Chapter - 1 : Betrayal

He looked into Harry's face. "But it makes no difference. In fact, I prefer it this way. Just you and me, Harry Potter… you and me…"

He raised the wand.

Then, in a rush of wings, Fawkes soared back overhead and something fell into Harry's lap – the diary.

For a split second, both Harry and Riddle, wand still in hand, stared at it. Then, without thinking, without considering, as though he had meant to do it all along, Harry seized the basilisk fang on the floor next to him.*

Harry had already started to stab down into the diary when Riddle yelled "Wait!"

He wasn't sure what made him hesitate, what nuance of tone in the memory's voice made him pause, fang still held threateningly at ready only centimeters from the diary's surface. Cautiously, he asked: "Why?"

Riddle's voice was completely serious, "Because if you kill me, you kill poor little Ginny as well."

He went still as he glanced from Ginny's motionless body to Riddle's triumphant smirk. "No…"

But God, what if it were true?

"You 're lying," and his voice was edged, hard in a way he'd never realized his voice could be. "That'd be the Slytherin thing to do, wouldn't it? And you're so proud of your Slytherin blood."

"Yes, Harry. It would." The apparition's face was calm. "And I would gladly lie at any time to save my life. But in this case," its voice turned terribly, terribly cruel, "I don't have to."

Riddle took a step forward, and this time Harry could hear the soft footfall as it hit the stone floor. Realizing that, he looked sharply at apparition, stomach beginning to knot. When he'd first entered the chamber, Riddle had seemed somewhat insubstantial, for all that he could hold material objects. But with each minute that passed, Riddle became more solid, more real, as if he moved from another world into this one. Even as he watched, Tom's edges began to sharpen.

The process had to be almost complete.

Then following that thought: When it was done, Ginny would be dead.

Panic swirled through him. What should I do?

Movement snagged his attention as Riddle took another small, sliding step forward. "But speaking of houses, Harry, let's talk about you. How Gryffindor would it be, to kill your best friend's little sister? How noble, to murder an unconscious eleven-year-old girl?"

"No," he snarled back, furious. "That's your specialty." But talking to Riddle was just wasting time-

He didn't know how to break the charm or bond or whatever it was that was between the two of them. Even if he had known, Riddle held his wand. Harry glanced at Riddle's hand where his Holly wand was grasped deceptively lightly between long fingers- then shook his head. No way can I grab it without getting cursed before I even get close.

And even if he could get it back, what then? Would his own curses even affect a magical memory? Would he have to cast it on the diary?

And what if that doesn't incapacitate Riddle? Or what if it did, but the link still remained open, draining Ginny's life away?

It'd take at least fifteen minutes for him to get out of the chamber, find someone in charge, convince them to follow him, and get back down here. And that was if he could even get away from Riddle in the first place. And what about the blocked passageway? Or getting back up the pipe? No adults knew where they were, nor was there anyone who could be sent for aid - damn Lockhart! – so no help was coming.

No help was coming.

Ginny was going to die.

For one moment, everything in him seized up, rebelling. Refusing. Flat out denying, because bloody hell, little girls with red hair and shy smiles didn't do things like this; didn't die on cold stone floors, a parasite leeching their life away in silence. He wanted to cry. He wanted to fight. He wanted things to be different, damn it, because he didn't know what to do, and a clock was ticking down, and he was desperately afraid, and there was no way out.

(ginny was going to die)

He wanted to scream his defiance. He wanted to lunge for his wand. He wanted to be anywhere but there. He wanted Dumbledore. He wanted answers, wanted a saviour, wanted Tom Riddle's blood, and there was no one with him to give him any of that.

(ginny was going to die)

And there was nothing he could do.

The thought made him go cold, whispering through his mind. It echoed and twisted and caressed and sliced, sinking to his core. It soothed and pried and hurt, and it triggered everything that made him who he was, and everything that he hated. It was noon, hiding in the bushes from a gang of bullies, knowing there was no such thing as safety. It was midnight, curled in a cupboard, desperately hungry and cold. It was Christmas morning, watching a world of bright glitter and colour from the outside; and it was Quirrell last year, shrieking as he burned. It was the knowledge that, in the end, there are no heroes, and there are no saviours, and magic doesn't mean miracles, and maybe never did. It was desperation and despair and knowledge, and his grief turned into something colder, his rage to something brighter, something harsher, and in that arctic fire came a familiar resolve.

(because ginny was going to die)

(and there was nothing he could do)

There was nothing warm about it, nothing excited or righteous or adventurous. It was only the silent, bedrock certainty of this must be done and if none else will, I must do it.