Sirius shifted guiltily. 'Ah, nothing, he's, ah, terribly shy.'
Remus looked mystified.
'Anyway, Remus, you won't believe it — Lynch actually had something to say after all,' Sirius said, eager both to change the subject and to impart this new information to his friend. 'He's seen Harry. With Viktor Krum, of all people.'
Remus looked surprised. 'I wouldn't have said they were close.'
'No, but then he'd know we'd find him if he went to any close friends. Of course, Aidan barged off before he could tell me anything beyond that, so I suppose we'd better pay Viktor a visit.' Sirius rose to his feet. 'Anyway, what'd you come in here to tell me?'
Remus looked somber. 'It's Ginny,' he said. 'She still hasn't returned and Charlie's terribly worried. He thinks we should go after her.'
He was not Seamus, of course, and being kissed by Tom was nothing like being kissed by Seamus. Which had been a pleasant thing, sweet and gentle, and this was nothing like that. Nor was it even like being kissed by Draco, which had been fierce in its way, but Ginny had always known that Draco would never hurt her, and now she had no such assurance.
She sucked in her breath as Tom pushed her back against the banister railing, and his hands found their way into her hair and tangled there, pulling the curls tight, making her wince. His lips were hard and dry and hot on hers, his tongue pushed them open and scraped the roof of her mouth insistently, and she shivered, although not as hard as he was shivering. She could feel the reverberations of shudders tearing through him. His hands shook as they slid up the curve of her waist to her breasts.
He seemed not to notice what his body was doing, that it was trying to shake itself apart. She could almost have mistaken his tremors for the tremors of extreme emotion, if she did not know better. Her hands had been braced against the railing; she moved them now, and placed them on his shoulders. He caught her wrists, pulled them down to her sides, held them there. 'You don't,' he said, against her neck, 'touch me.'
'Your hands,' she said. 'They're shaking.'
He snarled at her, but released his grip. 'There's nothing wrong with my hands.'
Her tone was placating. 'Of course there isn't.'
He leaned his full weight on her, and the banister railing cut so hard into Ginny's back that she winced. She uttered a sharp cry and saw him look briefly gratified. She twisted her head away from him, letting her head fall back. When he leaned to her, mouth at her throat, she reached to touch his hair.
He stiffened, and jerked away from her. 'I told you not to touch me.'
Ginny lowered her eyelashes, hiding the hatred in her eyes. 'What are you so afraid of, Tom?'
'Be quiet,' he hissed, pushing harder against her, cutting off her breath.
'Or I'll make you quiet.'
Her head swam with the nearness of him, the heat of his body, his smell of ink and blood. Her open hand fluttered against his back, tracing the bumps of his spine through his damp shirt; she could feel the scar below his shoulder blade where Seamus had injured himself flying too near a tree when he was nine -
'You wouldn't hurt me,' she whispered.
He paused. 'Oh,' he said, 'wouldn't I?'
It was what she had hoped for. 'You couldn't,' she said.
It was all she had to say; his hands went to her throat, and circled it, his thumbs pressed into the notch above her collarbone. His expression softened as, his eyes gazing directly into hers, he began to tighten his grip.
Stars exploded behind Ginny's eyes as she fought for breath. Her hands flew to his; she clawed at his wrists with her nails, gouging the skin, and he gasped with laughter as she thrashed under him, kicking out at him uselessly with weakening legs, and just as her knees began to buckle under her, her vision dimming to gray, his grip suddenly loosened. With a choked cry he staggered away from her, his legs buckling, and sank to his knees at her feet.
Clinging to the banister to keep herself upright, Ginny could think of nothing but breathing for several moments, gulping lungfuls of air through her bruised throat. When her dizziness finally ebbed, she raised her head to find Tom had risen to his feet, and was standing an arm's length away from her, staring at her through slitted eyes. One of his hands was at his throat, and under the spread of his fingers she could plainly see the bruises there against his pale skin.
'I told you,' she said, and though it hurt to speak she felt a burst of dark triumph, 'I told you you couldn't hurt me.'
It was only a short while before Ron realized the stupidity of his assertion that he could easily find Hermione some extra clothes. The fortress, while impressive, was anything but homey. Ron wandered through great halls and enormous ballrooms, through empty conservatories and dusty libraries, their walls lined with books whose spines were plated in gold.
Nowhere could he even find another bedroom, much less a random pile of girls' clothes lying in a convenient heap. (He briefly wondered where Rhysenn Summoned her endless wardrobe changes from. Perhaps she could actually fashion garter belts from thin air — an unusual, if restricted, talent.)
He was just leaving the larger of two libraries when he heard voices. One of them was the familiar harsh voice of Voldemort; Ron ducked into an alcove and froze as the Dark Lord passed into the room, followed by Wormtail. The small man was obviously agitated; his round face was red and sweaty, and his left hand plucked nervously at the front of his robes.
'Master, I would not lie to you. Lucius has been meddling in matters that surely you can not approve of, matters dangerous to you — '
'Yes, yes, I heard you, Wormtail.' The Dark Lord seemed distracted and annoyed. 'Your obsession with Lucius grows steadily more unhealthy, I do hope you realize that.'
'I am only looking out for your best interests, Master,' Wormtail protested, sounding wounded. Ron remembered Voldemort's exasperated tone — A spy in the house of Lucius, eh, Wormtail? and pressed himself further back into the alcove.
'By inventing insane tales?' Voldemort demanded. 'Your claims that Lucius has been summoning spirits and demons seem largely unfounded.
Besides, it is little to me what Lucius chooses to do with his recreational time.'
'Not just demons and spirits, Master,' Wormtail protested. 'Some kind of murdering spirit — it has been killing your Death Eaters — '
'Well, yes,' Voldemort admitted. 'But only those, I note, who at one time renounced me. Perhaps Lucius is simply clearing corruption out of the ranks.'
'If so, I do think he ought to have checked with you first,' Wormtail said humbly, and Ron had to reluctantly admit that he had a point.
Voldemort seemed to think so too. 'If he has betrayed me, his punishment will be immediate and severe,' he said, running the tip of a pale finger across his chin. 'But — the burden of proof rests on you, Wormtail.' He snapped his fingers. 'Until you have proof, I wish to hear no more of your stories.'
Wormtail hung his head. 'Yes, Master.'
Voldemort gazed at his servant, and made a face. 'Really, Wormtail,' he said, 'I do wish you were a bit more attractive,' with which bizarre comment, he turned on his heel, and strode from the room. Wormtail stared after him in a woebegone manner.
Tired of hiding, Ron stepped out from behind the alcove. Wormtail jumped, then snarled. 'Spying on us, were you?'
Ron pulled a face. 'You should talk,' he replied, made a rude gesture, and left the library.
On the way back to his rooms, he pulled down a set of dark blue velvet hangings, assuming that Hermione, in her infinite wisdom, could somehow enchant the fabric into something resembling garments. When he arrived
