Immortal

Immortal

"Poor Tom," Geneva says. "You're still a bit dazed from it, aren't you?"

His scalp shines underneath what scant hair there is to hide it, and his ear has a clumsy, dirty bandage to enshrine it. It burns; everything burns slowly at him now, the pain driving at him to do something. The pain. What she thinks is confusion is his own looming, foreboding thoughts.

She strokes his head, practicing for motherhood, and turns to look towards the window. "It is snowing outside now, can you imagine? I hadn't expected anything... it's still fall, it shouldn't even be happening."

He gazes out to where the snow glitters in the sunlight. Near the forest, red seeps through it where a trap lay in wait. A wolf limps along, trailing blood behind it. She has called his attention to it, perhaps in warning; often at night, he slinks out of the cabin, away from the stifling heat of her bare back against his. She wants to keep him inside, for he always has to unlock the door when he leaves.

He also wonders, asking the ceiling again when she leaves, but it does not answer. Its patched mud and sacrificial trees do not serve to echo, though occasionally it sends mud down to him.

Their muddy cabin squats at the peak of a mountain, from where they can behold the waterfalls and conifers that crawl down the slope and into the valley below, freckled with ponds like the bridge of her nose. They had swum in them yesterday, she teaching him, but today he cannot learn anything.

He finds the room stifling, even with the snow blowing in from outside without a proper door to close it. The oven in the corner flares red and burns other trees, spitting out at him; remembering his scalp smoking after the lightning, he doesn't dare to touch it.

Despite her subtle warnings and messy doctoring, he can be happy with her, if uncertain and shadowy. She cradles her burgeoning belly with such a glowing face, calling his attention to little kicks in gasps and smiles, and he is being pulled in. Love me, the object of her cooing cries to them, and she has answered the call with the fortitude of a pregnant Eve, ready to bear a Cain or Abel.

Tom is not as sure as she is. The fluttering of Geneva's stomach has set his stomach fluttering many times with her infectious joy and his anxiety.

"It kicked!" she screams, jolting up in her seat, then she wilts back down and moans. He crawls over to her dutifully and lays his good ear upon her stomach, intent upon trying to understand what is in there.

He hears a slow rush and a pulse like war drums. He holds his breath, and his heartbeat crescendos.

"Did you hear it?" says Geneva happily.

"Of course I did," he replies. "It's wonderful." Lies just slip through his teeth, little to her notice. He cannot believe the kind of opportunity he has missed by not discovering this sooner.

"Absolutely amazing."

"A complete miracle."

Geneva smiles at her burden again and at him. "I'm so glad you feel that way. We can name it Tom if you want."

"No," he whispers, hurling himself away from her. The bandage unfurls from his ear and hangs there in an oozing, swaying strip.

She angles herself to protect the baby and gapes up at him. A few deep breaths calm him, but his teeth are still grinding together and his nails are gouging his palms.

"We are never," he says, "never going to name anything after us."

She nods quickly. "All right. If that's what you want. We can change it. Let's think. What name do you want?"

Voldemort. His eyes light up. A name that can live on past him.

No, he doesn't want anything to live past him. The name still retains its perfection, but he can keep it for himself for now. No telling what Geneva would do or could do if he shared the name with her.

As if she can read his thoughts, her eyes suddenly bulge, and she leaps out of her chair. "Think of it later!" Ginny howls, and she runs out. Tom follows her out, tracing her pink path out to the outhouse, but his path forms pristinely in the opposite direction in the snow, also spotted pink.

"GINNY!"

He whirls around. Where did the voice come from? He doesn't recognize it. It echoes around so he can place it, but he can't.

There is a choice before him now: seek out the voice and suppress it, or go to Geneva and make sure she did not hear it.

Trying to do both, he glances down the slope and bolts for the outhouse, but the sounds coming from the outhouse extend very far and act as a barrier, luckily. Heading back for the slope, he grabs one of the blades from an already-sprung guillotine trap. He finds himself licking his lips.

Something crunches further down the hill, but when he turns to it, all he can see is a flash of red escaping.

He will have to be silent, otherwise the person will know he is being followed. Before he can continue, something lands on his ear and burns it, and he howls. What could it have been?

Of course, he had forgotten that it was snowing. He bandages his ear back up again, clenching his jaw hard at its sensitivity, and cups it with his hand. If it is snowing, the other person must have left footprints. He'll have to hurry. Since the snow is falling, it will mask the person's dry tracks, but the blood he has left behind in the snow will not fade. He doesn't like feeling so vulnerable; they could follow him back to the house with the trail he has left unprotected.

It is up to keep them from following him by following them. He darts back to the traps around the cottage to take out one of the large blades, as if by instinct, and retraces the footsteps of the other person, skirting through the thick of the forest as so not to be seen. By the time he comes to the last of the footprints, he is out of breath, exhausted by his own cunning.

The person he is looking for, the redheaded fiend, is perched at the edge of a ledge, looking around. Tom is ready to give him something to gape at, scream at, bleed for. He steps forward, a smile on his face. When the man finally looks up, he yells in surprise and nearly falls off. Tom laughs to himself at it and does not help the man up.

"Hello," says red, squinting hard at him but still smiling stiffly. Now that they are face to face, Tom uneasily recognizes a nose like Ginny's on him. "Can you help me?"

"Yes," says Tom, lying calmly again. He can. He will not. "What are you looking for?"

"Warmth, first." He grins at his clever joke, the fog of breath over his features a fog of complacency. "Can you help me?"

Tom moves towards the forest without a reply, pressing the man to follow him. He regrets it soon, for he has turned his back on the excellent plan that was the ledge-but he can go back. Nothing is permanent! Everything can be changed to suit himself. Like the blade that he is switching around in his hands, forwards, behind his back, to hide it from red.

"Who are you?" says red.

"This is my home," Tom replies, a measure of friendliness infused to keep down suspicion. "You first."

"Just call me Weasley," he says. "I'm looking for someone." Weasley, red, pauses for further questioning from Tom but does not receive it. Tom can see him weighing the importance of his quest against having to trust a stranger, and when Weasley says, "Ginny's around here somewhere," Tom has won the battle.

"Pardon me, a girl?"

Weasley frowns at his feigned disgust. "Yes, actually. She is considered a missing person now and I am entitled to broach upon the subject in my investigation whenever I want."

"So long as you have a claim to keep you warm," retorts Tom, and Weasley shivers to be reminded of the cold. If he doesn't hurry, the only thing that can happen is Weasley freezing to the log he is sitting on; Tom is sitting on his blade. "I can prove what I mean. Just follow me." He leads the way back to the cliff, quickly. Perhaps Weasley will trip and save him the trouble. The consideration would certainly please him.

Tom peers out below, assessing the danger of the cliff-Weasley should die, with luck. He waves Weasley forward.

"See?" he taunts. "Deserted. There's nothing around for miles but fog and trees. Look for yourself."

Weasley inches to the edge. "What fog? There's-"

Tom grabs him at the arms and flings him over, watching his mad, bumpy descent. If only he wouldn't yell so.

When he has gone down, Tom needs to stop and catch his breath, waiting for his blood to subside, before he makes a descent to check.

Just to make sure-being nothing if not meticulous-he throws the blade down to keep Weasley company.

Later, he goes down the hill again, "to fetch a pail of water," as he calls out to Geneva. He has to go down, for his memory is teasing him with the formula for a Trinity Resurrection.

_____

Ginny, anxiously awaiting Tom's arrival after her delivery in the outhouse, greets him by showing him the baby and collapsing on the bed with it. She would like to keep her eyes open, but she trusts them less than she trusts Tom, and soon enough, they betray her.

When she wakes up, it is dark, and Tom and the baby are staring at each other, his hands wrapped around it to hold it level to him. Resentment chafes at her, for she could not get the baby to stop crying, and she is the one to whom the baby is indebted. Infants really are fickle, she supposes unhappily, if they can desert their mother, whom they have known for nine months, for strangers.

"I named him while you were asleep," Tom speaks up, "and I melted snow to put over his head." Poor Tom, such a heathen, knows nothing about baptism at all. She wants to get him to look at her, and she wants to see how he feels, but he will not break his contact with the baby, nor will he allow emotion in his voice.

She hadn't realized the baby was a boy-hadn't thought of checking. It runs in the family. "What do you think of him?"

"We'll have to see," he says. "So far, he is faultless." He smiles briefly, and it makes the baby to want to be closer to him. "Are you cold?" Tom asks him solemnly, and brings him closer to wrap his coat around him.

Strange, thinks Ginny, that such a little thing can be in tumults of joy merely because of Tom's attention. She wonders over it until she remembers doing the same thing. Thinking of it makes her tired, and soon she falls into slumber again.

This time, she is woken by a howl that sends her out of the house, tearing towards its direction in a panic.

There stands Tom, at the peak of a hill, holding the baby above his head; Tom is the one making all the noise. The wind whips so hard about him that the bandage around his ear unfurls, and it goes flying off, beating against trees and rocks. There is a strange white dome covering his head-a gleaming crown. Ginny squints at him, partly to blur what she is forced to see, but also because she feels it is something she wants too.

She can hear him: "AND SO LET THE BLOOD OF THE SON FLOW BACK INTO THE FATHER AND GIVE HIM LIFE AGAIN THAT HE... MAY... RISE!" Tom draws his arm back, and suddenly, she realizes what he is about to do and runs forward.

"NO! Tom, that's enough!" She lunges at him-she can see his crown now, a skull streaked red-and in the second before he falls, he wraps himself around his son, an ironic protection.

He falls down and breaks his crown,
and she comes tumbling after.

"Mrs. Riddle? Mrs. Riddle?... Jenny? Are you up yet, dear?" The voice greeting her is kind, broadly accented, and full of concern. It is still too loud for Ginny.

"Yaagh." Jenny? Where is she? Her eyes will not open.

"Oh, of course, poor dear, that'll be the medicine, you might not have the use of your muscles back for another while yet. Don't worry, you have your husband to speak for you."

"Ngah?"

"Don't worry, he's all right! He said you might not know what had happened when you woke up, so I'll just tell you what happened: you, your husband, and little Morty-"

Morty. The inevitable.How sweet, to take Death and change it into a happy little nickname.

"Yes, the three of you-such a nice family-" The woman sighs wistfully, gripping Ginny's hand. No-no!-is the baby (Morty will take getting used to) dead? Why had she ever wished it? Or-"must have lost your balance on your hiking trip and taken a tumble down the hill. You've been banged up a good bit. Oh, weren't you a sight when we found you! I wouldn't have thought that little gashes like yours could have made so much mess." She'll make a mess; she wants to. Tom ought to have mess all over him to warn people off. "Don't worry, no stitches for you."

Ginny's first sign of returning muscles comes in the small giggle as she remembers her father's experience with stitches, but the remembrance of her family saddens her.

The woman smoothes her hair. "Mr. Riddle has a cast on his leg, and the doctor did what she could for that ear of his, but... oh, shall I bring your husband to see you now?"

"Uhm!" is Ginny's definite answer, and she gets to be left to herself for a while the lady bustles off. Of course, Tom lied to her, but what did happen? Her mind fixates upon the idea of Thanatos, death with a torch in one hand and a butterfly in another. Perhaps the butterfly is a hint from her subconscious, leading her to Tom.

She remembers her old image of death, wearing a skull-her skull-upon its head. Of course, old nightmares don't have anything to do with Tom, but neither does what happened to them. Tom is worse off than her, or will be eventually, from it, and it serves him right, knowing his intended effect.

But that's her problem, isn't it? She doesn't know what he meant by it. She hasn't a clue what he intended.

Clank, thump. Clank, thump. The woman mentioned something about Tom's leg, didn't she? That would be him, now. For a while, he will be like a cat with a bell around his collar, the noise he is making, and his limited mobility will keep him contained for a while. Ginny remembers Tom flying away on her broom, and, as terrifying as it was, she naughtily imagines him trying to do it with a cast swinging underneath.

He clears his throat. "Ginny? Ginny! Open your eyes for me."

Her eyelids flutter in spasms against her face, and this effort satisfies Tom. That he could harbour it against her, who is blameless is enough, to be faking her ailment, is enough to get her fists to clench.

"All right." Tom leans in close; she can feel his breath against her face. "You aren't to tell them, you hear me?" he whispers. "I've found a niche for us. I have plans now, Ginny. To ruin my plans will be to destroy your life, for your life is mine."

And all of a sudden, Ginny finds her voice, and she yells, "No!" and it comes out so softly that she supposes she ought not to try again.

"You'll see, Ginny," Tom whispers. "You'll see."

And she does, when she can finally open her eyes. The woman and her husband, a childless old couple, own an inn, and they are so taken with Tom and the baby-isn't she a lucky girl?-that they have offered them positions as caretakers. Ginny will have to take care now; they will be back into the world.

She doesn't mark the day that Morty was born, so she cannot ever trace her way back to where it all began. Tom has marked down his birthday, somewhere, but they never remember it, and they have no trouble about forgetting it. Morty has eight teeth now, and Ginny uses him as a calendar to mark the time since the accident.

Morty is a demanding, imperious baby whenever she has him; nothing his mother can do is ever good enough. In a fit of exasperation and jealousy one time, she insisted that Tom be the one to tend to him when they are both there. She felt sorry after, and she should have made the effort to parent.

So Ginny tries to make it up by doing the one thing she can do for him that Tom can't. Now that Morty has teeth, she's not really supposed to, and he nearly gnaws off her breasts, but that is what sacrifice is about. Soon, she won't be able to hold onto him at all.

She spends most of her time replacing sheets, and whatever Tom does during the day, she only hears about it from the couple, who believe that Tom represents one of the finest people his age that they've ever met.

"Wake up," Tom whispers one morning, shaking her shoulder. "Up, up. We will be busy." She moans and stirs, and he drags her from the bed. "Get dressed, quickly, and look nice."

"What about Morty?" Ginny's half-open eyes blink towards him.

"He'll be fine. That's not important now. Come."

He hauls her half-conscious form towards the door and into the rental car, and out they go. She falls asleep as soon as she sits down and the first thing she sees when she wakes is a large sign: "Welcome to Little Hangleton!"

"We're looking for a church. Tell me if you see one." Tom tightens his grip on the wheel of the car, and Ginny has to wonder where he learnt to drive. Every other car is speeding past them, the drivers yelling.

He screeches to a halt at the first cross they see, and Ginny, who is just beginning to hold her eyes open, stops for a second.

"Wait. Tom, what is this? Are you going to confess or anything like that?"

He snorts. "Confess? What do I have to confess? You actually think I need it. Just follow my lead." He takes her by the arm and leads her towards the door, and when they get inside, he calls, "Hello? We came here for a ceremony."

Ginny looks around, trying to figure out whom he's talking to. She has never been in a church before. It is drafty and austere.

A large woman emerges from the back, somewhere, and her eyes brighten when she sees them. "I love secret marriages," she beams.

Ginny looks at Tom.

"Didn't you want it?" he whispers. "This is just to make sure, anyway. I lied to the couple, so we have to make sure there isn't anything for them to find out."

"We're making the lie become a truth," she says thoughtfully.

"Just repeat after her, and don't let anything interrupt what we're trying to do." He nudges her into the beginning the wedding, and when they leave, he instructs her, "We've gone out for a drive in the country."

"Mmm," says Ginny, mesmerized by the sparkle and promise of her new ring.

When she finishes cleaning early, she sees Tom behind his desk. He will never move, for he is bored; instead, he thinks. Today, since she has a mission to avoid him for, she watches him behind the high fern. There is a pattern to Tom's thoughts: he bites his lips together, he moves his jaw in and out, and inevitably, his eyes flash. Luckily, he is interrupted in his plans by customers, and he springs up from his chair, wiping off his clothes as if they are contaminated from it, and makes haste to greet them.

She sneaks out while he is distracted by him, and by the time she is on the train, she realizes: how silly. Why hadn't she just Apparated?

When she gets to King's Cross Station, she has to fight against the swarms of children coming her way. At first, she doesn't react to it, but then, she hears a hoot and she notices the owls that some of them have accompanying them.

Ginny presses herself against the wall and takes a moment to calm herself down, thinking of what to do. She can't stay where she is until they go, but she would do anything to keep from being discovered. Her mission had been fraught with that danger already; she had been leaving for Diagon Alley.

But, the thought coming to her like pinching a bruise, she wonders whether she meant to be found anyway. Are they still looking for her, though? What irony, to go there to be found and not elicit a glance!

What was that song? Que sera, sera... whatever will be, will be... sung to her by her mother when she was young; she plans to sing it to Morty. He'll need a good lesson like that.

She slips back out into the crowd, finding that perfect spot in the sky to stare at so that no one can see into her eyes. Occasionally, a sweet little smile drifts upon her face for the benefit of the "Hello!" that comes from friendly strangers. They must like the challenge of her faraway gaze.

Her shoulder hits the edge of someone else who is passing, and she frowns. What on earth are they staring at her for? They shouldn't have stopped in the middle of the walkway like that.

"Sorry," she says with her nomad voice, part of the mood she takes on to avoid people.

"Hold on, aren't you-" and she moves on. On, to the taxi that she has engaged for ten minutes, and off to Diagon Alley. Off to see the wonderful wizards; Ginny's references to the outside world have surprised her. She'd never realized she had been a part of it and never expected to remember.

When she gets there, people's reactions are the same as always, going past in their own taxis. She starts to worry: what if she can't see the entrance anymore? Is she still a witch? She doesn't think she wants to be, but it'll make going through rather inconvenient.

Hold on to something until it becomes a burden, that's what Tom always says, then cast it off and begin afresh. He cannot have had much experience with getting it back after when you need it again. Ginny decides it's better to hold the thing at bay, instead; maybe she can suggest it to Tom. He has been thinking too much.

A car honks at her, and someone pushes her out of the road. She lands inside the Leaky Cauldron and looks around. No one has donned a hood today, and the walls are whitewashed. The bartender is pouring a glass of milk for a little child swinging her legs up at the bar.

The gateway beckons. She goes up to it, fumbling for her wand, but as she stands with it in her hand, she doesn't know what to do. Four up, four down, around... no, that's a reel. Ginny transfers the tapping from her wand to her foot, hoping someone will come by and help her.

"Ginny!" Finally, someone notices her. She turns around and gasps.

"Bill!" She runs up and hugs him, her delight to see him overriding her initial plan for caution.

"You're the first one I've seen in a year," he tells her. "I guess Mum & Dad told you about my mission for the Order? I spent a year looking for You-Know-Who. Haven't heard from anyone since I left."

Ginny nods. "I was searching for Voldemort, too-but I'm glad I didn't find him. Open the gateway for me, Bill? I've forgotten how."

"Of course, Ginny." Bill rubs her back, taps at the wall, and then they step into Diagon Alley, which looks exactly as Ginny remembered it. "Let's go get a sundae."

When they are seated at Fortescue's, it sinks in- Bill is a tabula rasa, and she can talk with him without any inhibitions. Without the constant demand of answers that Ron would have, she can carry on the first normal conversation with her family that she has had in months.

"So when I got out of Siberia," he says, "I realized how long had actually passed. All that time, I had told myself that I was only searching thoroughly, but now I have to wonder, was I only prolonging my search? And to think I was a Gryffindor."

"Oh Bill, it's not your fault," blurts Ginny. "Anyone would have done the same thing. Who would want to meet Voldemort face to face after hoping he's gone forever. Not even the bravest man could do that." She reaches out for his hand-a small squeeze is her sisterly duty.

Bill smiles. "Wow, Ginny, you've really grown up. Your year of searching must have done you good."

"Oh, I found more than I expected." Ginny looks down at her melting ice cream and plays with her spoon. "I found a husband."

Nearly leaping out of his seat, Bill grabs her left hand and presses it tightly. Each finger on her hand can feel the bone of the joint sticking out; maybe she'll get Mum's arthritis. "Ginny!" Bill shouts. "Who? Does everyone know yet?"

"Oh, they may have guessed," says Ginny coyly. "You'll have to see what they knew when you tell them."

Bill slams his hand on the table. "Me tell them? Oh no, Ginny. You're the one who eloped. What could have driven you to do it? You're so young."

She pours her not-so-iced cream over the cherry, confident that Bill will be the one to tell them. "I guess that's why. I don't know... I never really expected it, although I figured it had to be coming sometime. One day, he just took me out to the church."

"I wish I knew where you were," says Bill.

"You'd only come after him," Ginny points out. She stares past him, avoiding his eyes, and she espies Fred and George coming towards them. A quick glance at her watch, and her excuse is set. "Look, Bill, I have to go now..." Will she tell him? Nothing to lose. "I have to get back to feed the baby."

"What?" Bill stands as she does. "For heaven's sake, is this something Mum & Dad know about? What have you gotten yourself into?"

She hesitates. "I have to go." Before either of the twins see her, she is off and running to the exit, panting as she slams through the gateway. She's too flustered now to catch her breath, and she tells herself that she will never, ever go back. When she gets home, she cuddles Morty to her and, squall though he might, brings him to sleep in the bed with her where she can keep him safe.

When she wakes up, Morty is gone, back in his crib, and without the will to get up, she stays in bed. Right before she falls asleep again, she feels a back press against hers.

"Ginny," Tom whispers. "Are you up?" Mumble. "I have to tell someone about this, I feel like I'm about to burst. I've started our plan!"

Ginny props herself up. "What?"

Tom laughs. "You'll see!"

One of the guests at the inn discovers the couple that day. The police come after the bodies later without asking them any questions, but the couple were old, their death completely untraceable. They have left everything to Tom.

With the arrival of the lawyer, Ginny is out, her baby with her. Where's the nearest Floo network? Oh well. She'll get there any way she has to.

At the door of the Burrow, she hesitates. It turns out to be a bad idea because out comes mum to collect the milk, and Ginny ends up stuck there on the step without a plan.

"Oh... Mum," she stammers. "I-I saw Bill... and I wanted to come, and..." The milk bottles shatter, and Ginny shoves Morty at her mother.

More horrific than her own awkward bewilderment, mum starts crying. Ginny's never seen her cry, and it has never occurred to her that her mother will. Not for her.

"Oh, Ginny!" she sobs. "My only daughter! Oh, we've been so..."

Ginny reaches in for a hug between the three of them, looking past mum's comfortable shoulder towards the house, peering in. The clock is what she's looking for. Strangely, the hands are all different. Percy is gone. A tiny hand hiding behind hers must be Morty's.

Ginny's hand is set at Home.

She sets her own conditions for being there: no questions, no following, no pressing her to stay. She thinks she could start getting used to being hovered around and wrapped into bed at night. Home is as it always has been, after all, pleasant and cozy.

"How you feeling, Morty?" she asks him, holding him up to the sun to let the drool dry. Ginny bounces him into a giggle, happy to have him be happy with her. "Now that Mummy's here, should she stay and let your Nan pamper you silly?"

He whimpers and calls out his first word: "Da! Da!"

"So no," she says quietly. "Such a smart little boy." Ginny nuzzles his cheek to calm him down. "Shush, shush, Morty, my baby. We'll go back, of course.... I just liked having you to myself for a little while, though I suppose I didn't; I suppose I never will."

"Ma," Morty consoles her, tugging at her bright hair.

They steal away in the night, traceless, and buy a train ticket. Morty starts bawling in the carriage, which is all right for Ginny because Tom can stop it, but the other passengers are not so tolerant and abandon their seats for their ears.

Ginny takes the opportunity to breastfeed him. It seems like a good idea, but it means his screeches cannot keep anyone at bay another. A few men wander in and duck out... and then comes the loon.

Luna, Luna, Loony Lovegood, Ginny wants to chant when she sees her, but she must be the loony one now, for Luna merely drifts into the car for a seat. She looks as untidy as ever, but focused on something, Ginny can't tell what.

"I knew I'd find you someday," she muses without any salutation. "Just like the Crumple-Horned Anoraks. I knew you couldn't be gone. I saw you at King's Cross, anyway. You bumped into me." Luna looks round and shifts into the seat next to her. "Is he yours? It's a bit early."

Ginny looks down at Morty and strokes his head. "He's mine. Morty Riddle." She flutters her fingers at Luna, her ring catching the light.

"Oh, so you have one too." Luna grasps Ginny's left hand with her own, letting her see the emerald and ruby band. "I've never heard of your husband, Riddle, but Harry's got the other one of these. I stuck my head into the fireplace to court and we had the Minister marry us yesterday. Now I'm travelling up to meet him."

Without comment, Ginny nods, checking her watch for the stop.

"I'd be proud, you know," persists Luna. "To have a child? I don't believe I can; people will be glad, no doubt. Are you proud of him?"

"He's my baby." Ginny shrugs. "All I can do is keep him from harm."

She realises that it's true. It is all she can do; indeed, all she has ever done. It must be her purpose in life. Her family will need her.

Luna, despite the veil of insanity that always seems to billow around her, solidifies for a second and looks wistful.

"May I hold him?" she asks.

Does she mean it? Does she dare? Ginny, fully appreciating Luna's nature now, hands him over. Luna gazes at him, caught in the lure of his soft skin and fine dark hair and tiny features.

The spell breaks as the train skids to a halt, for this is her stop now, and Ginny will have to go back. She jostles Luna for the baby and bursts out to the platform.

"Ginny."

"It's Geneva."

Tom is waiting, he scoops up Morty, and they drive home, Morty laughing all the way, without saying anything.

_____

The letter will come-it must-in nine-and-a-half years, and Ginny will be off her feet and watching Tom through the mirrors. Morty will be out, for once he learns to accept Medea, he will find his little sister a ready sidekick and scapegoat.

But it will be him whom the letter concerns, she can see it now:

Immortal Riddle,
Merely Inn, Memory Lane,
Darlington

It will be the first time she ever knows his full name. Hopefully, Tom's immortality can live on through his children.

She will not open the letter, but she will cage the owl until Tom comes to her, and although she will have burnt the letter by now, he may know its contents already. She could ask but won't.

They'll kill the first owl, Geneva plucking it for pillows, Tom burying it in the back garden. The flowers flourish for many years, because another owl will come, and another.

Geneva will finally open the envelope and send back a negative reply, and Tom will do the same for Medea in years to come. Together, they will forget to tell their children-or maybe they will just forget. Magic is their past; their past has finally passed them by.

THE END