikes.

Tom Riddle reread her letter - a slow, contemplative process.

The cheap parchment, the slightly aggressive slant of her handwriting, the blunt, almost impertinent appeal – it was all so… her.

Predictably direct.

Utterly lacking in the subtle artistry of influence.

And yet, beneath the familiar impulsiveness, there was a surprising, if unrefined, astuteness.

She wasn’t pleading for her own career this time. She wasn’t demanding apologies or railing against perceived injustices.

She was presenting him with a problem. A problem of Ministry, of potential misjudgment, of a “messy, untidy spectacle” that was, as she correctly surmised, precisely the kind of disorder he found intolerable.

Gwendolyn Jones. Captain of the Holyhead Harpies. Accused of murder. A fugitive, now apprehended. The Quidditch League suspended indefinitely.

A situation ripe with potential for public outcry, for prolonged bureaucratic entanglement, for the inefficient allocation of Ministry resources.

The kind of disruption that Fudge’s weak leadership actively fostered.

And Weasley, in her desperate loyalty, was offering him information.

“Observations.”

A belief that there was “more to this situation than is being reported.”

An appeal to his “objective analysis.”

The sheer audacity of it, after their history, was remarkable.

But the problem she presented… it was, undeniably, interesting.

He leaned back in his chair, the letter resting lightly on his desk, his gaze distant, analytical.

The Gwendolyn Jones affair, as reported by Pringle and the Daily Prophet headlines, possessed all the hallmarks of a classic Ministry bungle, symptomatic of the broader incompetence he sought to rectify.

Dawlish, with his penchant for self-aggrandizing pronouncements and swift, often heavy-handed, action – a useful but blunt instrument.

Ogden, meticulous but potentially susceptible to tunnel vision if presented with a seemingly straightforward case, easily swayed by the appearance of authority.

A crime scene in Knockturn Alley, a notoriously difficult jurisdiction to secure, prone to contamination of evidence and unreliable witnesses – a breeding ground for error and misdirection.

A prominent public figure as the prime suspect, ensuring maximum press scrutiny and public hysteria – perfect conditions for those who thrived on misinformation, like Skeeter.

All the ingredients for a protracted, messy investigation that could easily spiral out of control, further damaging the Ministry’s already tarnished reputation under Fudge’s lackluster leadership.

And at the heart of it, Amelia Bones.

Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

A woman of unwavering, if sometimes inconvenient, diligence. Her adherence to protocol, her belief in the Ministry's justice system, however flawed he knew it to be, made her a predictable, if occasionally frustrating, force. And her recent, unwelcome interest in certain historical matters was becoming a minor, persistent irritation.

Dolohov’s report from the meeting at The White Wyvern echoed in his mind: Bones was “digging,” revisiting cold cases, showing a tenacious interest in the Gaunt property, in the Hepzibah Smith affair.

Nostalgic pursuits, Riddle had called them.

Pursuits that, if allowed to continue unchecked, could potentially unearth inconvenient details from a past he had meticulously curated and, where necessary, erased. Details that were, frankly, irrelevant to the Ministry’s current strategic needs.

He had, of course, already taken steps to mitigate that particular risk. Dolohov’s contacts within the Auror Office were tasked with subtly misdirecting resources, sowing seeds of doubt about the viability of such historical inquiries, ensuring Bones’s  investigations remained starved of official support and buried under layers of more pressing, contemporary casework.

But a more direct, if still subtle, means of curtailing her influence, of demonstrating the folly of her misapplied diligence, would be advantageous.

And now, this Gwendolyn Jones affair had, quite literally, landed on his desk.

A high-profile, potentially flawed investigation, being conducted under Amelia Bones’s direct authority.

If Dawlish and Ogden, driven by haste or confirmation bias (or perhaps, even, by subtly planted misinformation from sources wishing to see Jones conveniently removed), were indeed mishandling the case i

If the evidence against Jones was less “substantial” than they proclaimed

If there was, as Weasley hinted, “more to the situation than is being reported”

Then the potential for this investigation to unravel spectacularly, publicly, was significant.

And the resulting embarrassment, the questions about competence and due process, would fall squarely on the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

On Amelia Bones.

Subtly discrediting her department, highlighting their potential incompetence or overreach in a high-profile current case like Gwendolyn Jones’s, could serve to undermine Bones’s credibility within the Ministry.

It could divert Auror resources, her attention, away from those nostalgic pursuits.

It would illustrate, quite clearly, the dangers of focusing on historical minutiae when current crises demanded competent leadership.

It would be a lesson, delivered through the public failure of her own department, in the dangers of overextending one’s reach, of pursuing inquiries that strayed too far from the established narrative, of failing to manage one's own subordinates effectively.

He wouldn’t need to overtly interfere. He wouldn’t need to directly attack Bones. His respect for the established hierarchy, for the appearance of order, demanded a more nuanced approach.

And perhaps, if Weasley’s “observations” proved to have merit, if she could provide him with credible information suggesting a miscarriage of justice, a flaw in the Auror’s investigation…

Then he might, at the opportune moment, choose to discreetly guide that information into the right channels.

Not to save Gwendolyn Jones, necessarily – her fate was of no consequence to him, another piece on the board, easily sacrificed. But to expose the deficiencies in the DMLE’s handling of the case.

The ensuing internal reviews, the public outcry, the questions about competence… it would create precisely the kind of internal disruption that would consume Bones’s attention, forcing her to focus on shoring up her own department’s reputation rather than pursuing historical vendettas that served no useful purpose.

It was an elegant confluence of opportunities.

A situation where others’ mistakes could be leveraged for his own strategic benefit.

And Ginny Weasley, in her desperate, misguided loyalty, was offering herself as the unwitting catalyst.

Her appeal to his “objective analysis,” her belief that he was the only one capable of seeing beyond the official pronouncements… it was, of course, rather direct in its flattery.

She possessed an intuitive, if unrefined, understanding of how to frame an appeal, even if she saw power in simplistic terms of good and evil, justice and injustice.

She saw him as a potential, if reluctant, arbiter against Ministry incompetence. A figure of authority who might, if properly appealed to, correct the errors of his subordinates.

She had no comprehension of the deeper, more complex game at play. No understanding that her captain’s fate, her own career, even the Quidditch League itself, were merely pawns in a far larger contest for influence and control within the Ministry.

He considered her letter again.

“I have observations, information, that I believe you might find… relevant… about potential misjudgments currently unfolding.”

Likely nothing more than emotional conjecture, sentimentality, a refusal to believe her captain capable of wrongdoing, filtered through her limited understanding of the world.

But even those driven by strong emotional currents sometimes perceive inconsistencies that more detached, procedurally bound minds might overlook. Their focus, though narrow, can be intense.

And Weasley, for all her impulsiveness, possessed a certain instinctive intelligence.

She had, after all, managed to piece together fragments of Percy’s logbook and connect them, however crudely, to his own carefully guarded Hogwarts history – an irritating, if ultimately harmless, display of tenacious curiosity.

She was capable of noticing things. Of asking awkward questions.

The prospect of Ginny Weasley, untrained, emotionally compromised, blundering her way through an amateur investigation into a Knockturn Alley murder, was almost comical.

She would undoubtedly create more chaos, more untidiness. But that chaos, if carefully observed, if subtly guided, might yield something useful.

It might expose vulnerabilities in the Auror Office's case that he could then exploit.

And her desperation… that was a powerful motivator.

It could make her reckless, yes, but also resourceful.

It could drive her to uncover details that more procedurally bound individuals might overlook.

He wouldn’t reply to her letter immediately.

Let her wait.

Let her desperation build.

It would make her more pliable, more willing to share whatever scraps of information she possessed, more amenable to… suggestion.

His primary objective, as always, was the consolidation of his own power, the meticulous construction of a new order within the Ministry - an order based on efficiency, strength, and unwavering loyalty to a clear vision.

Disrupting Amelia Bones’s historical inquiries, demonstrating the fallibility of her department, was a secondary, albeit useful, strategic goal that aligned perfectly with this objective.

Saving Gwendolyn Jones, or assisting Ginny Weasley out of any sense of altruism or justice, was not even a tertiary consideration.

But if Weasley’s desperate attempt to save her captain could be guided, if her amateur fumblings could inadvertently expose flaws in the DMLE’s investigation.

If the resulting fallout served to neutralize Bones as a minor irritant and further demonstrate the need for strong, decisive leadership (his leadership) within the Ministry…

Then perhaps this untidy spectacle could be turned to his advantage after all.

He placed Weasley’s letter aside, a faint smile playing on his lips.

The pieces were aligning in an unexpected, but potentially fruitful, manner.

He would allow Pringle to schedule a meeting. Not immediately. Perhaps in a day or two. Long enough for Weasley’s anxiety to reach optimal levels, long enough for her to feel the full weight of her captain’s predicament and her own powerlessness.

And then, he would determine if this particular woman, buzzing so persistently at the edges of his carefully ordered world, could, perhaps, be transformed into a useful, if unwitting, pawn.

The potential for amusement, he had to admit, was also a factor.

Ginny Weasley attempting to navigate the treacherous currents of a Ministry investigation, armed with nothing but her temper, her misguided loyalty, and her profoundly limited understanding of the forces at play… it promised a diversion from the more tedious aspects of dragon containment protocols and goblin treaty negotiations.

Yes. He would see her.

The thought, surprisingly, did not feel entirely like a burden. It felt… opportune.

Chapter Text

The Ministry of Magic after hours was a place of echoing silence. The usual daytime cacophony of bustling clerks, clattering lifts, and echoing pronouncements had faded, leaving only the faint hum of ancient magical enchantments and the distant, mournful whistle of the wind against the Ministry’s magically reinforced upper levels.

Ginny found herself seated, for the second time, in the severe leather armchair before Tom Riddle’s expansive desk.

The office, usually a bastion of cool, controlled light, was now shrouded in an even deeper gloom, illuminated solely by a single, heavily shaded lamp on the desk that cast a pool of focused light onto its polished surface, leaving the rest of the room – the towering bookshelves, the imposing furniture – to retreat into indistinct, imposing silhouettes.

The summons had been as terse and commanding as before: “My office. Nine o’clock. Punctuality, as always, is expected.”

The late hour was a clear statement in itself.

This was not official Ministry business.

This was a private consultation, conducted under the cover of darkness, away from the prying eyes and listening ears of the Ministry’s daytime throng.

Ginny had spent the hours leading up to the meeting pacing her small flat, a knot of anxiety and grim determination tightening in her stomach.

Gwenog was in a Ministry holding cell.

The League was in ruins.

Her own reinstatement, conditional as it was, felt like a cruel joke in the face of this new catastrophe.

This meeting felt less like a conversation and more like a desperate, last-ditch appeal to the one person who might possess the intellect, the influence, and the sheer, amoral pragmatism to see through the Ministry’s flawed investigation.

Tom sat opposite her, not engrossed in Ministry reports this time, but observing her with that unnerving, analytical stillness that seemed to strip away all pretense, leaving her feeling exposed. In the dim light, his handsome features seemed sharper.

He hadn’t offered her a drink.

He hadn’t engaged in any pleasantries.

He had simply gestured to the chair upon her arrival as he waited for her to begin.

The memory of their last encounter in this room – her furious accusations, his effortless disarming of her, the shocking, disorienting intimacy of his touch – flickered at the edges of her mind, a ghost of a sensation against her skin.

She pushed it away, ruthlessly.

There was no time for that confusion now.

Gwenog’s freedom, the future of the entire League, was at stake.

“Thank you for seeing me,” she began, her voice tight but steady, refusing to betray the desperation churning within her. “On such short notice. As my letter stated, this is about Gwenog Jones.”

Tom inclined his head fractionally, a gesture that conveyed acknowledgement but no hint of sympathy. “Indeed. A most regrettable situation. For the Quidditch League. For the Ministry’s public image. And, I imagine, for Miss Jones herself.”

His tone was detached, almost academic, as if discussing a particularly piece of legislation rather than a human tragedy.

Ginny bit back the instinctive, angry retort.

She had to be strategic. She had to appeal to him, as she had planned.

“It’s more than just regrettable. It’s wrong,” she stated, leaning forward slightly, her hands clenched in her lap. “I was there. At the raid. I heard what Dawlish said. The ‘evidence’ they claim to have… it doesn’t add up. Gwenog is not a murderer. And she is certainly not a coward who would run from the Ministry. Someone is framing her, or twisting the facts to fit a convenient narrative.”

“An intriguing, if somewhat emotionally charged, hypothesis, Miss Weasley,” Tom murmured, his dark eyes unblinking in the dim light. “And on what do you base this conclusion? Your personal affection for your captain? A refusal to accept an unpleasant reality?”

“I base it on knowing her!” Ginny retorted, her voice rising slightly before she forced it back down. “And on a healthy suspicion of any investigation led by a pompous windbag like Corban Dawlish, who seems more interested in grandstanding for the Prophet than in actual justice.”

She took a breath, trying to steer the conversation back to the logical ground she hoped would appeal to him. “Look, I know this isn’t your usual area of… interest. But you understand the Ministry. You understand how things work here, how people operate. I need to find out what really happened to Cormac McLeod. I need to find out who had a real motive to want him dead. And I need to prove that Gwenog is being set up. I can’t do that while the whole League is suspended, with Aurors potentially watching my every move. And I certainly can’t do it alone.”

There.

She had laid it out.

Her objective.

And her implicit need for his… assistance. Or at least, his non-interference.

Tom listened, his expression impassive. Then he reached for a slim, leather-bound file that had been sitting, closed, at the corner of his desk. He opened it with a flick of his long fingers.

“Cormac Alistair McLeod,” he began, his voice taking on the precise, didactic tone of a professor delivering a late-night lecture. “Aged fifty-seven. Ministry-licensed dealer in Class C and D magical artifacts, a classification which, as you may not be aware, encompasses items of significant historical value but not those deemed inherently dangerous or dark. His license, however, was under review due to repeated, albeit minor, infractions regarding acquisition documentation.”

Ginny stared at him, “How did you get that?”

A faint smile touched Tom's lips. “Miss Weasley, the Ministry is a vast repository of information. One need only know which channels to access, which protocols to invoke. The preliminary Auror report on the McLeod case, while officially sealed under DMLE authority, becomes a matter of inter-departmental concern when it involves a Ministry-licensed individual and has repercussions that affect other departments – such as the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and by extension, the financial and regulatory stability of the Quidditch League. My advisory role grants me a certain need to know in such matters.”

He hadn’t answered her question, not really.

He had simply asserted his right to the information, his ability to navigate Ministry power in ways she couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

He hadn’t just studied the case; he had acquired the official, sealed reports. The arrogance of it, the sheer, casual demonstration of his influence, was breathtaking.

He continued, his eyes scanning the parchment within the file, which was illuminated by a soft, self-lighting charm emanating from the page itself. “McLeod was found in the back room of his Knockturn Alley premises. Cause of death: catastrophic internal hemorrhaging consistent with a poorly controlled, or perhaps deliberately unstable, Blasting Curse. Defensive wards shattered. Signs of a significant magical struggle. The primary magical signatures identified at the scene, as Dawlish so publicly proclaimed, belong to McLeod himself, and Gwendolyn Jones.”

He looked up, his gaze sharp, pinning Ginny. “Furthermore, an enchanted silver locket, bearing the Jones family crest, was found clutched in the deceased’s hand. And a subsequent search of the ‘remote Welsh hideout’ where Miss Jones was apprehended yielded several unregistered, low-level dark artifacts, items that preliminary analysis suggests may have been part of McLeod’s recent, undocumented inventory.”

Ginny felt the blood drain from her face.

A locket with the Jones family crest?

Unregistered dark artifacts in Gwenog’s possession?

This was far more than just her magical signature at the scene. This was… undeniable.

“It’s a frame-up!” she insisted, her voice trembling slightly. “The locket, the artifacts – they have to be planted! And the magical signature… couldn’t that be faked? Forged?”

“Magical signature forgery,” Tom replied coolly, “is a highly complex, almost mythical branch of spellcraft, Miss Weasley. Far beyond the capabilities of the average dark wizard. As for the planted evidence, a plausible theory, certainly. But one that requires proof. Proof that the Auror Office, led by the diligent Investigator Ogden, has, thus far, failed to uncover. Or perhaps,” – his gaze intensified – “has chosen not to look for.”

He was baiting her, testing her.

Acknowledging the possibility of a frame-up, while simultaneously highlighting the institutional barriers to proving it.

“So, what do we do?” Ginny asked, the “we” slipping out unconsciously, a product of her desperation.

Tom’s eyebrow arched fractionally at the familiar pronoun. “There is no ‘we’, Miss Weasley. There is you, a conditionally reinstated Quidditch player with a personal, emotionally driven agenda. And there is me, a Senior Ministry Advisor observing a potentially flawed investigation that is causing significant disruption to the established order.”

He closed the file with a soft, final snap. “Your loyalty to your captain is predictable. But loyalty does not constitute a viable investigative strategy. You claim Gwenog Jones is innocent. You claim she is being framed. Very well. Convince me. What is your plan? What avenues of inquiry do you propose to pursue, armed as you are with little more than righteous indignation and a profound lack of access to official channels?”

The challenge was direct.

He wasn’t just going to hand her answers.

He wanted to see if she was capable of thinking, of strategizing, of moving beyond the emotional outbursts that had defined their previous encounters.

Ginny took a deep breath, forcing herself to think logically, to present her fragmented thoughts as a coherent plan.

“We need to find out who Cormac McLeod really was. Not just the official Ministry version. Who were his enemies? Who were his associates, besides Gwenog? Who else had a motive to want him dead? Knockturn Alley runs on secrets and grudges. Someone must have seen something, heard something.”

“A commendable, if remarkably dangerous, line of inquiry,” Tom interjected, his tone dry. “You propose to what? Don a disguise and casually interrogate the notoriously tight-lipped and criminally inclined inhabitants of Knockturn Alley? They are not known for their cooperative nature with those who do not belong, Miss Weasley. And your red hair, I fear, is rather conspicuous.”

Ginny gritted her teeth, ignoring the jibe. “I wouldn’t go myself. But there are ways to get information. People who listen. Bartenders, shopkeepers… even my brothers, Fred and George, have contacts in the less… respectable parts of the wizarding world, through their business.”

Tom’s expression remained unimpressed. “Relying on gossip from purveyors of novelty magical items. A robust intelligence network indeed. And what is your second point?”

Ginny pressed on, “The evidence. The locket. The dark artifacts. Gwenog doesn’t own a locket like that. And she despises dark magic. We need to trace the provenance of those items. Where did they come from? Who sold them to McLeod? Who could have had access to them, and to Gwenog’s supposed ‘safe house,’ to plant them?”

“An admirable objective,” Tom said smoothly. “One that would require access to McLeod’s sealed acquisition records, a task that has likely already been undertaken by Investigator Ogden. It would also require a level of forensic magical analysis far beyond your capabilities. Are you suggesting you possess some hidden talent for tracing residual enchantments on unregistered dark artifacts?”

“No,” Ginny admitted, frustration mounting. “But someone must know. The magical world isn’t that big. Someone forged those items, or stole them, or sold them. We just need to find the right person to ask.”

“And your third, presumably equally well-conceived, investigative thrust?” Tom inquired, his tone dripping with polite sarcasm.

“Rhys Jones,” Ginny said, the name dropping into the quiet office like a stone. “Gwenog’s brother. I think he’s the key to all of this. I think McLeod was blackmailing Gwenog, using Rhys as leverage. That’s why she was there. To protect him.”

She deliberately omitted the part about her visit to the holding cells; Tom didn't need to know everything.

“Ah,” Tom murmured, a flicker of genuine interest in his eyes. “A motive. A compelling narrative of familial loyalty leading to a tragic confrontation. It has potential. It provides a plausible explanation for Miss Jones’s presence in Knockturn Alley. But it does not absolve her of potential culpability in the ensuing altercation. In fact, it could be argued it provides a motive for murder. And locating this Rhys Jones, a man who, if your theory is correct, is likely in hiding and has every reason to avoid contact with anyone connected to this affair. How do you propose to achieve that?”

He leaned back in his chair, his expression almost pitying. “Your ‘plan’, Miss Weasley, consists of three admirable but fundamentally flawed objectives: interrogating unreliable and dangerous witnesses, investigating evidence to which you have no access, and locating a missing person who does not wish to be found. All while the League is suspended and Auror surveillance is a distinct possibility. It is a strategy, if one can call it that, destined for failure.”

Ginny stared at him.

He had systematically, effortlessly, dismantled her entire desperate plan, exposing its every weakness, its every naive assumption.

She had nothing.

She had come here, hoping to present a case, to appeal, to convince him to help. And he had simply… proven her incompetence.

A wave of despair washed over her.

He was right.

Her plan was foolish, impossible.

She slumped back in the chair, defeated.

“So, that’s it, then?” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “There’s nothing to be done? We just let them send her to Azkaban?”

Tom regarded her for a long moment.

“I did not say there is nothing to be done, Miss Weasley,” he said finally, his voice quiet, measured. “I merely said that your proposed course of action is inadequate.”

He reached for a different file on his desk, not the Auror report, but a slimmer, unmarked one. He opened it, revealing several sheets of parchment covered in his own neat, precise handwriting.

“A more efficient investigation,” he began, his voice taking on that familiar, didactic tone, “does not begin with chasing rumors in dark alleys. It begins with a thorough analysis of the available, verifiable data, and the identification of anomalies and inconsistencies within the official narrative.”

He slid the top sheet of parchment across the desk towards her.

“Let us begin with the victim, Cormac McLeod,” he said. “And the inconsistencies in his financial records.”

He had dissected the entire situation, identified the weak points, formulated a counter-strategy, all from the quiet confines of his office, all based on information he had acquired through means she could only guess at.

“Why?” she asked, the question escaping her lips before she could stop it. “Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?”

Riddle’s faint smile returned. “Let us be clear, Miss Weasley. I am not ‘helping you.’ Your captain’s fate is a matter of profound indifference to me. What I find objectionable is incompetence. Corruption. It creates disorder. It undermines the very structures I am working to refine. And it is, frankly, an intellectual affront.”

He paused, his gaze intensifying. “This situation presents an opportunity. An opportunity to purge a compromised element from the Auror Office, to subtly remind Director Bones of the importance of maintaining rigorous internal oversight, and to restore a measure of order to a chaotic situation. Your personal crusade to free your captain merely happens to align, for the moment, with my own strategic objectives.”

There it was.

The "truth".

She wasn’t his partner; she was his tool. An unwitting, emotionally driven catalyst he could use to achieve his own, larger goals within the Ministry.

Her desire for justice was simply a convenient lever for him to pull.

The realization should have been horrifying. And on some level, it was.

But it was also… strangely liberating.

She finally understood the game.

This wasn’t about friendship, or empathy, or some bizarre, burgeoning connection. This was a transactional alliance, born of mutual, if temporary, interest.

“Alright, Riddle,” she said, her voice steadier now, a new, hard-won clarity in her eyes. “So I’m your instrument of bureaucratic reform. Fine. I can live with that, if it gets Gwenog out of a Ministry holding cell. What’s the plan?”

A faint glimmer of something that might have been approval, or perhaps just intellectual satisfaction, appeared in Riddle’s eyes.

She was learning.

Adapting.

Becoming… more interesting.

He slid a crude, hand-drawn map across the desk. It depicted a stretch of desolate coastline, a small, crumbling jetty, and a cluster of buildings marked “Abandoned Pilchard Cannery, Port Wrinkle.”

“The most efficient path to resolution is as follows,” he stated, his voice the epitome of calm, detached command. “Rhys Jones is being held here, in this abandoned cannery. The wards are physical deterrents. There are guards—smugglers, not trained wizards—predictable and overconfident. The official Auror investigation is compromised by Dawlish’s corruption. Therefore, direct Ministry intervention is not an option.”

He tapped a point on the map marked with a small ‘X’ near the main warehouse gate. “You, Miss Weasley, with your athletic proclivities, will create a diversion at the main gate. Loud. Physical. Draw the guards' attention. Your capacity for generating attention-drawing disruption is, as we have established, considerable.”

His dark eyes flicked up to meet hers, devoid of any consideration for her safety. “While they are occupied with you, I will proceed to the secondary access point here,” – he tapped a different spot on the map, a seaward-facing loading bay – “dismantle any rudimentary magical traps, and extract the target. The risks of your diversion are, of course, entirely your own.”

Ginny stared at him, then at the map, then back at him.

The initial awe at his preparedness evaporated, replaced by a surge of incredulous, almost hysterical disbelief.

She scoffed. A loud, sharp sound of pure derision.

“Let me get this straight,” she said, her voice laced with scorn. “Your grand plan is for me to be a human Bludger? You want me to run up to a warehouse full of Knockturn Alley thugs and shout ‘boo!’ so they all chase me, while you sneak in the back like a bloody pixie? Are you insane?”

Riddle’s eyebrow arched fractionally, the first sign of genuine surprise she had seen on his face all evening. He clearly hadn't anticipated such a visceral, immediate rejection of what he considered a logically sound plan.

“They’d have me stunned and tied up in thirty seconds,” Ginny continued, her voice rising with exasperation, “and then what’s your plan, Riddle? Ask them nicely to let your target go? Or will you just write a strongly worded memo about their prisoner-handling protocols?”

Her objection wasn’t strategic, not in the way he understood it.

It was a gut-level rejection of a stupid, suicidal plan.

He saw her as a distraction, and she found the role both insulting and tactically idiotic.

“That’s a terrible use of assets, Riddle,” she snapped, jabbing a finger at the map, taking control of the conversation with on-the-ground common sense. “A terrible one.”

She leaned forward, her eyes blazing with a different kind of fire now – not just anger, but the focused intensity of a Quidditch player identifying a fatal flaw in the opposition’s strategy.

“Look, you’re the one with the fancy magic. You’re the one who can create illusions, Confund people, make them think Fudge himself is arriving for a seaside holiday. That’s the diversion. A big one. Something that pulls every single guard out of that building and gets them looking at the jetty, not at the warehouse.”

She didn’t wait for him to respond, her mind now racing with the possibilities, the mechanics of the situation. “You do that. You create the big magical light show. And while they’re all staring at the water, I go in. I’m faster than them. I can get over a wall and through a window before they even turn around. I find Rhys, I get him out. That’s the plan. Your brains for the distraction, my speed for the extraction. It’s the only way this works without me ending up as fish food.”

She finished, breathing slightly heavily, the adrenaline of the impromptu planning session coursing through her. She had challenged his logic with undeniable reality.

A long pause descended.

Tom Riddle regarded her from across his desk, dark eyes narrowed, expression unreadable.

He wasn’t looking at her as an inferior to be managed anymore. He was looking at her as a problem.

He had expected her to either accept his plan out of desperation or reject it with another outburst. He had not expected her to dissect its flaws and offer a more viable, albeit equally risky, alternative.

She had challenged the application of his plan. And he could not deny the sense in her assessment.

His original plan had been efficient, yes, but it had also been disposable, in its treatment of her.

Her counter-proposal, while shifting the primary risk of the diversion onto him, also, he had to admit, significantly increased the probability of a clean extraction of the primary target, Rhys Jones.

A larger, more convincing diversion would indeed draw more guards, for a longer period, creating a wider window of opportunity for infiltration.

“A rather illustrative comparison, Miss Weasley. You propose to reverse the roles.”

He picked up his quill, not to write, but to tap it softly against the map, considering the new variables she had introduced. “Your capacity for stealth is an unproven assertion. Your ability to navigate a hostile environment without resorting to explosive confrontations is questionable at best.”

“And your ability to create a convincing magical illusion that can fool a dozen paranoid smugglers is also an unproven assertion,” Ginny countered instantly, refusing to let him regain the upper hand. “But we’re both just going to have to trust that the other person isn’t completely useless at what they claim to be good at, aren't we?”

A flicker of something – not amusement, but a grudging, almost imperceptible respect – glinted in Riddle’s eyes.

She possessed a certain raw, tactical cunning.

“The risk profile shifts,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “But the potential for a cleaner extraction increases.”

He looked up, his gaze meeting hers, sharp and decisive. “Very well, Miss Weasley. Your revised allocation of our specialized assets has merit. The primary diversion executed by myself at the jetty. The extraction will be executed by you at the warehouse.”

He was agreeing.

He had actually listened to her and adapted his plan.

The realization was as shocking as it was satisfying.

“But let us be clear,” he added, his voice regaining its familiar, authoritative tone, “the terms of our arrangement remain unchanged. Should you fail, should you be captured, should you deviate from the objective in any way, I will not compromise my own position to retrieve you. You will be on your own. This conversation never happened.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Ginny said, her tone dry. “I’m sure you’d draft a very moving, very official memo expressing your profound disappointment in my reckless, unsanctioned actions.”

The abrupt, gut-wrenching squeeze of side-along apparition released them into a maelstrom.

Ginny landed with a practiced roll on slick, uneven cobblestones, absorbing the impact, her senses immediately assaulted by the roar of the wind, the lash of ice-cold rain, and the overpowering, salty stench of brine and decaying seaweed.

She’d chosen the destination – a bleak, deserted stretch of coast road she remembered from a particularly miserable Harpies’ team-building exercise years ago, involving a leaky tent and a forced march through a bog.

It was the closest known Apparition point to the coordinates Riddle had indicated on his hand-drawn map.

Riddle materialized beside her a split second later, landing with an unnerving grace, his dark travelling cloak already repelling the worst of the downpour, not a single strand of his hair out of place.

He surveyed their surroundings with a flicker of distaste, his gaze sweeping over the crumbling sea wall, the churning grey waves, and the skeletal remains of a long-abandoned fishing boat half-buried in the shingle.

“Charming, Miss Weasley,” he remarked, his voice a low murmur barely audible above the storm. “You possess a unique talent for selecting destinations of profound desolation. Does the Holyhead Harpies’ social committee also arrange excursions to forgotten plague pits and troll-infested caverns?”

Ginny cast a quick, efficient Warming Charm on herself, feeling the welcome heat seep into her bones, then pulled the hood of her practical, waterproof cloak tighter around her face.

“It was either this or a quaint little seaside pub a mile down the road,” she retorted, shouting slightly to be heard over the wind. “Figured you weren’t in the mood for cheerful sea shanties and a pint of stout. Besides, it’s discreet. No one comes out here unless they’re a particularly dedicated smuggler or a deeply depressed puffin.”

She turned, her back to the sea, and peered into the darkness.

About half a mile down the winding, treacherous coast road, a cluster of dilapidated buildings loomed against the stormy sky, their jagged silhouettes barely visible in the gloom. The abandoned pilchard cannery at Port Wrinkle. A place that even the most desperate puffins likely avoided.

“Right then,” Ginny said, her voice tight with a mixture of grim determination and nervous energy. “Let’s go see about your diversion. Unless you’d prefer to stand here and critique the local scenery all night?”

Riddle didn’t deign to reply.

He simply began to walk, his long strides eating up the slick, uneven ground that forced Ginny into a near-jog to keep pace.

They moved in silence for several minutes, the only sounds the relentless drumming of the rain on their cloaks, the crunch of their boots on the gravelly road, and the mournful howl of the wind.

The proximity, the shared, dangerous purpose, the raw, elemental fury of the storm – it created a strange, intense intimacy between them, far removed from the controlled environments of his office or the quiet café.

Here, there were no polished desks to separate them, no Ministry protocols to hide behind. Just the two of them, two disparate, opposing forces, moving towards a common, dangerous objective.

Ginny found her senses heightened, her awareness focused not just on their destination, but on the figure moving beside her.

“Just so we’re clear, Riddle,” she said, her voice sharp as she navigated a particularly treacherous patch of loose shale, “this is about Gwenog. And about her brother. That’s it. You get your ‘problem’ solved, you get to stick it to Dawlish and his cronies, fine. It doesn’t mean I trust you. The moment Rhys Jones is safe and Gwenog’s name is cleared, our… arrangement… is over. Understood?”

She needed to say it, to draw the line clearly, to remind herself – and him – of the nature of this alliance.

Riddle didn’t look at her. He kept his gaze fixed on the looming silhouette of the cannery ahead.

“Your capacity for stating the blindingly obvious is truly remarkable,” he replied, his voice a low, cutting murmur. “Did you imagine I was proposing a long-term collaborative partnership in vigilante justice, perhaps with matching cloaks and a catchy team name? My objectives in this matter are, as they always are, aligned with greater interests. Your personal motivations are of no consequence to me, beyond their utility in achieving the desired outcome.”

He paused, his stride not faltering. “As for your trust, I neither require it nor desire it. I require your competence. Your ability to execute your designated task without resorting to your usual theatrics. Can you provide that, Miss Weasley? Or will your deeply held principles cause you to hesitate at a critical moment?”

The barb hit its mark.

“I’ll do my part,” Ginny bit out, her jaw tight. “Just make sure your part is as impressive as you seem to think it is. I’d hate for you to conjure a few sparkly lights and a puff of smoke, only to have the guards laugh and stun me before I’ve even climbed the first wall.”

A faint smile touched his lips. “Rest assured, Miss Weasley. My diversions tend to be… persuasive.”

They left the road, scrambling up a steep, muddy embankment that offered a better vantage point, overlooking the cannery complex from a distance. They crouched behind a gnarled, wind-battered hawthorn bush, the rain dripping from its skeletal branches, shielded from direct view.

From here, they could see the full layout.

A collection of large, derelict warehouses, their corrugated iron walls streaked with rust, their windows boarded up or shattered. A crumbling stone jetty jutted out into the churning sea. And a high, chain-link fence, topped with rusted barbed wire, surrounded the entire compound.

And there were guards.

Not just a few.

Figures moved in the shadows between the buildings, their silhouettes bulky, purposeful.

Ginny could make out the faint, intermittent glow of lumen charms, bobbing like malevolent will-o’-the-wisps as they patrolled the perimeter.

More figures were stationed near what looked like the main gate, a heavy iron affair, huddled in a makeshift sentry box.

And there were… other sentinels.

Floating near the rooflines of the main warehouses, almost invisible against the dark, stormy sky, were several tall, cloaked, ragged figures.

They didn't radiate the soul-crushing cold of Dementors, a sensation Ginny remembered all too well from her Hogwarts years. There was no wave of despair, no icy dread.

Instead, they drifted with an unnatural, jerky motion, and the air around them seemed to shimmer with a faint, almost greasy-looking distortion, as if the rain itself was trying to slide off their illusionary forms.

"What are those?" Ginny frowned, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Some kind of Inferi? They don’t feel like Dementors, but they’re not human."

Riddle, who had clearly already identified the figures, cast a sidelong glance at her. 

"They are not Inferi, Miss Weasley," he clarified, his own voice cool, almost pedagogical. "Inferi require a necromancer of considerable skill and a ready supply of corpses. This is far cruder. They are scarecrow sentinels, animated with basic movement charms and cloaked in illusionary shrouds designed to mimic the appearance of something far more dangerous. A common security measure employed by lower-tier criminal organizations. Intimidating to the uninitiated, certainly, but possessing no real offensive capability beyond what their creators have clumsily enchanted into them. Aesthetically displeasing, but magically insignificant."

Ginny scoffed, a sound of dry amusement. “Right. So, not soul-sucking monsters, just enchanted scarecrows in spooky cloaks. Got it.”

She squinted, her gaze sweeping over the compound again with a Quidditch player’s practiced eye for tactical assessment. “Still, that’s a lot of them. And a lot of guards. You really underestimated the welcoming committee, didn't you? Looks like a whole nest of smugglers down there, not just a few thugs.”

She pointed a gloved finger, “And that’s not just a chain-link fence. There are tripwire curses along the base. See the faint shimmer near the posts? And the main gate… it’s not just locked. It’s warded. Probably with something nasty. This isn’t going to be a simple sneak-and-grab.”

Riddle was quiet for a moment, observing the scene, but also observing her.

“The number of guards is indeed greater than initial reports suggested,” he conceded. “Approximately fifteen, perhaps twenty. The wards on the gate are likely simple but brutish – alarm charms, possibly a mild Entrail-Expelling Curse. The tripwires are standard proximity jinxes. All manageable.”

“Manageable for you, maybe,” Ginny retorted, her voice sharp with a pragmatism born of facing down Bludgers, not ancient runes. “You just have to stand out there on the jetty and create a magical light show. I’m the one who has to get over that fence, past those tripwires, and through a window without getting spotted by twenty smugglers and their pet enchanted scarecrows. My part of the plan just got significantly more complicated.”

“Indeed,” he murmured, his attention still fixed on the cannery. “It will require a greater degree of finesse than initially planned.”

“What about your diversion? Are you still planning on conjuring a few sparkly lights and hoping for the best? Because I don’t think a flock of angry enchanted scarecrows is going to be particularly distracted by a firework display.”

“My diversions, as I believe I have already stated,” Riddle said, clearly irritated by her continued questioning of his capabilities, “are persuasive. The number of guards is irrelevant. My task is to draw their attention to the jetty. All of them. And I will do so.”

He turned his gaze on her, his eyes glinting in the darkness. “Your task, Miss Weasley, remains unchanged. Infiltrate. Locate the target. Extract him. The increased security merely necessitates that you execute your role with greater speed and silence.”

The way he framed it, the way the increased danger fell entirely on her side of the equation…

“And if I get caught?” she challenged, “If one of their guards decides to use me for curse practice? What then, Riddle? Do you just apparate away and draft a memo about the unfortunate risks of unsanctioned vigilante operations?”

She saw the flicker in his eyes again, the dismissal.

The confirmation of the truth she already knew.

“If you are so incompetent as to get caught by smugglers and their animated scarecrows, Miss Weasley,” he stated flatly, “then you will have proven yourself a liability.”

If she failed, she was on her own.

He would abandon her without a second thought.

The coward.

For all his power, for all his talk, in the end, he was a creature of pure, ruthless self-interest. He would risk nothing for anyone but himself.

Fine.

She looked at him, a new, hard glint in her own eyes. “Right then, Riddle. I’m not asking you to be my hero. But I am asking you to do your part. To create a diversion so big, so loud, so utterly convincing that every single one of those thugs, every one of those floating scarecrows, forgets this warehouse even exists for at least ten minutes.”

She paused, her gaze unwavering. “You do that. You give me that window. And I’ll get Rhys Jones out. And then… then our arrangement is concluded. And we never have to speak to each other again. Deal?”

Tom Riddle regarded her for a long moment.

The wind whipped a strand of her red hair across her face, but she didn’t brush it away, her eyes never leaving his.

He saw the stubborn, defiant resolve beneath it.

The success of the mission did, indeed, hinge on the flawless execution of both their roles.

“You have my word. Ten minutes of absolute, undivided attention directed towards the jetty.”

Ginny nodded curtly, accepting his vow. “Ten minutes. Starting when I give the signal.” She peered through the rain-slicked hawthorn leaves again, her mind shifting into tactical mode, analyzing the layout of the cannery.

“And just so we’re crystal clear, Riddle,” she added, her voice low against the storm’s roar, “if your ‘persuasive diversion’ ends up being a conjured Kneazle singing sea shanties and I get cornered, I’m telling them a Senior Ministry Advisor hired me. I’ll make sure your name is the last thing I shriek before they turn me into fish bait. Might not save me, but it’ll make your next performance review… interesting.”

She glanced at him, expecting a cold retort.

He didn’t answer.

His entire body had gone rigid, his head cocked, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere in the darkness beyond the cannery fence. Before Ginny could register his sudden, intense stillness, he moved with terrifying, fluid speed.

His wand flicked in the gloom, a barely perceptible motion, and a muffling sensation clamped down on her mouth as he cast a nonverbal Silencing Charm.

Before she could protest the violation, his arm shot out, not to strike, but to grab the front of her cloak. He yanked her forward and sideways, pulling her off balance and into motion with a force that stole her breath.

He shoved her into the deeper shadows against a crumbling stone retaining wall, spinning as he did so. He pressed his own back flat against the stone, simultaneously pulling her flush against his chest, effectively trapping her between the hard wall of his body and the open, stormy night.

Her back was pressed against him, his arm a solid bar across her midsection, his other hand clamping down on her shoulder to hold her still. Her head was tucked just under his chin.

She was caged, her senses filled with the scent of his rain-damp wool cloak and the clean air around him. She could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing against her shoulder blades, a contrast to her own frantic, shallow gasps.

Panic clawed at her throat, but she forced herself into absolute stillness, her instincts recognizing the immediate danger that had prompted his reaction.

Almost immediately, a faint, magical chime echoed from the direction of the cannery, barely audible above the storm. A harsh beam of light shot out from a watchtower, sweeping across the muddy embankment where they had just been crouching.

Ginny held her breath, convinced they would be discovered.

The light washed over the hawthorn bush, lingering for a long, agonizing moment.

She heard the approaching crunch of heavy boots on the gravelly road and the rough voices of smugglers, closer now, more alert.

They were actively searching.

Five of them.

Moving in a tight, cautious formation, wands drawn, their lumen charms casting erratic, dancing shadows.

“…sure you heard it, Malkin?” one of them grumbled, his voice rough and nasal. “Probably just a bloody sea-gull got caught in the outer ward.”

“It wasn’t no sea-gull,” another voice, sharper, shot back. “Had that high-pitched magical whine to it. Proximity jinx. Something crossed the line down by the old road.”

The patrol slowed, their lumen charms probing the very embankment where Ginny and Tom were hidden. The light danced over the crumbling wall.

For a long, terrifying second, the beam lingered just feet from them, and Ginny was certain they had been found. She could feel a muscle in Riddle’s arm tense against her, the only outward sign of his own heightened state.

Then, one of the men shrugged, a bulky silhouette against the stormy sky. “Nothin’ here. You’re hearing things, Malkin. Let’s get back to the gate. Boss’ll have our hides if we’re not at our posts when he gets back.”

The group grumbled in agreement.

The beams of their lumen charms swung away and began to recede, moving back towards the cannery compound, their heavy footsteps fading into the roar of the storm.

Tom Riddle didn't release her immediately. He remained still, listening intently, ensuring the patrol was truly gone, that they weren't circling back for a second look.

Finally, after another long minute that felt like an hour, he slowly, deliberately, relaxed his hold. His arm unwrapped from her waist, and he shifted his weight, moving sideways along the wall, creating a sudden gulf of space between them. 

Ginny stumbled forward a step, her balance returning.

The first thing she did was point her wand at her lips, nonverbally cancelling his Silencing Charm. The muffled sensation vanished.

But before she could launch into a full tirade, he spoke, his voice low, urgent, stripped of all its usual condescension. “They know we’re here,” he said, his eyes fixed on the distant, retreating lights of the smugglers’ patrol. “Or, at least, they know someone is. Their perimeter wards have been tripped. The element of surprise is gone. We have to move. Now.”

Ginny’s intended outburst died in her throat.

He was right.

Their initial plan was compromised.

The smugglers would be on high alert.

“A patrol, this far out,” he hissed, his gaze sweeping the cannery complex with a strategist’s eye. “It implies a more organized and paranoid operation than anticipated.”

Ginny nodded, her mind snapping into tactical focus. “So the diversion at the jetty… will they even fall for it now?”

“They will be more suspicious,” Riddle conceded. “But a sufficiently compelling spectacle, an overt assault from the sea, might still draw the majority of their forces. It becomes a matter of misdirection. Convincing them the patrol was a false alarm, and the true threat is elsewhere.”

He looked at her, his expression that of a ruthless general considering all angles. “The core of your revised plan remains viable. They will not expect a lone operative to attempt an infiltration while their main forces are engaged elsewhere.”

“I’ll need a bigger diversion. Longer. More convincing,” Ginny stated flatly. 

“You will have it,” Riddle promised, his voice absolute.

He gave her one last look. It was a look of shared, if temporary, purpose. An acknowledgement of the risks they were both about to take.

“Wait for my signal,” he commanded. “Do not move before then. And do not fail.”

With that, he turned, melting back into the shadows of the embankment, heading towards the turbulent shoreline, his dark cloak making him almost invisible against the storm-tossed landscape. 

Ginny was left alone, crouched behind the crumbling stone wall, her wand clutched tightly in her hand, her heart still hammering from their forced concealment and the reality of the danger ahead.

She crept back towards the hawthorn bush, her movements low and silent. She peered through the leaves, her gaze sweeping over the cannery, analyzing the new, heightened state of alertness.

The guards were more numerous now, their lumen charms cutting frantically through the darkness. The scarecrow sentinels on the roofs seemed to sway more erratically in the wind, their illusionary cloaks whipping violently.

This was insane.

But it was happening.

The initial flash of Riddle’s diversionary magic was a blinding promise of chaos. Ginny didn’t wait to assess its quality or duration; she trusted the sheer, overwhelming power she had felt gathering.

Ten minutes.

Her internal clock started now.

The moment the world resolved itself from white back to stormy grey, she was moving. A low, swift scuttling run, keeping to the deepest shadows, her body hunched, her movements economical and sure-footed.

Angry, confused shouts erupted from the cannery, their voices thin against the vastness of the storm. The lumen charms of the guards swung wildly, beams cutting frantically through the rain, all pointed towards the sea.

The patrol who had caught their scent earlier were already scrambling towards the jetty, their movements clumsy with alarm, drawn by the impossible light.

The diversion was working.

Just as Ginny reached the muddy patch of ground near the fence line, Riddle’s encore began.

The air itself seemed to warp and twist around the jetty, a vortex of shimmering, heatless energy coalescing into a form that was both vast and indistinct.

A silent shriek echoed, not in the air, but directly in the mind, a psychic scream that made the remaining smugglers stumble, clutching their heads. It was the sound of reality itself being bent out of shape.

Ginny reached the fence.

The tripwire curses shimmered faintly near the base, a low, continuous hum of contained magic. There was no time for complex counter-charms, but brute force would be too loud. 

She drew her wand, the familiar, warm maple wood feeling alive in her hand. She crouched low, pointing the tip at the shimmering line directly in front of her.

"Sopio Verto," she whispered, a minor Dormancy Charm, pouring her concentration into the incantation, feeling her magic flow smoothly through the familiar conduit.

A thin, almost invisible stream of silver light shot from her wand. It didn't break the ward; it flowed into it, calming its humming energy.

The shimmering line flickered, dimmed, and then, for a stretch of about five feet, went dark.

It was a small window.

She launched herself forward, rolling low through the deactivated section of the ward. Her cloak snagged on the fence, a sharp tearing sound, but she was through. She landed in a crouch on the other side, her boots squelching in the muddy ground.

Inside the compound now.

Exposed.

But every eye, every lumen charm of the smugglers, was still fixed on the chaotic symphony of abstract terror at the jetty. The unearthly psychic shrieking intensified, followed by a series of concussive thumps that shook the very ground.

Ginny sprinted across the open ground, using the deep shadows cast by the looming warehouses as cover. 

Her target was the main warehouse. She reached its corrugated iron wall and found the small, grimy access door.

"Portaberto!" she commanded.

A jet of focused magical energy struck the lock. The rusted iron bar glowed white-hot, then snapped clean in two.

She carefully, silently, pulled the heavy door open just enough to slip through, then closed it behind her, plunging herself into near-total darkness. The air inside was thick, stagnant, smelling of old fish and rotting wood.

"Lumos," she whispered. The tip of her wand bloomed with a steady light.

She was in a vast, cavernous space, a labyrinth of rusted machinery, decaying packing crates, and tangled nets. Water dripped from the leaky roof.

She moved deeper into the warehouse, her senses on high alert.

She found the makeshift cell at the far end of the warehouse, just as Riddle's map had indicated.

It was a crude cage constructed from heavy wooden pallets and reinforced with magically strengthened cargo netting. The heavy padlock on the gate hung open, shattered, the metal still warped and blackened from a powerful unlocking curse.

The cell was empty.

Panic lanced through Ginny.

He was gone.

She stepped closer, her wand light illuminating the small, squalid space.

A dirty blanket was crumpled in one corner. An empty water bottle lay on its side. And beside it, half-hidden under the blanket, was Rhys's sketchpad.

He had been here. Recently.

As she took another step, her eyes caught a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer in the air around the cell's entrance. Faint traces of magical residue near the entrance to the cell – not from the initial unlocking charm, but something else, something… newer.

Her eyes darted down.

A faint, intricate runic pattern had been traced into the dusty floorboards, almost invisible unless you knew what to look for.

It was a Proximity Ward, a tripwire designed to trigger a more powerful curse.

The realization hit her a split second before a section of the floorboards directly in front of the cell began to glow with a malevolent, sickly green light.

A trap, laid for anyone coming to rescue him.

“Protego!”

The shield charm was a reflexive scream, wrenched from her throat even as she was throwing herself backwards.

Her shield, conjured in a split-second of desperation, flickered into existence – a shimmering, transparent barrier that barely had time to fully form before the world erupted.

The rune trap detonated.

A focused, brutal Blasting Hex tore outwards from the cell, a shaped charge of raw magical energy.

Ginny’s shield shattered like glass, absorbing the worst of the direct blast, but the shockwave, a concussive wave of force and splintered wood, slammed into her.

It felt like being hit by a rogue Bludger, full-force.

The air was ripped from her lungs.

She was thrown backwards, crashing hard against a stack of rotting crates.

Pain, sharp and blinding, exploded along her left side. Her head cracked against the hard wood, sending stars bursting behind her eyes. Her ears rang with a high-pitched whine that drowned out even the echo of the blast.

Her wand remained clenched in her hand, a desperate, white-knuckled grip, but her arm felt numb, unresponsive.

Dust and acrid magical smoke filled the air, choking her, making her eyes water.

Through the swirling haze, she saw dark figures emerging from the shadows, at least seven of them, moving with the confident swagger of predators who had just cornered their prey.

This was an ambush.

The burly, scarred wizard she’d seen earlier stepped into the dim light cast by her still-glowing wand, a cruel smile twisting his features. “Well, well. Look what the tide washed in. A pretty little redhead, all alone. Caused quite a mess, didn’t you?”

Rage, hot and clean, sliced through the pain and disorientation. Adrenaline surged, a familiar, welcome fire. 

She scrambled to her feet, ignoring the searing pain in her side, her stance low, defensive, the tip of her wand already glowing with renewed intent.

The smugglers laughed, a rough, guttural sound.

They began to spread out, flanking her, their own wands raised, lumen charms creating a confusing web of shifting light and shadow.

“Just one witch,” the scarred man sneered. “Barely a mouthful. Take her down! The boss’ll want to have a word with this one. Alive, if possible. But don’t worry about bruising her.”

The onslaught began.

A jet of crimson light shot from the smuggler on her left. “Stupefy!”

Ginny reacted instantly, her Quidditch reflexes screaming. She didn’t bother with a shield; she dove, a clean, sharp roll to her right, the stunning spell hissing through the air where her head had just been.

She came up firing. “Reducto!”

The Reductor Curse shot from her wand, not aimed at a person, but at a towering, precariously balanced stack of empty fish crates beside the first attacker.

The crates exploded into a shower of splintered, rotten wood. The smuggler yelped, throwing up a hasty shield to protect himself from the debris, momentarily taking him out of the fight.

Another curse came from her right. “Impedimenta!”

This time her shield was strong, solid, absorbing the jinx with a sharp crackle of energy.

But it was seven against one.

They were pressing their advantage, firing a barrage of spells, trying to overwhelm her.

“Furnunculus!”

“Confringo!”

“Incarcerous!”

Jets of light crisscrossed the space, forcing Ginny into a desperate, defensive dance. She ducked, dodged, rolled, her body moving with the fluid grace of an athlete accustomed to evading Bludgers at high speed.

She used the labyrinth of crates and machinery as cover, constantly shifting her position, never presenting a static target.

Her own spells were short, sharp, defensive. A Shield Charm here, a Disarming Charm there, a well-aimed Reducto to create a barrier of debris.

She was buying time, assessing, looking for an opening, her mind racing.

The pain in her side was a constant, searing throb, but the adrenaline masked the worst of it. Her head throbbed in time with her frantic heartbeat.

One of the smugglers, overconfident, moved too close, trying to get a clear shot around a rusted winch.

Ginny saw the opening. She didn’t hesitate.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Her aim was true.

The smuggler froze mid-curse, his limbs snapping together, and toppled over with a clatter.

Six left.

The others roared in frustration, their attacks becoming more vicious, less coordinated.

The scarred leader, seeing his men being outmaneuvered by a single witch, bellowed, “Spread out, you fools! Box her in! Use the nets!”

Two of the smugglers broke away, scrambling up onto the catwalks above, their wands casting long shadows as they prepared to drop magically weighted cargo nets, aiming to ensnare her.

Ginny saw the new threat instantly.

She couldn't fight on two fronts. She had to move.

She unleashed a powerful Bat-Bogey Hex, a spell she had perfected with almost gleeful malice during her Hogwarts years, directing it not at a person, but at a section of the catwalk where one of the smugglers was positioning himself.

A swarm of large, angry, magically enhanced bats erupted from her wand tip, shrieking and biting, creating a chaotic, distracting cloud.

The smuggler yelped in surprise and pain, stumbling back, momentarily blinded, his plan to drop the net forgotten.

But the brief distraction had cost her.

The scarred leader saw his opening.

While Ginny’s attention was directed upwards, he moved in, his wand leveled, a nasty-looking purple curse already forming on his lips.

Ginny spun, raising her wand to cast a shield, but she knew she was too slow.

A figure emerged near the shattered main gate.

Tom.

He had clearly assessed the situation, recognized her failure to extract the target, and decided to intervene.

His wand, a blur in the dim light, flicked twice, almost too fast to see. Two jets of incandescent green light erupted from its tip.

The two expert duelers, who had been so focused on finishing Ginny, didn’t even have time to turn around. The curses struck them squarely in the back.

They didn’t scream.

They just collapsed, like sacks of grain dropped from a height, their bodies crumpling to the floor, unconscious before they even hit the ground.

Ginny stared, her mind struggling to process what had just happened. The effortless, almost casual, display of power was terrifying.

She had been fighting for her life against these two. And Riddle had dispatched them in less than a second, with two perfectly aimed, nonverbal spells, without even breaking a sweat.

She gave him a quick, wide-eyed look.

An acknowledgment of the vast gulf in their magical abilities.

What she had struggled against, he had ended.

Just as a third smuggler, seeing his comrades fall, spun around to aim his own wand at Riddle, Ginny’s own instincts took over.

Ignoring the blinding pain in her shoulder, she raised her own wand, her good arm trembling with effort. “Expelliarmus!”

The Disarming Charm shot from her wand, striking the smuggler’s hand. His wand flew from his grasp, clattering away.

Tom turned his head, his dark eyes meeting hers across the littered floor of the warehouse.

For a fraction of a second, she saw something flicker in his expression.

Surprise?

Perhaps.

Then the smuggler still cowering on the catwalk, seeing his leader and his best duelers incapacitated, made a desperate decision. He aimed his wand at the heavy cargo netting hanging beside him. With a shouted curse, he sent the net tumbling downwards, hoping to entangle them both, to create a diversion for his own escape.

Riddle didn’t even glance upwards.

“Incendio.” 

A jet of brilliant, white-hot fire erupted from his wand, engulfing the net in mid-air. It vaporized into ash before it had fallen ten feet.

The last remaining smuggler, the one with the shattered leg, who had been trying to crawl away into the shadows, whimpered in terror at the display. The man on the catwalk, seeing his last gambit fail so spectacularly, dropped his wand, his hands shooting up in a universal gesture of surrender.

It was over.

In less than ten seconds, Tom Riddle had taken down the remaining threats.

The silence that descended was profound, broken only by the whimpering of the injured smuggler and the relentless drumming of the rain on the warehouse roof.

Ginny leaned heavily against a crate, her breath coming in ragged, painful gasps, her shattered shoulder sending waves of agony through her body.

Riddle surveyed the scene – the unconscious smugglers, the groaning injured wizards, the terrified one on the catwalk, the lingering scent of ozone and burnt netting. Then, his gaze settled on Ginny, taking in her pale, sweat-streaked face, her blood-stained robes where she clutched her shoulder, the trembling in her good arm.

“This,” he stated, his voice cool, devoid of any sympathy, “was an ambush. There is no Rhys Jones here. He was never here. All carefully arranged stagecraft, designed to lure a rescuer into a prepared trap.”

Ginny let out a harsh, pained laugh. “Yeah, I figured,” she gasped, gritting her teeth against a wave of pain. “Right around the time the floor exploded in my face.”

Riddle’s expression didn't change, but his gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary. “But this level of organization, the specific nature of the trap. It is too sophisticated for common smugglers or for Corban Dawlish’s blunt methods.”

Ginny nodded, trying to focus through the pain. “No Rhys Jones,” she managed, her voice hoarse. “The whole thing was a lie.”

“The lie was the objective,” Riddle corrected, his dark eyes narrowing as he processed the scene, piecing together a new, more complex puzzle.

He began to pace slowly, “An excessive allocation of resources simply to neutralize.”

He stopped, his back to her, looking towards the empty cell. “No. The purpose of this operation was not to capture. It was elimination.”

Ginny’s blood ran cold. “What? Why?"

Riddle turned to face her, a new, chilling clarity in his eyes. “Think, Miss Weasley. You have been loudly, if ineffectually, championing the innocence of Gwendolyn Jones. You have been asking inconvenient questions. Your very existence is  disruptive in what should have been a straightforward conviction.”

He gestured around the warehouse. “An unfortunate incident here, a ‘rescue attempt’ gone tragically wrong. You and I, found amidst the bodies of these smugglers. What is the narrative? That you, in your recklessness, sought out dangerous criminals to free your captain’s brother, and I, in my capacity as a Ministry official perhaps foolishly attempting to intervene or observe, was caught in the crossfire. A tragic but tidy conclusion. Two persistent problems eliminated simultaneously. And Dawlish? He gets to close the case, hailed as a hero who correctly identified Jones’s criminal network.”

“But Dawlish… you said this was too sophisticated for him,” Ginny said, her mind struggling to keep up with the dark logic.

“Dawlish is a pawn,” Riddle stated with cold certainty. “A useful, ambitious fool. He may believe he is in control of this investigation, but the sophistication of this trap, the resources deployed, the precision of the narrative it creates. This points to a more intelligent hand on the board. Someone higher up. Someone with the influence to manipulate Dawlish, to provide these smugglers with advanced wards, and who has a vested interest in ensuring that the official version of the McLeod murder, the one that implicates Gwendolyn Jones, remains unchallenged.”

His gaze sharpened, locking onto hers. “This is no longer about just clearing your captain’s name, Miss Weasley. This is about uncovering a conspiracy that reaches into the upper echelons of the Ministry itself. Someone wanted Gwendolyn Jones framed. And now, it seems, they want anyone who might question that narrative permanently silenced.”

He walked towards her, his steps silent on the debris-strewn floor. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze sweeping over her injuries with a detached assessment.

“You are injured,” he stated, an observation, not a question.

“Brilliant deduction, Riddle,” Ginny gasped, leaning more heavily against the crate, a dizzying wave of blackness threatening to overwhelm her. “Must be all that advanced magical theory you’ve been reading. Gives you such sharp observational skills.”

Even now, injured and exhausted, her sarcasm was an instinctive defense.

He raised his wand.

Ginny flinched instinctively, though she knew, rationally, he wasn’t going to curse her. Not now.

He pointed it not at her, but at the whimpering smuggler with the broken leg.

A jet of red light shot out, and the man’s groans were silenced as he slumped into unconsciousness. Another flick of his wand, and the terrified smuggler on the catwalk also collapsed.

Ginny wondered briefly what had happened to the dozen other wizards stationed outside, how Riddle had managed to bypass or neutralize them to even get inside.

The question was a fleeting, chilling thought, pushed aside by the more immediate reality of her own pain and their precarious situation.

She would ask later, if she got the chance.

Riddle lowered his wand.

“They will remain incapacitated for several hours. Ample time for us to depart undetected. However,” he added, his gaze sweeping upwards, as if sensing the magic humming in the very structure of the building, “this entire warehouse is under a rather crudely but effectively layered Anti-Apparition ward. Attempting to Apparate from within would be unwise. It could lead to splinching, or worse, a targeted disruption of the Apparition process itself.”

He was right.

Ginny agreed, nodding weakly.

“We will proceed on foot, back to the point of our arrival,” he stated, his voice returning to its familiar, authoritative tone. “From there, we can depart safely.”

He started to turn, then paused, his gaze returning to her.

She saw him take in her trembling form, the way she was cradling her shattered arm, the pallor of her face.

He let out a soft, almost inaudible sigh. It was the sigh of a man whose meticulously planned operation had been complicated by an inconvenience.

Before Ginny could process what was happening, he stepped forward, closing the distance between them in two silent strides.

He looped her good arm over his shoulder, his own arm wrapping firmly, impersonally, around her waist, taking a significant portion of her weight.

His body was a solid, unyielding support against her trembling form.

The sudden, unexpected physical contact was a shock, sending another confusing jolt through her system, a bizarre counterpoint to the searing pain in her shoulder.

“Try to keep pace, Miss Weasley,” he murmured, his voice cool, impersonal, close to her ear. “The sooner we vacate these premises, the sooner you can attend to your injuries. And I, to the more pressing matter of re-evaluating our understanding of who, precisely, we are fighting against. This entire affair has just become significantly more interesting. And significantly more dangerous.”

With that, he began to move, half-supporting, half-dragging her towards the shattered door of the warehouse, back out into the raging storm, leaving behind a scene of unconscious bodies and the lingering scent of ozone and violence.

The half-mile trek back from the abandoned cannery to their Apparition point was a brutal, miserable affair.

Tom moved through it with grace, his dark travelling cloak already repelling the worst of the downpour, not a single strand of his hair out of place. He moved with a long-legged, purposeful stride that devoured the treacherous, muddy ground.

And beside him, a constant, unwelcome weight against his side, was Ginny Weasley.

He was practically half-carrying her. Her good arm was slung over his shoulders, her body leaning heavily against his as she limped.

He could feel the tremors of pain that wracked her frame, the slight, almost feverish heat radiating from her skin through the damp layers of their cloaks.

Her proximity was... distracting.

The scent of her – rain, salt, the metallic tang of blood from the cut on her forehead, and something else, something uniquely her, like crushed gorse flowers and ozone – invaded his senses.

He forced himself to focus, to compartmentalize.

His mind, even as he navigated the storm and her unwelcome physical presence, was already working, analyzing, dissecting the events at the warehouse.

The ambush.

The trap.

The level of sophistication, the resources deployed, the sheer ruthlessness of the objective – elimination, not capture.

It confirmed his suspicion: this was not Dawlish’s clumsy, grandstanding work.

This had the hallmarks of a more intelligent, more dangerous hand.

Someone within the Ministry with the influence to manipulate Dawlish, the resources to hire and equip a team of smugglers, and the foresight to anticipate a rescue attempt.

Someone who wanted Gwendolyn Jones silenced, and anyone who questioned her guilt permanently removed from the board.

Weasley, in her blind loyalty, had stumbled into the middle of a far more complex game than she could possibly comprehend. And in doing so, she had, quite inadvertently, confirmed the existence of a conspiracy.

She had proven herself a more effective intelligence-gathering tool in one disastrous, impulsive evening than a dozen of his carefully cultivated Ministry informants had in weeks.

An irony he found both irritating and intellectually interesting.

They reached the desolate stretch of coast road where they had first arrived, the crumbling sea wall offering a meager shield against the full fury of the wind.

He released her, letting her slump against the cold, damp stone, her face pale, her breathing shallow.

“We depart from here,” he stated, his voice flat, formal, a deliberate reassertion of distance after their enforced, unwelcome proximity.

He prepared to Apparate, to return to the solitude of his study, to begin the necessary work of damage control, of re-evaluating his strategies in light of this new, more dangerous variable.

But a glance at Weasley, at her shivering form, at the way she cradled her shattered shoulder, a flicker of something… problematic… registered.

She was injured. Significantly.

She was a key witness, a living, breathing anomaly who had survived a targeted elimination attempt.

She possessed knowledge – however fragmented – of the conspiracy.

Leaving her here, in this state, to Apparate back to her place, to potentially seek treatment at St. Mungo’s where her presence and her injuries would undoubtedly attract unwanted attention…

It introduced too many uncontrolled variables.

It left him with no immediate means of debriefing her, of extracting the full, detailed account of her encounter inside the warehouse before her memory, prone as it was to emotional distortion, began to warp the details.

He let out a slow, almost inaudible sigh of profound irritation.

His meticulously ordered evening, which should have concluded with a quiet analysis of the failed operation from the solitude of his study, was about to be further complicated.

He turned to her, his expression a mask of cool authority. He extended a gloved hand, his dark robes swirling in the wind.

“Your arm, Miss Weasley,” he commanded, his voice carrying easily over the storm.

Ginny, who had been leaning against the sea wall, looked up at him, her expression a mixture of exhaustion, pain, and profound suspicion.

“What?” she gasped, clutching her injured shoulder protectively.

“You require assistance,” he stated, as if observing a particularly self-evident flaw in a Ministry report. “A side-along Apparition. In your current state, attempting to Apparate alone, particularly over any significant distance, would be reckless. The risk of splinching is considerable. And frankly, I have no desire to spend the next several hours coordinating with the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad to scrape your component parts off various locations between here and London.”

He was, of course, entirely correct. His logic was flawless, infuriatingly so.

But the thought of voluntarily taking his arm, of subjecting herself to the violent intimacy of a side-along Apparition with him… it was almost as unappealing as the prospect of splinching herself across the Irish Sea.

She stared at his outstretched hand, then back at his impassive face.

“And where, exactly, are you proposing to Apparate me to?” she challenged, her voice tight. “Back to your Ministry office, so you can write a formal report on my operational failures? Or perhaps straight to a Ministry holding cell, now that I’ve so inconveniently survived your brilliant plan?”

A faint, almost imperceptible muscle twitched in Riddle’s jaw.

Her continued defiance, even now, even in this state, was irritating.

“Do not be deliberately obtuse, Miss Weasley,” he said, his voice laced with a dangerous coldness. “It is unbecoming. My residence is the only logical destination. It is secure, private, and unmonitored. We need to debrief. We need to analyze the events of this evening, assess the new threat level, and determine a viable course of action. And you,” – he glanced pointedly at her injured arm – “require immediate medical attention, of a discreet nature, which cannot be obtained at St. Mungo’s without attracting precisely the kind of official scrutiny we must now avoid at all costs.”

He paused, letting his irrefutable logic sink in. “My knowledge of healing charms is more than adequate for treating basic physical trauma. It is the most efficient solution.”

Ginny continued to hesitate, a war of pragmatism and profound distrust playing out on her pale, rain-streaked face.

Tom let out another sigh, this one of barely concealed impatience. “Miss Weasley, every moment we linger here increases the risk of discovery. The smugglers will not remain unconscious indefinitely. And it is entirely possible that whoever orchestrated this trap has secondary measures in place, perhaps even monitoring this location. Now, are you going to accept a logical, if unpalatable, offer of assistance, or are you determined to martyr yourself on this desolate coastline out of sheer, misguided pride?”

She flinched at the word ‘martyr’, but she knew he was right.

Every word he said was correct. Logical. Efficient.

With a surge of resentment, a feeling of utter helplessness, Ginny relented.

She took his outstretched arm.

His grip was firm, impersonal, yet the contact, skin against skin through the thin fabric of her glove, sent another unwelcome jolt through her system.

“Fine,” she bit out. “But the moment I’m patched up, I’m leaving. And no more of your… impromptu philosophy lectures.”

Without another word, Tom turned, and the world dissolved into a violent, suffocating vortex of darkness and pressure.

The landing in the grand entrance hall of Riddle’s private residence was jarring, but controlled.

He released her arm the instant their feet touched the polished marble floor, stepping back to create a clean, immediate distance.

“Stay here,” he commanded, his voice echoing slightly in the hall. “Do not touch anything.”

He strode from the entrance hall, not towards the main living areas, but directly towards his study, leaving Ginny standing there, dripping rainwater onto his pristine floor, her shattered shoulder throbbing in time with her own ragged heartbeat.

Tom entered his study, his mind already working.

His first priority was containment. Damage control.

He moved to the small, concealed panel that housed his private, heavily warded Floo connection. He threw a pinch of powder into the grate, the flames roaring to life with an emerald green glow.

“Malfoy Manor,” he stated, his voice clipped.

Abraxas’s face materialized in the flames almost instantly, his expression one of anxious deference, clearly startled by the unscheduled, late-night summons.

“Tom? Is everything alright?”

“There has been a development, Abraxas,” Tom said, his voice low, urgent. “The operation at the cannery was compromised. It was an ambush. Details will follow. I require your immediate assistance. And that of Nott and Rosier.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t question, didn’t hesitate. “Of course. What are your instructions?”

“The location,” – Tom provided the precise, unplottable coordinates of the abandoned cannery – “is currently occupied by a number of incapacitated smugglers. Twenty, perhaps more, scattered around the perimeter and within the main warehouse. You, Nott, and Rosier will proceed there immediately. You will conduct a thorough sweep of the premises.”

He paused, his gaze sharp, intense, even through the flickering green flames. “Your primary objective is to erase any and all traces of our presence. Mine, and Miss Weasley’s. My magical signature should be negligible, but hers will be more prominent. See that it is thoroughly scrubbed. Obliterate any physical evidence – footprints, fabric tears, any residual magical signatures from the diversion or the confrontation within the warehouse. I want the scene to be pristine, as if we were never there.”

“The smugglers?” Malfoy inquired, his voice carefully neutral.

“They are a loose end,” Tom stated flatly. “But their deaths would attract unwanted attention from the Auror Office, complicating matters. Therefore, you will employ Memory Charms. Wipe their memories of the entire evening. Replace them with a narrative of a rival smuggling crew ambush, a territorial dispute gone wrong. Something plausible, something that will satisfy Dawlish’s desire for a simple, violent explanation. Then, you will ensure they are relocated. Dispersed. Left in various states of disarray in locations far from Port Wrinkle. See that they awaken with a profound lack of clarity about the preceding twelve hours.”

He paused again. “And Abraxas. The two duelers. The ones who ambushed Weasley inside. Be particularly thorough with them. I have reason to believe they may possess information about who hired them. Use whatever means you deem necessary to extract that information before you wipe their memories. Discretion is most important.”

The unspoken implication of Legilimency, or perhaps even more persuasive methods, hung heavy in the air.

“Understood, Tom,” Malfoy said. He knew what was being asked of him. He knew the risks, and the consequences of failure.

“Good,” Tom said. “Once the site is sanitized and the smugglers have been redeployed, report back to me. Directly. Do not use the Floo. Use the encrypted messenger spell we discussed. This entire incident is to be contained. Absolutely.”

With a final, sharp nod, he withdrew his head from the flames, which died down instantly, leaving the study once more in quiet, flickering shadow.

The first stage of damage control was initiated.

Now for the second - the injured, unpredictable asset currently dripping seawater onto his antique floor runner in the hall.

He took a moment, composing himself, pushing aside the lingering adrenaline from the confrontation, the irritation at the unexpected turn of events. He needed to be calm.

He walked from his study, intending to retrieve a basic healing kit from the potions cabinet. He assumed Weasley would still be in the hall, where he had left her.

He was wrong.

He found her in the kitchen, a space he used primarily for the brewing of tea and the occasional, complex potion, rather than for anything as mundane as cooking.

She had shed her soaked, muddy cloak, which now lay in a heap on the flagstone floor. Her outer tunic was gone too.

She stood in the centre of the room, illuminated by the single light of a magical globe suspended from the ceiling, clad only in a thin, sleeveless undershirt – a camisole, he supposed – and her dark trousers, both of which were still damp.

Her back was to him.

Her skin, what he could see of it, was pale, almost luminous in the harsh light, a contrast to the vivid, fiery red of her damp, disheveled hair.

But it was the bruises that drew his immediate attention.

A dark, ugly bloom of purple and black was already forming across her left shoulder blade, radiating outwards from the point of impact. 

The skin of her arms was cross-hatched with angry red welts from the smugglers’ less effective curses and his own magical binding.

She was trying to stretch her injured shoulder, a slow, cautious movement, her face contorted in a grimace of pain.

She was clearly testing her range of motion, assessing the damage, her mind, even now, likely focused on one thing: could she still fly? Could she still play?

Her focus on her Quidditch career, even in the face of mortal peril and significant physical trauma, was remarkably single-minded.

Tom cleared his throat, the sound loud in the kitchen.

He had expected her to be waiting, perhaps impatiently. He hadn't expected to find her here, in his kitchen, in a state of partial undress, her injuries so displayed.

He assumed his presence, his voice, would startle her. That she would immediately reach for her discarded tunic, embarrassed, defensive.

She didn’t.

She simply stopped her cautious stretching, her head turning slowly over her good shoulder, her gaze meeting his in the reflection of a polished steel cabinet door.

“Finally done plotting your next Ministry coup?” she asked, her voice tight with pain, but laced with its usual, infuriating sarcasm. “Or just decided you needed a cup of tea after a hard night’s work assaulting wizards?”

She turned fully to face him then, making no move to cover herself, her gaze direct, challenging, her expression a mixture of pain and defiance.

“I’m going to find those smugglers one day, you know,” she said, her voice a low, dangerous growl. “And I’m going to introduce them to Gwenog’s favorite Beater bat. Repeatedly. If they’ve done permanent damage to my throwing arm, if my Quidditch skills are compromised because of this… there won’t be a corner of the wizarding world far enough for them to hide in.”

She was talking to him.

Directly.

As if this were a continuation of some ongoing conversation, a shared understanding. Not as if he had just discovered her, half-dressed and injured.

Tom found himself, for the second time that evening, genuinely at a loss.

He didn’t know what to say.

His mind, so adept at navigating political negotiations, at dissecting ancient magical texts, at anticipating the moves of his enemies, struggled to process this.

This direct, unselfconscious display of physical vulnerability combined with casual defiance.

He was still staring at the dark, ugly bruise blooming across her shoulder, at the angry red welts on her arms, at the way she stood there, proud and pained and utterly unapologetic in her semi-clothed state.

It was unsettling.

He cleared his throat again, an awkward, unfamiliar sound. “You should not be exacerbating your injuries, Miss Weasley,” he managed, his voice sounding stiff, formal, even to his own ears. “Rest is indicated for traumatic blunt-force impact and magical tissue damage.”

Ginny let out a short, harsh laugh. “Rest? Riddle, do you have any idea how much physio work it’s going to take to get this shoulder back to match fitness? If it’s even possible? I can’t afford to ‘rest’. I need to know what I’m dealing with.”

She winced as she tried another small, rotating movement with her arm, a sharp hiss of pain escaping her lips.

Her self-diagnosis was inadequate. Her continued movement was likely causing further damage. This required proper, immediate intervention.

He found himself walking towards her, his mind shifting from observer to clinical practitioner. “Cease that foolish movement,” he commanded, his voice sharp, authoritative. “You will cause further tearing of the muscle tissue.”

He stopped before her, his gaze sweeping over her injuries with a detached, professional assessment.

Ginny looked up at him, her defiance momentarily replaced by a flicker of surprise at his sudden, almost medical, concern. “What? Are you ready to start blaming me for getting ambushed now? Can’t it wait until tomorrow, Riddle? Give me a bit of time to heal before you start lecturing me on my operational inadequacies.”

Her voice was still sharp, sarcastic, but there was an underlying weariness, a vulnerability she couldn’t quite hide behind the bravado.

Tom Riddle ignored her sarcasm, “Your continued movement is exacerbating the trauma to the deep tissues of your shoulder. Cease.”

His tone was no longer that of a Ministry official or a philosophical sparring partner; it was the voice of command, a voice that expected and received absolute obedience.

Ginny, despite her ingrained defiance, found herself instinctively stilling her arm, the sheer, undeniable authority in his voice momentarily overriding her pain and her belligerence.

She glared at him, still breathing heavily, a bead of sweat tracing a clean line through the grime on her temple.

The silence in the kitchen stretched, punctuated only by the distant howl of the storm and the soft dripping of water from her cloak onto the flagstone floor.

Then, breaking the tense silence, Ginny’s stomach let out a loud, traitorous growl.

It was a mundane, utterly human sound in the midst of all the high-stakes drama and magical confrontation, and it seemed to startle even her.

“Right,” she muttered, pushing a damp strand of hair from her face with her good hand. “Never mind the career-ending shoulder injury for a moment. I don’t suppose you’ve got any food in this glorified mausoleum you call a house?”

The question was blunt, jarringly out of place, but it was also a desperate grasp for normalcy, a pivot away from their situation.

She glanced around the kitchen.

It was as immaculate and impersonal as the rest of the house. Gleaming copper pots hung from an overhead rack, arranged by size. Knives of varying sharpness were displayed on a magnetic strip, perfectly aligned. A large, cast-iron stove stood cold and silent. There were cupboards, a pantry, but conspicuously, no Muggle contraptions. Preservation was a matter of stasis charms, not electricity.

“Do you even eat, Riddle?” she pressed on, “Or do you just absorb ambient magical energy? Does your kind of magic just conjure up perfectly nutritionally balanced meals out of thin air, or do you actually have to, you know, deal with the tedious reality of groceries?”

Riddle regarded her, a flicker of disdain registered in his eyes at her sudden, almost aggressive, focus on culinary logistics.

“Sustenance, Miss Weasley,” he stated, his voice dry, “is a biological necessity I address regularly. The kitchens are adequately stocked. Maintained by a house-elf bound to the property, though I rarely require his services beyond basic procurement and maintenance. Conjuring food from nothing is, as any first-year Transfiguration student knows, one of the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration. One can summon food if one knows where it is, one can Transfigure it, or one can increase its quantity. But one cannot create it ex nihilo. A fundamental magical principle it seems your Hogwarts education, for all its focus on practical application, managed to impart.”

He was lecturing her again, even on the subject of food.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Right. So, no conjured bacon sandwiches. Got it.”

She winced as a fresh wave of pain shot through her shoulder, a dizzying, nauseating pulse. “Actually,” she amended, her voice suddenly strained, “forget the food. Water. I need water.”

Her throat was parched from the exertion, the fear, the salty sea air.

Riddle didn’t speak. He simply made a slight, almost imperceptible gesture with his hand towards a polished copper tap protruding from the wall above a deep stone sink.

Ginny stumbled towards the sink, grabbing a plain glass from a drying rack. She turned the tap, and clean water flowed out, likely drawn from some magically purified well deep beneath the house.

She drank thirstily, greedily, the cool liquid a balm on her raw throat. She refilled the glass twice, draining it each time, her back still to him, the simple, biological act of quenching her thirst momentarily eclipsing everything else.

Behind her, Tom watched, his gaze unreadable.

He deliberately turned his attention away from the sight of her slender back, the vulnerable line of her neck as she drank.

He moved towards a tall, darkwood cabinet on the far side of the kitchen. He opened it, revealing rows upon rows of neatly labeled glass vials and ceramic jars, a personal, comprehensive potions store that would have been the envy of many an apothecary.

He scanned the labels – Essence of Dittany, Bruise-Removal Paste, Murtlap Essence, Skelegro – his mind already shifting into diagnostic mode, assessing the required components for treating her injuries.

When Ginny finally set the empty glass down, a long sigh of relief escaping her, she turned around to find him with his back to her, examining the contents of the cabinet.

The brief moment of normalcy, of simple physical relief, evaporated.

He wasn’t just waiting for her; he was preparing to act. To… fix her.

The thought sent a fresh wave of unease through her.

“Alright, Riddle,” she said, her voice wary. “Whatever you’re planning with all those scary-looking potions, you can forget it. I appreciate the… water. But my shoulder needs a proper diagnostic. I’ll see my team physio, Bronwyn. Or go to St. Mungo’s.”

Tom turned slowly, his own wand now held loosely in his hand.

“And how, precisely, do you intend to explain your injuries, Miss Weasley?” he inquired, his voice dangerously soft. “To your team physio? To the Healers at St. Mungo’s, an institution where, I might remind you, the Auror Office maintains a permanent liaison for just such occasions?”

He took a step towards her, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “Will you tell them you tripped and fell down a rather long flight of stairs? Or perhaps that you had an unfortunate altercation with a particularly aggressive Bludger during an unsanctioned, solitary practice session? Both narratives, I fear, would strain credulity, given the nature of the magical residue likely still clinging to your person.”

He paused, letting his words sink in. “Or will you tell them the truth? That you were ambushed in an abandoned cannery by a group of smugglers while attempting a reckless, unsanctioned rescue mission, a mission directly related to a major, ongoing Auror investigation in which you have already been identified as a person of peripheral interest? That your injuries were sustained during a violent magical confrontation?”

His gaze sharpened, pinning her. “Imagine the report that would land on Senior Auror Dawlish’s desk, Miss Weasley. Imagine how it would reflect upon your probation, your commitment to avoiding ‘controversial situations’. Imagine how quickly your conditional reinstatement would be permanently revoked.”

He was right. Utterly, infuriatingly right.

Any official attempt to seek medical treatment would trigger an immediate investigation, an investigation that would lead directly back to her probation violation, to this disastrous, unsanctioned operation.

It would not only destroy her career but could potentially land her in a holding cell right next to Gwenog’s.

“I… I’ll manage,” she insisted stubbornly, though her voice lacked conviction. “Bronwyn is discreet. She wouldn’t…”

“Bronwyn Davies,” Riddle interrupted smoothly, his knowledge of her team’s staff both surprising and unsettling, “is a licensed professional healer bound by Ministry regulations. She would be legally obligated to report injuries sustained through violent magical assault, particularly when they involve a player under official League probation. To do otherwise would be to risk her own license. Do not place her in such an untenable position.”

He had considered every angle.

He had sealed every escape route.

He let out another of those quiet, almost inaudible sighs, a sound of exasperation at her continued, illogical resistance.

“Why, Miss Weasley,” he asked, his voice losing its sharp edge, becoming almost weary, “must you always fight? About everything? Even when assistance is being offered, however unconventionally? Are you not tired?”

The question, the genuine note of weariness in his voice, struck a chord deep within Ginny, bypassing her defenses.

Yes. She was tired.

Bone-tired.

Tired of fighting, tired of the constant tension, the relentless pressure.

Tired of carrying the weight of Gwenog’s fate, of the team’s future, of her own precarious existence.

She opened her mouth to deliver another sarcastic retort, to rally her flagging defiance, but the fight had gone out of her.

Tom saw the shift, the sudden, almost imperceptible collapse of her belligerence. He stepped forward and took the empty water glass from her good hand, the one not clutching her injured shoulder.

“Sit,” he commanded, his voice softer now, but no less authoritative. He gestured towards a simple wooden stool near the large kitchen table.

Ginny, too exhausted to argue, too pained to stand any longer, found herself obeying.

She sank onto the stool, a wave of dizziness washing over her as the adrenaline that had been sustaining her finally began to recede, leaving only a deep, throbbing ache.

Riddle placed the glass in the sink, then retrieved a small, stoppered vial from his potions cabinet. He approached her, his wand still in hand.

“I will not proceed without your consent, Miss Weasley,” he stated, his voice a formal murmur, though the question of her having any real choice in the matter was, of course, moot. “However, I must advise you that failure to properly diagnose and treat these injuries could result in permanent damage. Reduced mobility. Chronic pain. A significant, and likely career-ending, impediment to your Quidditch performance.”

He held her gaze, his wand held loosely. “May I proceed?”

It was the most polite threat she had ever heard.

He was asking for her consent, yes, but he had already laid out, with irrefutable logic, why refusing was not a viable option.

Ginny let out a shaky breath, a sound that was half-sigh, half-surrender. She looked from his impassive, handsome face to the elegant, dangerous wand, then down at her own trembling, bruised arm.

“Fine,” she muttered, her voice barely a whisper. “Do it. Just… try not to enjoy it too much, Riddle.”

A flicker of something unreadable passed through his dark eyes at her final, defiant barb. He didn't dignify it with a response.

He simply took it as the consent it was.

“Extend your arm,” he commanded.

Hesitantly, Ginny held out her left arm, the one with the shattered shoulder. He took her hand gently, his cool fingers wrapping around her wrist to steady it.

The contact, however clinical, sent another strange tremor through her.

He brought the tip of his wand close to her shoulder, not quite touching the skin. It began to glow with a soft, analytical blue light.

A diagnostic charm, she recognised, but performed with a level of control and nuance she’d never witnessed. It wasn't the broad-spectrum glow a St. Mungo's Healer might use; it was a focused, penetrating beam that seemed to analyze her injuries on a structural level.

He moved it slowly, methodically, over the bruised, swollen area, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he watched the shifting patterns and colours within the wand’s glow.

“The structural integrity of the primary joint connecting the clavicle is compromised,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “A hairline fracture in the clavicle itself, likely sustained during the secondary impact against the crates. Multiple deep-tissue contusions. And residual energy from at least two minor severing curses and a poorly cast Impediment Jinx.”

His diagnosis was swift, precise, terrifyingly accurate.

He spoke of her injuries with the detached interest of a scholar examining a fascinating but flawed specimen.

There was no sympathy in his voice, only a clinical assessment.

“The fracture is minor,” he continued, moving the wand down her arm. “It will heal cleanly with a basic Skelegro regimen. The curse residue is superficial and can be neutralized with a standard counter-agent.” He gestured with his head towards the vial he had placed on the table.

“The primary issue,” he said, his frown deepening as the diagnostic light hovered over the core of her shoulder joint, its blue glow flickering with angry red sparks, “is the trauma to the deep connective tissues and the magical-kinetic muscle groupings governing your arm’s rotation and power. The shockwave caused extensive tearing, and more concerning, a degree of magical stress fracturing in the ligaments themselves.”

Ginny’s stomach dropped. “Magical stress fracturing? What does that mean? Will it… will it heal properly? Will I be able to play?”

The fear in her voice was raw, undisguised.

Her career, her one true passion, was hanging in the balance, dependent on the assessment of the man who had, indirectly, caused its initial derailment.

The irony was not lost on her.

Riddle didn’t answer immediately.

He completed his diagnostic sweep, his expression thoughtful. Then he lowered his wand, its blue light fading.

He looked at her, his gaze direct, unpitying.

“With conventional healing methods,” he stated, his voice flat, “St. Mungo’s, your team physio... They could mend the fracture, certainly. The bruising and superficial curse damage would fade. But the tearing of the deep tissue, the magical stress in the ligaments, it would likely result in internal magical scarring. A permanent reduction in your range of motion. A loss of perhaps fifteen to twenty percent of the power in your throwing arm.”

He paused, letting the devastating prognosis sink in.

Fifteen to twenty percent.

In professional Quidditch, that was a death sentence.

She would never play at the same level again.

She would be slower, weaker, her shots less powerful, her passes less accurate.

She would become a liability.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. “No. There has to be something…”

“There is,” Riddle said quietly.

Ginny looked up, her eyes wide, searching his face for any hint of hope.

“The damage is severe,” he continued, his tone still clinical, “but not irreparable. However, it requires a more advanced and nuanced application of healing magic than is commonly practiced. It involves not just mending, but regenerating. Using resonant magical frequencies to encourage the cellular regrowth of muscle and ligament tissue, ensuring no magical scarring, no loss of elasticity.”

He was talking about magic that sounded suspiciously like the concepts from the rune-embossed book.

Advanced.

Powerful.

And likely, not entirely sanctioned by the Ministry’s Committee for Experimental Charms.

“It is a complex procedure,” he stated. “It requires absolute stillness from the patient, and a considerable exertion of focused magical energy from the practitioner. And it is not without risks, if performed incorrectly.”

He held her gaze. “I possess the necessary skill and knowledge to perform this procedure. But again, I will not proceed without your explicit, informed consent.”

The choice was hers.

A safe, conventional healing that would end her career.

Or a dangerous, unconventional healing, performed by Tom Riddle, that might just save it.

He was offering her a lifeline, but a lifeline woven from the very same dark, powerful knowledge she so profoundly distrusted.

Chapter Text

Ginny stared at him, her mind a maelstrom of suspicion and a desperate, burgeoning hope.

The precision of his diagnosis, the terrifying clarity of his prognosis – a fifteen to twenty percent loss of power, a career-ending injury – had struck her with the force of another Blasting Curse. He had laid out her future, or lack thereof, with dispassionate finality.

And then, he had offered her an out.

A lifeline, yes, but a lifeline woven from the very fabric of the dark, powerful, and unsettling magic she had only just begun to glimpse.

“Advanced… nuanced application of healing magic,” she repeated, her voice hoarse. “Resonant magical frequencies. Cellular regrowth.”

The words echoed the arcane language of the rune-embossed book he had lent her, the book that spoke of shattering boundaries, of manipulating the fundamental forces of magic. Her first instinct, the one that had served her on the Quidditch pitch for years, was to trust no one but her team. And he was very pointedly not on her team.

"And I'm supposed to just… trust you?" Ginny scoffed, the sound sharp and incredulous. She pushed herself straighter on the stool, wincing as the movement sent a fresh wave of agony through her shoulder, but her gaze was sharp, defiant. "You, the man who’s been systematically dismantling my life for weeks, now wants to play Healer? Forgive me if I don’t immediately offer up my throwing arm for your… experimental spellwork.”

She eyed his wand warily. “How do I know this ‘nuanced healing’ isn’t just a fancier way to curse me into next Tuesday? How do I know I won’t wake up with my arm on backwards, or with a sudden, deep-seated loyalty to the Puddlemere United fan club?”

Tom let out a slow, almost theatrical sigh, as if he were patiently indulging a particularly stubborn child who refused to take her curative potions.

“Miss Weasley,” he began, his voice taking on that familiar, maddeningly patient tone, the one that made her want to hex the smug look right off his handsome face. “Let us, for a moment, engage in an exercise of pure, dispassionate logic. A concept with which you seem to have a rather spirited, if intermittent, relationship, but let us try nonetheless.”

He began to pace slowly, his movements fluid, economical, a contrast to Ginny’s pained, rigid posture on the stool.

“Hypothetically,” he continued, his dark eyes fixed on her, “let us assume my primary objective was, as you so colourfully suggest, to inflict some manner of permanent harm upon you. Why would I employ such a baroque, needlessly elaborate methodology?”

He paused, letting the question hang in the quiet kitchen. “I have had multiple, far more opportune moments to incapacitate you, had that been my intent. In my Ministry office, when you were disarmed and cornered. In the service corridor of the stadium, when you unwisely chose to engage me physically. During the ambush at the cannery, where a stray, unattributable curse amidst the chaos would have been tragically plausible.”

His voice was calm, almost conversational, yet each word was a reminder of her past vulnerabilities, of the moments he had held her fate in his hands.

“To go to the considerable effort of rescuing you from a targeted ambush,” he went on, his tone dry, “to bring you to my private, secure residence, to conduct a thorough diagnostic of your injuries, and then, under the guise of healing procedure, to finally inflict some manner of curse upon you… it would be an act of such tedious, convoluted plotting as to be aesthetically displeasing.”

He stopped pacing, his gaze sharp, pinning her. “My methods, Miss Weasley, whatever else you may think of them, are precise. They are direct. If I wished you harm, you would be harmed. This would simply be a waste of my time and considerable magical energy.”

Ginny’s jaw tightened.

He was right. Of course, he was right. His logic was flawless, irrefutable, and utterly infuriating. He hadn’t just dismissed her suspicion; he had dissected it, exposed its emotional, illogical foundations, and deemed it ugly. Inelegant. An affront to his own twisted sense of strategic artistry.

“So, what then?” she shot back, falling back on her ingrained defiance, unwilling to concede the point entirely. “What’s in it for you, Riddle? You don’t do anything unless it serves some purpose. Am I supposed to believe you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart? Because you have a sudden, altruistic desire to see the Holyhead Harpies succeed?”

“The success or failure of your Quidditch team,” Tom replied, his voice laced with faint, dismissive contempt, “is, as I have stated, a matter of profound indifference to me. And altruism is a luxury for those who can afford to be sentimental. I cannot.”

He moved closer, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “My motivations are rooted in the pursuit of specific, advantageous outcomes. The current situation, this chaos surrounding your captain, is a problem. But problems often contain opportunities for those with the foresight to perceive them.”

He began to tick off the points, his voice cool, analytical. “You, Miss Weasley, are a key piece in this unfolding drama. You possess firsthand knowledge of the ambush, a detail the official investigation lacks. More importantly, you possess an almost fanatical loyalty to Gwendolyn Jones. A strategic asset is of no use if it is broken. And you, Miss Weasley, are currently broken.”

He paused. “The official investigation into this affair, as conducted by Senior Auror Dawlish, is flawed. Predictably so. His ambition outstrips his competence. This presents an opportunity to expose certain deficiencies within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, to subtly recalibrate its priorities, and to curtail the influence of individuals who pursue unproductive lines of inquiry. Your recovery, your continued ability to agitate on behalf of your captain, keeps this situation active and under scrutiny. It prevents Dawlish from achieving a swift, tidy, and likely incorrect, conclusion.”

“And lastly,” he added, his voice dropping slightly, a dangerous flicker of something that was not academic curiosity, but cold, predatory interest, entering his eyes. “This was no common criminal ambush. The magical architecture of the trap, the precision of the narrative it was designed to create. It implies a mind at work that is not only intelligent, but ruthlessly pragmatic. An unknown player of consequence has revealed their hand, however slightly. And I do not tolerate unknown variables of that calibre operating in my sphere of influence. Your survival was an unforeseen complication for them. Your memory of the event is therefore a unique and valuable asset. One that requires preservation.”

He had laid it all out. His motives, utterly devoid of any personal concern for her well-being. She was a piece in his larger game against Dawlish and the flawed DMLE investigation. She was a strategic asset to be kept in optimal working condition. And now, she was a witness, a living repository of data about a new, unknown enemy, an enemy Tom clearly considered a direct threat to his own interests.

The brutal honesty of it was, in its own way, more unsettling than any lie would have been.

Ginny’s face flushed, a deep, angry crimson. The cool logic of his explanation didn't soothe her; it ignited her temper that momentarily overshadowed the pain in her shoulder.

“Oh, I see!” she snapped, her voice dripping with sarcasm, shoving herself up from the stool despite the sharp protest from her injured arm. She started pacing, a restless, caged energy radiating from her, her good hand gesturing wildly.

“So that’s all this is about? You’re not healing me because it’s the decent thing to do; you’re patching me up like a cracked broomstick so you can ride me into your next Ministry squabble! You want to use my loyalty to Gwenog, my anger, as your own personal Bludger to knock Dawlish off his high horse!”

She spun to face him, her eyes blazing. “And what happens after that, Riddle? After I’ve served my ‘purpose’? After you’ve gotten what you want? Do I get a nice little pat on the head and a thank you note before you toss me aside? Or do you just Obliviate me then, once my ‘valuable memory’ is no longer needed?”

She threw her hands up in exasperation, wincing as the movement sent a fresh jolt of agony through her. “Merlin’s beard! I’m not some pawn in your private war against the Ministry! I’m a Quidditch Chaser! I’m Gwenog’s friend! I’m not just some… some problem for you to solve or a tool for you to wield whenever it suits your grand, incomprehensible plans!”

“Do you prefer a more sentimental, and frankly, less honest, assessment of your current situation, Miss Weasley?” Tom inquired, his eyebrow arching fractionally, utterly unfazed by her tantrum. “I had assumed, given your expressed disdain for dissembling, that you would appreciate a candid appraisal of the situation.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping over her injured shoulder again. “But the core of the matter remains unchanged, regardless of your feelings about my motivations. The injury is severe. The conventional prognosis is poor. I possess the skill to rectify it. The question is not about my motives; it is about your desired outcome.”

He stepped towards the potions cabinet, his movements controlled and deliberate. "How soon do you wish to be healed, Miss Weasley? How soon do you wish to return to the Quidditch pitch, unhindered? How much of your career are you willing to sacrifice on the altar of your understandable, if ultimately unproductive, suspicion of me?”

He wasn’t asking anymore. He was presenting her with a choice, but a choice where one option was clearly, logically, the only viable path forward, if she wanted to save the one thing she truly loved.

Ginny watched him, her pride warring with the logic of his words. Her pacing slowed, the furious energy draining away, leaving behind a familiar, aching exhaustion.

Her pride, her ingrained distrust, her independence – they were all still there, screaming at her to refuse, to find another way, to not be indebted to this man, not in this way.

But the image of herself on the pitch, her arm weak, her shots lacking power, a permanent shadow of what she used to be… that was a nightmare she couldn’t bear.

And the image of Gwenog, alone in that cell, while she, Ginny, was too broken to even begin to fight for her… that was even worse.

She hated him for this.

Hated him for being right.

Hated him for making her need him.

But the desire to play again, to fight, to be whole… it was a powerful, undeniable force.

She took a deep, shuddering breath, the angry outburst leaving her feeling drained, empty. She sank back down onto the stool, the fight visibly going out of her.

“Alright, Riddle,” she said, her voice a low, defeated rasp. “Do it. Heal me.”

She met his gaze, a flicker of her old defiance returning, even in this moment of surrender. “But if I end up with a third arm growing out of my back, or a sudden, uncontrollable urge to praise Ministry policy, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“I assure you, Miss Weasley,” he murmured, setting aside the vials he had selected and picking up his wand once more, “the procedure is designed to restore, not to augment. And I have no interest in your praise.”

Riddle’s dark eyes held hers for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable – perhaps a grudging acknowledgement of her lingering defiance – before his expression smoothed back into focus.

“The procedure will be demanding,” he stated, his voice devoid of any comforting bedside manner. “For both of us. It requires the sustained application of highly focused, resonant magical energy. Think of it less as a simple mending spell, like a Skele-Gro Potion, and more as a controlled, magically induced regeneration. I will be encouraging your own damaged tissues to regrow, to re-knit themselves along their original magical and physical pathways, rather than simply scarring over.”

He gestured towards the unforgiving stone floor of the kitchen. “Lie down. On your stomach. The primary trauma is to your back and shoulder blade. I will require direct access.”

Ginny stared at the cold, hard flagstones, then back at him, her expression a mixture of disbelief and indignation. “Here? You want me to lie down here? On the kitchen floor?”

A surge of her defiant spirit broke through the pain-induced haze. “Merlin’s beard, Riddle, you live in what looks like a furnished tomb for some forgotten dark wizard king, and you can’t spare a bit of carpet? What’s in the next room, a magically warmed fainting couch upholstered in unicorn hide? I’m injured, not auditioning for a role as a house-elf.”

Tom simply regarded her, his patience a thin, brittle thing. "Miss Weasley, your preference for comfort is ultimately irrelevant. The flagstones provide a stable, level, and—most importantly—magically neutral surface, which is essential for this kind of delicate work. The ambient magical residue in my study, for example, is far too saturated. Do you wish for me to proceed with maximum efficiency and safety, or would you prefer I accommodate your desire for soft furnishings and risk sympathetic magical interference?"

His logic was, as always, infuriatingly sound.

He had turned her sarcastic outburst into another opportunity to lecture her on magical principles and procedural hygiene.

With a muttered curse that was likely questioning the parentage of all hyper-logical, condescending wizards, Ginny finally acquiesced. With a grimace of pain, she slid off the stool and carefully lowered herself to the floor, the cold flagstones a shock against her skin.

She lay on her stomach as instructed, her good arm tucked beneath her, her injured left arm extended awkwardly to the side.

She didn't remove her thin camisole; the thought of being bare-skinned under his gaze was a line she wasn't prepared to cross. She simply arranged the garment as best she could, pulling the fabric taut to grant him the closest possible access to her shoulder blade without full removal.

The cool air of the kitchen caressed her skin, raising goosebumps. She felt exposed, vulnerable, like an animal offering its soft underbelly to a predator.

She could hear his silent footsteps on the stone as he moved to stand over her.

“This will not be pleasant,” his voice came from above her, cool and detached. “The regeneration process can be intensely uncomfortable. You will feel a deep, resonant warmth, followed by a sensation akin to thousands of tiny needles knitting your muscle fibers back together. It may be painful. And you must remain conscious and as still as possible throughout. If you fall asleep, or if you move erratically, the resonant frequencies could destabilize, potentially causing more harm than good.”

“You think there’s any chance of me falling asleep?” Ginny’s voice was a muffled, sarcastic retort against the cold stone. “While I’m entrusting my most valuable asset to… you? I’ll be on the verge of relaxation, Riddle. Utterly at ease.”

A moment of silence.

Then, a dry, almost inaudible sound that might have been a chuckle. “Your capacity for sarcasm, even in the face of significant physical trauma and impending complex magical intervention, is noted, Miss Weasley. Nevertheless, the warning stands. Remain awake. Remain still.”

She heard the faint swish of his robes as he knelt beside her. The air seemed to grow stiller, charged with a new, potent energy.

She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself.

She felt his presence, a shadow falling over her, blocking out the dim light from the globe overhead. She could feel the faint warmth radiating from him, a contrast to the cold stone beneath her.

Then, she felt it.

Not the touch of his wand, not yet.

But the light, almost clinical brush of his fingertips against her shoulder blade, directly through the thin fabric of her camisole.

Ginny flinched violently.

“Be still, Miss Weasley,” his voice was a low murmur, close to her ear, yet it carried an unmistakable note of command.

His fingers, cool and surprisingly gentle, began to trace the edges of the bruise, mapping the extent of the trauma with a diagnostician’s precision.

It wasn’t a caress; it was an assessment.

And yet, the deliberate, dispassionate contact, even through the flimsy barrier of her top, sent a confusing cascade of shivers down her spine, a mixture of fear, unease, and an unwelcome, betraying flicker of… something else.

“The epicenter of the magical stress fracturing is here,” he murmured, his thumb pressing lightly but firmly on a particularly sensitive point.

Ginny grit her teeth, a sharp hiss of pain escaping her.

“Yes,” he acknowledged, his voice still low, almost conversational. “The resonant pathways are disrupted. We must re-establish them before we can begin the cellular regeneration.”

His hand lifted.

She heard a faint clinking sound as he uncorked one of the vials he had placed on the floor beside them.

A sharp, clean scent, like crushed mint and ozone, filled the air.

“This is a nerve-calming unguent,” he explained, his tone still maddeningly didactic. “It will dull the surface-level pain and reduce the risk of involuntary muscle spasms during the initial phase.”

She felt the cool, viscous liquid being applied to her skin, his fingers moving with a swift, impersonal efficiency, spreading the unguent over the entire bruised area, soaking through the camisole.

The sensation was soothing, the initial sharp sting quickly giving way to a deep, numbing coolness.

Then, his wand touched her back.

The tip of the yew wand, held with absolute steadiness, pressed gently against the centre of her shoulder blade, its magic easily passing through the thin fabric.

“Do not move,” he commanded, his voice losing all its earlier conversational quality, becoming sharp, devoid of anything but pure, concentrated intent.

Ginny squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself.

She felt a deep, resonant hum begin to emanate from the point of contact, a vibration that seemed to penetrate through her skin, through her muscle, deep into her very bones.

It wasn't painful, not at first.

It was… strange.

Like a low, powerful chord being struck on some unseen, magical instrument within her.

The hum grew in intensity, the vibration spreading outwards, a warm, tingling sensation that followed the pathways of her nerves, down her arm, across her back.

It felt as if her entire being was being magically attuned, its core frequency being identified and matched.

It was an invasive, deeply unsettling feeling, as if he were mapping her entire magical and physical structure with sound and power.

“I am now establishing the primary resonant frequency,” his voice murmured, a low counterpoint to the hum vibrating through her. “Aligning the magical energy with the cellular structure of your own tissues. This may feel disorienting.”

Disorienting was an understatement.

The world outside the humming vibration began to recede.

The sound of the storm, the dripping water, even the sensation of the cold floor against her cheek – it all faded into a distant, irrelevant background.

There was only the hum, the vibration, and the focused, commanding presence of Tom Riddle kneeling beside her.

Then came the warmth.

A deep, pervasive heat that started from the point of his wand and bloomed outwards. It wasn’t the burning heat of a curse, but a more fundamental, generative warmth, like the heat of a kiln.

It sank deep into her muscles, soothing the ache even as it intensified the strange, vibrational sensation.

“The tissue is now receptive,” Riddle stated, his voice a focused, unwavering anchor in the swirling sea of sensations. “Now, we begin the regeneration.”

The nature of the magic shifted.

The steady, resonant hum began to pulse, a slow, rhythmic beat that seemed to match the frantic thrum of her own heart. And with each pulse, the sensation of a thousand tiny needles, just as he had described, began.

It wasn’t sharp pain, not exactly.

It was a deep, intense, prickling sensation, as if her entire shoulder was being simultaneously deconstructed and reconstructed.

Ginny gasped, her knuckles turning white where her good hand gripped the floor.

“Breathe, Miss Weasley,” his voice cut through the haze of sensation. “Focus on your breathing. Match it to the rhythm of the pulses. Do not fight the process. Allow the energy to flow.”

It was the most practical, most useful piece of advice he had ever given her.

She forced herself to obey, dragging in a long, shuddering breath, then releasing it slowly, trying to time it with the rhythmic waves of prickling heat pulsing through her shoulder.

Breathe in. Pulse.

Breathe out. Pulse.

The pain was still there, a deep, pervasive ache, but the focused breathing gave her something to cling to, a way to ride the waves instead of being consumed by them.

This was so far beyond the simple ‘Episkey’ she’d seen Madam Pomfrey use for minor fractures, or the blunt force healing of a Skele-Gro Potion. This was intricate, complex, almost terrifyingly intimate.

He wasn’t just mending a bone; he was rewriting her physical structure, using his own focused will, his own magic, as the catalyst.

His left hand, the one not holding the wand, rested lightly on her uninjured shoulder blade, a steadying, anchoring pressure against the thin fabric of her camisole.

The touch was impersonal, clearly intended to help keep her still, to monitor any involuntary muscle spasms.

But it was still his hand on her.

A point of connection that grounded her in the midst of the swirling magical energies, a constant reminder of who was performing this procedure.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours.

The rhythmic pulsing continued, a relentless, generative tide of magic.

Ginny lost all track of time, her world shrinking to the rhythm of her own breathing, the pulsing sensation in her shoulder, and the steady, anchoring weight of his hand.

She could feel the change happening deep within her.

The torn muscles, the magically stressed ligaments – they weren't just being glued back together; they felt as if they were being… regrown.

New tissue being woven, fiber by tiny fiber, guided by the resonant hum of his magic.

It was exhausting.

The constant focus required to remain still, to breathe through the discomfort, was draining her energy.

Her consciousness began to drift, the edges of her awareness blurring, the siren call of sleep, of unconsciousness, becoming almost irresistible.

“Stay awake, Weasley.”

His voice, sharp, immediate, cut through the fog.

His thumb, the one resting on her uninjured shoulder, pressed down hard, a sudden, almost painful point of focus that jolted her back to full awareness.

Her eyes snapped open, her breath catching in a gasp.

“Focus,” he commanded. “We are nearing the conclusion of the primary regeneration phase. Your focus is essential now.”

He was right. She had almost drifted off.

The thought sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline through her, clearing the last vestiges of mental fog.

She redoubled her efforts, focusing on her breathing, on the sensation of the cold stone floor beneath her cheek, on anything that would keep her anchored in the present.

The pulsing began to slow, the intensity of the needle-like sensations gradually subsiding. The deep, generative warmth remained, a comforting, almost soothing heat.

The resonant hum from his wand faded, replaced by a softer, gentler vibration.

He was moving the wand tip now, in slow, intricate patterns across her back, tracing lines of soft, golden light that seemed to sink into her skin.

It felt… different. Less invasive.

“I am now sealing the magical pathways,” he explained, his voice still low, focused. “Ensuring the regenerated tissue is fully integrated with your own magical core. This will prevent scarring and ensure a full return of strength and flexibility.”

He sounded like an artist applying a final, delicate glaze to a masterpiece.

There was a pride in his voice, a satisfaction in the flawless execution of a complex task.

Finally, after another long moment, the golden light faded.

The vibration ceased.

The tip of his wand lifted from her back.

He moved his other hand from her shoulder.

The sudden absence of his touch, of the constant magical hum, was jarring.

The sounds of the room rushed back in – the crackle of the fire, the howl of the wind outside, the frantic pounding of her own heart.

The procedure was over.

For a moment, Ginny just lay there, her body trembling with exhaustion and residual magical energy, her mind struggling to process the experience.

Her shoulder still ached, a deep, thrumming ache, but the sharp, searing pain was gone.

She cautiously, tentatively, tried to move her arm, just a fraction.

It moved.

Stiffly, yes. Sorely.

But it moved, with a freedom, a lack of the grinding, internal resistance she had felt before.

It felt… whole again.

She pushed herself up with her good arm, her muscles shaking with the effort.

She didn't stand, not yet.

Instead, she maneuvered herself into a sitting position, her back pressing against the solid wood of the large kitchen island that dominated the centre of the room. She pulled her legs out straight in front of her, a wave of weariness washing over her.

Riddle had already risen to his feet, his composure absolute, as if he hadn’t just spent the better part of an hour kneeling on the kitchen floor, rewriting her physical form with advanced, probably forbidden, magic.

He moved to the sink, washing his hands with a meticulous, almost obsessive thoroughness, cleansing himself of the healing unguent and perhaps the entire distasteful, necessary interaction.

“The procedure is complete,” he stated, his back to her, his voice coolly detached as he dried his hands on a perfectly white linen towel. “However, you will experience what is commonly known as magical resonance aftershock. It is a side effect of the deep-tissue regeneration. You may feel fatigued, disoriented, perhaps even a slight vertigo. It is your body’s natural response to having its core magical and physical structures so vigorously realigned.”

He turned, and seeing her slumped against the island, he moved to a silver kettle perched on the cold stove. With a nonverbal flick of his wand, a jet of blue flame erupted from the tip, licking at the base of the kettle, which began to hum almost instantly.

“A mild infusion of Dittany and powdered Moonstone is indicated to mitigate these aftershocks and stabilize your magical core,” he continued, his tone still that of a detached lecturer as he retrieved a porcelain teapot and two cups from a cupboard. “It will aid in restoring your energy and preventing any residual magical feedback loops. Rest is also, as I previously stated, essential.”

He sounded like a textbook.

She could barely process the words, her mind hazy with exhaustion, her body feeling heavy, boneless.

The deep thrumming in her shoulder had subsided into a warm, sleepy ache. His warning to stay awake during the procedure seemed to be losing its hold on her now that it was over.

Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy.

The quiet hum of the kettle, the warmth radiating from the nearby fire, the physical release after enduring so much pain… it was a potent lullaby.

Riddle finished preparing the tea, the clink of porcelain unnaturally loud in the quiet kitchen. He levitated the tray, which now held the teapot, two cups, a small bowl of sugar cubes, and a silver pitcher of what looked like milk, and turned to offer it to her.

He stopped.

Ginny was still sitting on the floor, her legs outstretched, her back pressed against the solid wood of the kitchen island. But her head had slumped to the side, her red hair spilling across her cheek. Her breathing was deep, even, her expression peaceful for the first time since she had barged into his office.

Despite his warnings, despite her own sarcastic assurances to the contrary, despite the intense, painful nature of the procedure she had just endured, Ginny Weasley had fallen fast asleep on his kitchen floor.

Tom let out a slow, almost imperceptible breath.

He himself felt not drained, precisely, but aware of the significant expenditure of magical energy the procedure had required.

The resonant healing charms were complex, demanding not just raw power, but sustained, unwavering concentration—a precise modulation of his own magical core to guide and regenerate another’s.

After such an exertion, his instinct was to retreat, to restore his own equilibrium.

Not to deal with the problem of an unconscious, injured Quidditch player on his kitchen floor.

The logical course of action would be to simply leave her there.

The flagstones were clean, the room warm enough. She would awaken eventually, disoriented and undoubtedly with a stiff neck. Then, he would conduct the necessary debriefing about the ambush.

He needed to extract every relevant detail before her emotions warped the facts. He knew she would see no immediate need for it, her focus entirely on her own physical state and her captain’s predicament, but he would insist.

A debriefing was a procedural necessity. After that, he could finally eject her from his residence.

And yet… he hesitated.

He imagined the scene: her waking up, stiff and cold.

The confusion turning to outrage.

The inevitable, furious accusations.

“You left me on the floor? Like a stray Kneazle? Have you no decency, Riddle?”

He could practically hear the shrill, indignant tone of her voice echoing in the quiet of his mind. He had spent the last several weeks being subjected to her tirades.

The thought of deliberately provoking another one, especially when his own reserves were slightly taxed, was tiresome. Profoundly tiresome.

The thought of enduring her outburst before he could even begin his questioning was an affront to his sensibilities.

He was tired of it.

He considered levitating her. A simple, nonverbal Mobilicorpus charm.

Effortless.

Detached.

He could float her into the adjacent sitting room, deposit her on the chaise longue, and retreat to his study.

It was the most sensible solution.

He raised his wand fractionally, the incantation already forming in his mind.

But his gaze fell upon her again. The way the firelight from the hallway caught the red-gold strands of her hair against the dark stone.

The vulnerable, almost childlike way her hand was curled loosely on the floor.

The thought of her inert form, dangling limply like a discarded doll, subject to the impersonal magic of a levitation spell. It felt… wrong.

With a sigh that was pure, undiluted frustration, Tom Riddle made a decision.

He banished the hovering tea tray back to the counter with an impatient flick of his wrist. Then he stepped forward, knelt beside her still form, and slid one arm carefully under her knees, the other supporting her back, mindful of her newly healed shoulder.

He stood, lifting her into his arms.

She was lighter than he had anticipated, though possessed of a dense, athletic musculature beneath the thin fabric of her clothes.

She murmured something in her sleep, a faint, incoherent sound, and her head lolled, her cheek coming to rest against his chest, her damp hair brushing against the dark cashmere of his jumper.

The contact was immediate, startling.

Her warmth, the faint scent of rain and her unique, gorse-flower scent, the soft weight of her body against his – it was an assault on his senses.

But he was already committed.

To reverse course now would be an act of such ludicrous indecision that his own mind recoiled from the inefficiency.

So, with a grim, internal resolve, he held her, cradling her against him, and carried her out of the kitchen.

He moved through the dark hallway, his footsteps making no sound, past the ticking grandfather clock that seemed to be measuring out this strange, surreal moment.

The sitting room was as impersonal as the rest of the house, dominated by a large, unlit fireplace and furnished with antique pieces that prioritized form over comfort. A long chaise longue, upholstered in dark green velvet, sat before the fireplace.

He carefully laid her down on it. He arranged her limbs with a detached precision, ensuring her injured shoulder was supported, her head rested on a silk cushion.

He stood back, looking down at her.

She looked peaceful. And so utterly out of place, a splash of vibrant, chaotic life in his environment.

He drew his wand. With a nonverbal flick, a thick woollen blanket levitated from a nearby chest. He guided it with the tip of his wand, letting it settle gently over her form. The blanket landed slightly askew, leaving one shoulder partially exposed.

He frowned, a flicker of irritation crossing his features.

He used the tip of his wand again, the yew wood hovering inches from her shoulder, to nudge the edge of the blanket upwards, tucking it carefully around her, ensuring she was fully covered. 

He had work to do.

Memos to review.

The first thing Ginny became aware of was a bone-deep comfort.

She wasn’t cold.

She wasn’t lying on hard, unforgiving stone.

She was… warm.

Wrapped in something soft and heavy that smelled faintly of cedar and old, expensive wool.

Her shoulder, which had been a symphony of agony, now registered as a dull, sleepy throb, a distant echo of its former pain.

Her mind was fuzzy, drifting in post-magical-exhaustion haze.

She felt boneless, utterly relaxed for the first time in what felt like months.

For a blissful, suspended moment, she didn’t question it.

She simply existed in this state of unexpected comfort.

Then, memory began to trickle back, unwelcome and sharp.

Her eyes snapped open.

She wasn’t in her own flat. She wasn’t at the Burrow.

She was lying on a long, elegant chaise longue upholstered in dark green velvet, in a room she didn’t recognize. A thick, grey woollen blanket was tucked neatly around her.

The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from a single, heavily shaded lamp on a side table and the faint, flickering glow of a fire that crackled softly in a large, imposing stone hearth.

She pushed herself up slowly, her muscles protesting, the world tilting slightly as the magical resonance aftershock Riddle had warned her about made its presence felt.

She was in his sitting room. The one adjacent to his kitchen.

She remembered slumping against the kitchen island, the overwhelming wave of exhaustion… and then… nothing.

She must have passed out.

And he… he hadn’t left her on the floor.

The thought was so utterly incongruous with everything she knew about him, so contrary to his impersonal nature, that her mind struggled to process it.

She swung her legs over the side of the chaise longue, sitting up, her bare feet making contact with a plush, expensive-looking rug.

A tray sat on a small table beside her. It held the porcelain teapot he had prepared, now kept warm by a subtle stasis charm, a cup and saucer, and the small bowl of sugar cubes. Her own wand was resting beside the teapot.

And seated in a high-backed armchair by the fire, a slim, leather-bound book open in his lap was Tom Riddle himself.

He wasn’t looking at her. His attention was entirely focused on the book, his handsome features cast in shadow and flickering firelight, his expression one of deep concentration.

He had clearly been waiting for her to wake, occupying himself with his own pursuits.

“Well,” Ginny said, her voice a little rough from sleep, breaking the quiet of the room. “This is a surprise.”

Riddle looked up, his dark eyes meeting hers.

He didn’t seem startled, merely acknowledging her return to consciousness. He closed his book with a soft snap, setting it aside.

“You’re awake,” he stated, his voice neutral. “The magical resonance aftershock appears to be subsiding. The Dittany and Moonstone infusion will assist in restoring your equilibrium.”

He gestured towards the tea tray.

Ginny ignored the tea.

She pushed a hand through her tangled hair, a wry, disbelieving smile touching her lips. “I meant the chaise longue. And the blanket. I fully expected to wake up on your kitchen floor with a permanent flagstone pattern imprinted on my cheek.”

She looked at him, a genuine, unfeigned surprise in her eyes. “You know, Riddle, for a power-hungry bureaucrat… you occasionally demonstrate a surprising capacity for basic human decency.”

Tom did not dignify that with an answer.

He simply regarded her, his expression impassive, though a muscle twitched in his jaw.

He stood up, moving away from the fire, towards the small table where the tea tray rested. He poured a cup of the pale, steaming infusion, then held it out to her.

A non-negotiable command.

Ginny took it, her fingers brushing his as she accepted the cup.

The fleeting contact was still unsettling, but less charged now, overshadowed by the sheer strangeness of the situation.

“Your unsolicited character assessments aside, Miss Weasley,” he began, his voice returning to its familiar, businesslike chill, his brief, almost human moment clearly over, “we have matters of urgency to discuss. The ambush at the cannery requires a full, detailed debriefing. While you were indisposed, I took the liberty of dispatching certain associates to sanitize the location and manage the personnel. But your firsthand account of the events inside the warehouse is required. Before your memory, prone as it is to emotional distortion, begins to warp the relevant facts.”

He was all business again.

No time for pleasantries, no acknowledgement of her surprise.

Just a demand for information.

“Right,” Ginny said, taking a sip of the tea. It was warm, slightly sweet, with a herbal taste that did, in fact, seem to soothe the residual magical humming in her bones. “Back to business. Of course.”

She leaned back against the chaise longue, pulling her legs up, getting comfortable. The movement was a subtle act of defiance, a refusal to remain perched on the edge of her seat like an intimidated subordinate.

She proceeded to give him a full account of the ambush.

She described the shattered lock, the empty cage, the explosive rune trap.

She detailed the number of smugglers, their spells, their tactics.

She recounted the fight, her desperate defensive maneuvers, the moment she had been cornered by the two duelers.

She omitted nothing, her Quidditch player’s memory for dynamic, chaotic action serving her well. She analyzed their movements, their weaknesses, their overconfidence, with a tactical clarity that was second nature to her.

Riddle listened in silence, his dark eyes never leaving her face, his expression unreadable.

He didn’t interrupt.

He didn’t question.

He just… listened.

He wasn't just hearing the words; he was processing them, his mind analyzing, connecting dots she hadn’t even realized were there.

When she finished, her voice hoarse, the memory of the fight leaving a coppery taste of adrenaline in her mouth, he remained silent for another long moment, his gaze distant, thoughtful.

“The rune trap,” he said finally, his voice a low murmur. “A shaped Blasting Hex, triggered by a proximity ward. Crude, but effective. Designed for maximum concussive force in a confined space. Not the work of common smugglers. It implies a creator with a certain knowledge of offensive warding. And the two duelers, their coordination and spell choices, that suggests formal training. Hired muscle, certainly, but of a higher caliber than the rest.”

He was already piecing it together, seeing the patterns.

“It confirms my initial assessment,” he continued, his gaze returning to her, sharp and intense. “This was a targeted elimination attempt, orchestrated by someone with considerable resources and a sophisticated understanding of strategic planning. Someone who is not only framing Gwendolyn Jones but is actively working to silence anyone who might challenge that narrative. You, Miss Weasley, have now been officially designated a significant threat to their operation.”

“So, what now?” she asked, her voice tight. “Do we just wait for them to try again?”

Riddle’s expression hardened. “We do not wait, Miss Weasley. We act. But we do so from a position of knowledge, not reckless impulsiveness.”

He paused, then, his gaze seemed to soften fractionally, becoming less analytical and more… inquisitive.

He asked her a personal question, unhindered, a jarring shift to something else entirely. “Why do you even bother so hard for this?”

He gestured vaguely, a slight movement of his hand that encompassed the entire dangerous, messy situation. “I have my own reasons for wishing to see Dawlish’s investigation discredited, reasons rooted in broader strategic objectives concerning the Ministry’s future stability. You, on the other hand. Yes, Gwendolyn Jones is your captain. But she’s no family. Not by blood. Why risk so much? Your career, your safety, your very life? For what? A misguided sense of loyalty?”

The question was genuine. He truly didn’t understand.

In his world of self-interest and strategic alliances, her almost self-destructive loyalty was an illogical anomaly.

Ginny sighed, a long, weary sound. She leaned her head back against the velvet of the chaise longue, staring up at the ornate plasterwork of the ceiling.

“You wouldn’t get it, Riddle,” she said quietly.

“Enlighten me,” he countered, his voice a soft, compelling murmur.

Ginny was silent for a moment, gathering her thoughts, deciding what to share, what to reveal of herself.

She had spent weeks, months, building walls against him, meeting his provocations with her own brand of defiance. But here, in the quiet of this sitting room, after the shared experience of the cannery, after his unexpected act of… decency… the walls felt… thinner.

“It’s not just about loyalty,” she began, her voice low, reflective. “It’s about… a debt. One that can’t be repaid with Galleons.”

She took a deep breath. “A few years ago, my first season with the Harpies. I was… a mess. Younger. Even more reckless than I am now, if you can believe it. Full of raw talent, maybe, but my temper… it was a liability. I got into a fight during a practice scrimmage – a real one, not just shoving. A Beater from an opposing team made a crack about my family, about my dad’s job at the Ministry. And I just… snapped. I hexed him. Badly. In front of half the League officials who were there observing.”

She paused, the memory still stinging with shame. “It should have been the end of my career before it even started. The League Disciplinary Committee was ready to ban me for a full season, maybe permanently. The Harpies’ management, Cadwallader, he was ready to cut me loose. A volatile, problematic rookie wasn’t worth the trouble.”

She finally turned her head, meeting Riddle’s gaze. “But Gwenog… she fought for me. She went before the Committee, before the sponsors, before Cadwallader. She didn’t make excuses for me. She told them I was a hot-headed idiot who deserved to be punished. But she also told them that beneath the temper, there was talent. That there was heart. That what I needed wasn’t exile, but discipline. A firm hand. A chance.”

Her voice grew thick with emotion, but she forced it to remain steady. “She put her own reputation on the line. She told the League she would take personal responsibility for my conduct. That any further infractions would reflect on her, as captain. She vouched for me, when no one else would. She saved my career. Saved me, probably, from spiraling into a lifetime of bitterness and regret.”

She looked away, back towards the fire. “She didn’t have to do it. I was just a rookie. I was no family. But she saw… something. Something worth saving. And she put her neck out for me. So, yeah,” – she looked back at him, her eyes fierce – “I owe her. I owe her more than just loyalty. I owe her my life. The one I have now, anyway. The one that involves playing Quidditch for a living. The one you’ve been so gleefully trying to dismantle.”

Ginny had laid herself bare, not with fury or accusations, but with honesty that felt more exposing than any shouting match.

She had explained the ‘why’ of her loyalty, the bedrock of her seemingly irrational devotion to Gwenog Jones. She half-expected Riddle to scoff, to dismiss her story as sentimental foolishness.

Instead, he just watched her, his expression thoughtful. He had remained utterly still throughout her entire story, his dark eyes never leaving her face, not interrupting. He had simply listened.

The sheer, focused intensity of his attention, devoid of its usual condescension, was in itself unsettling.

“What?” Ginny asked, a note of challenge creeping back into her voice, a defense against his unnerving silence. “No pithy analysis? No lecture on how emotional debts are an inefficient form of social contract? I just poured out my tragic backstory, and you’re just… staring.”

She frowned, genuinely perplexed. “Why did you even listen to all that? Really listen, I mean. It’s not in a Ministry report. It’s not going to help you restructure a department. It’s just… a story. About loyalty. A concept you seem to find… quaint.”

Tom Riddle let the silence stretch for another beat, as if considering the very nature of his own actions. Then, he answered, his voice a low murmur that seemed to absorb the firelight.

“It comes with being a Senior Advisor,” he said finally, his voice a low murmur, breaking the quiet. “Listening. Truly listening. It is a prerequisite for effective influence. If I wasn’t a good listener, I would not be able to discern the motivations, the fears, the loyalties of those I interact with.”