Gently, she reached out and, with the tips of her fingers, closed Pansy's staring eyes. 'I'm sorry,' she whispered, very softly, but her voice seemed to echo anyway in the empty stairwell, and the echoes that bounced back to her whispered the same two words over and over: your fault, your fault, your fault.
'No,' Ginny hissed under her breath, and reached out to the wall behind her, hitching herself to her feet, 'no — '
'There's no need for you to cry, Ginny,' His voice came light and soft, and the torches along the walls seemed to flicker, or perhaps it was her own dimming vision. 'Don't pretend you care that she's dead; she always hated you. She told me that, among other things, before I killed her.'
It took every bit of Ginny's amplified willpower for her to raise her head and look at him. He was standing at the top of the stairs, just where the shadows were darkest. The faint torchlight knitted itself around his pale hands and face, his barleycorn hair. His mouth was curved into a lucid and passionless grin and his eyes, as they fixed themselves on her, were full of hunger.
'I knew you'd come,' he whispered. 'I knew it.' His gaze was satisfied.
'You belong to me.'
Rage exploded behind Ginny's eyes, almost blinding her. Wandless, she flung herself up the stairs, running — hurled herself at him, her fingers curled into claws — and struck the ground, hard, bruising her hands and knees.
There was no one there.
She struggled to her feet, casting around wildly, but he was gone — she was alone at the top of the twisting staircase. Below her Pansy lay dead in her own blood on the landing. Above her — Ginny looked up, but there was nothing, only the immense chandelier hanging still and lifeless, its pendant drops of dark red cut glass glimmering with a dull fire.
I could leave, she thought. I could run down the stairs and out of the house and he wouldn't follow me.
He wouldn't have to. Tom knew she would come back. She would always come back to him. Hate wedded her to him, stronger than love, more enduring. Hatred's an emotion you can trust, Draco had said to her. You always know where you stand with it.
Straightening her shoulders, Ginny turned from the stairs to the corridor, and began to walk forward.
Ron was only halfway up the narrow stone staircase when his breath began to puff out of his mouth in small white clouds. God, it was freezing, he thought. Fear for Hermione made his blood pound in his ears. The sides of the tower were so steep; it was so cold -
He reached the top of the stairs, pushed the wooden door open, and found himself atop the North Tower. The flat stone floor stretched away to the battlements, and the sky above was a pebbly gray. A knifelike wind blew fine particles of snow against his bare face. He raised an arm to shield his eyes and called out. 'Hermione!'
A long moment passed before he heard her reply and even then, he almost mistook it for more wind. Spinning around, he saw a dark shape huddled against the wall of the inner tower.
He raced over and knelt down beside her. She was huddled in against herself, her thin bare arms wrapped around her denim-clad legs. When she raised her face to his, he saw that her lips were tinged with blue.
'Ron,' she said, shakily. 'What — w-what are you — '
But her teeth were chattering too hard for her to get the words out.
Quickly, Ron shrugged off his blue cloak and slung it around her shoulders. clutched at it, and then at him as he helped her to her feet.
'We've got to get you inside,' he muttered, and pulled her to her feet.
She held tightly to his arm as they crossed the roof through the snow. Her fingers felt like wands of ice pressed against his bare skin. When they were finally inside the tower, he pushed the door shut against the wind and turned to face her, his eyes searching her face anxiously.
'Hermione are you all right?'
She had let go of him, and was standing huddled underneath the heavy blue cloak he had draped around her. Under the cloak, her right hand was pressed to her side; for a moment he thought she was in pain, then realized she was holding something against her side. He caught a flash of silver — a knife, perhaps? Her lips and eyelids were tinged faintly with blue, and her hair stuck to her cheeks and forehead in limp brown tendrils. 'Ron,' she said, her voice hoarse. 'What are you doing here?'
'I was captured by the Dark Lord,' Ron said, 'and brought here just like you. I don't even know how long I've been here, Hermione, how many days '
'You don't look like a prisoner.' She gestured at his clothes. 'You look like you're ready for a fancy dress party.'
'Hermione — ' Ron reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrank away from him. Her eyes were filled with suspicion. Ron felt as if he had swallowed a block of ice — to have endured so much, and still to be distrusted — 'Fine,' he said, shortly, and turned to head back down the staircase. After a moment, she followed him.
The first three rooms Ginny glanced into were empty. The third was not.
It was a bedroom, probably a spare room, furnished in dark yellow velvet.
On a brocade chair in the middle of the room sat Blaise. Ropes circled her waist, securing her to the chair's mahogany back, and thin cords tightly bound her wrists. A pale green kerchief was stuffed in her mouth. Her eyes, a much darker green, widened when she saw Ginny, then began darting wildly around the room.
Ginny raised a finger to her lips, then stepped forward and drew the kerchief from Blaise's mouth. The other girl gasped and licked her dry lips. Up close Ginny could see that her eyes were full of tears, although knowing Blaise, they were probably tears of rage or pain rather than fear.
Ginny crouched down beside the chair. 'Blaise,' she whispered. 'Are you all right?'
Blaise snorted. 'Do I look all right?' She raised her arms slightly and Ginny saw that the thin cords binding her wrists together were tied so tightly that they were cutting into her skin. Blood stained the rope and her hands looked oddly white. Blaise's voice was strained. 'You'd better get out of here, Ginny. There's no telling when he'll come back, and if he finds out you're here — '
'He knows I'm here,' Ginny said grimly. 'Let me untie you — '
'No!' Blaise's eyes were darting around the room again. 'He killed Pansy, you know.'
'I know,' Ginny said, standing up. 'I thought he'd killed you, too.'
'No,' Blaise said slowly. She raised her head to look at Ginny. 'It's you he's really after,' she said. There were weals on her white neck, dark red, they looked like bite marks. 'He's said I looked like you — '
A horrid thought occurred to Ginny. 'You do know he's not Seamus, don't you? I mean, not really.'
'I know,' Blaise said. For a moment, her lower lip trembled, and she looked like what she was — an ordinary teenage girl, badly frightened, struggling to retain the scraps of her self-possession. 'What is he, Ginny? I looked in his eyes and I saw — not a person at all but a thing — blacker than a shadow, and twisted, and when he touched me his hands cut me like knives — what is he?'
Ginny blinked — black and twisted? But he was not that — he was beautiful, and the more horrible for being beautiful. Her Tom — she opened her mouth, to explain, to condemn herself, when from behind her a soft voice spoke in a tone that was like a sharp nail running down her spine. 'Yes, Ginny,' it whispered — he whispered. 'Tell her what I am.'
They were halfway down the stairs when the snake lunged out at them; Hermione shrieked and threw herself backward. Ron stood where he was, the torch in his hand held stiffly out in front of him. Its flame was the same gold color as the snake's eyes.
'It's all right, Hermione,' Ron said. 'It's just Kevin.'
Just? the serpent inquired, its tone lazy, scraping like scales against the inside of Ron's head. You hold me in low regard, True Dreamer?
